I can’t even tell you what we did the first year. I think we had Dave, Lisa, and Sophie over and ordered dinner out. Was there more? If so, it was too half-assed to remember. The next year, our friends Sharon, George, and Leah joined us. We still ordered out, but I might have baked dessert. That was the year we most overbought alcohol, too. Adults with kids who need to leave by nine or so just don’t imbibe like their younger, childless selves.

This year, though, I think we reached new heights of half-assedness. Abandoning all pretense of cooking, I bought a ton of appetizers at Trader Joe’s. Matt and Simon bought booze and then headed over to Caufields for silly party favors. We invited over four couples and their kids. Then we spent the entire morning watching English Premier League Football (Soccer), figuring we had the entire day to accomplish very little. And then, heaven help us, Matt remembered that Mike and Melinda, our good friends from Hungary, were coming to visit.

Well, friends take precedence over half-assed party preparations, so we chatted at the house, went out for coffee, and thoroughly enjoyed our visit, only to find ourselves back at the house at 4:30, pretty sure that company was arriving in as few as 30 minutes (We didn’t tell everyone the same time as it happens. Again with being half-assed.) Our house was mostly picked up, but we needed to vacuum, put a leaf in the dining room table, clean the bathrooms, dust if possible, set out dishes, empty the dishwasher, and take out garbage. Also? Matt needed to shower.

Even for us this was a poor showing. But the thing about our half-assed New Year’s party is that somehow, someway, it always, always comes together. This year was no different. Company didn’t show up until 6:00—thank goodness!—the favors got laid out, the table was set, music put on, and food trays loaded into the oven. And yes, the bathrooms got cleaned and Matt took his shower. There was a wobbly moment when we realized that our chosen take-out restaurant was closed, but we recovered adequately from that one.

For four blissful hours, the adults chatted, laughed, munched and drank, while the kids ran and played throughout the house, made multiple trips up to our attic, and danced in the living room. Other than to feed them, we never once had to intervene or chaperone the goings on, such a compatible group it was. Most amazingly, we managed to keep them all up about two hours past their regular bedtimes with no one suffering an exhaustion-fueled melt-down. They loved the hats, horns, and necklaces Matt and Simon picked out, too; I saw the girls come down to switch back and forth from tiaras to party hats several times, and all went home with their fancy 2012 necklaces.

It brings to mind good times when I was much younger: specifically of holiday grading parties when I was a grad student in Michigan and a full Thanksgiving dinner served on the floor of a friend’s shared house in England (they didn’t have a large enough table in the house; in fact, only the hall was big enough to fit everyone.) when I was an undergrad. Those parties remind me that while there is a place for carefully crafted food, beautiful decorations, and thoughtful party planning, that there’s also a place for lazy, low-key entertaining when everyone is shot but would nonetheless like to get together.

Our half-assed New Year’s Eve party doesn’t come from the pages of Southern Living, but it’s comfortable and convivial. And really, there’s nothing half-assed about that.

Happy New Year.

When the two of them play, the adults can pretty much disappear. I have witnessed multi-hour play-dates in which I never once had to intervene to negotiate sharing or choosing activities. I even like her parents, two interesting, bright, and open people I now count as friends and feel lucky to have met. So Caroline: I dig her. We’ve established that.

Now let me tell you about the two cutest things I’ve ever seen her do. After complaining about other people’s kids and exposing my uncharitable reaction a few posts ago, it seems only right to swing in the other direction and prove that I don’t find all children besides my own to be wanting.

The first incident is hearsay, as Matt is the one who saw it and relayed the story to me. Simon and Caroline were playing Hansel and Gretel in our house, a game that mostly consisted of them chasing each other around the house and calling out “Hansel!” or “Gretel!” at intervals. After a time, the action moved to our basement. Whereupon Caroline laid down on our floor, closed her eyes, and played dead.

“Gretel!” Simon yelled to no avail. Matt, sensing that the game had shifted to a Sleeping Beauty meme, helped Simon along.

“I think she’s being Sleeping Beauty, Simon. Why don’t you give her a little kiss?”

Dutifully, Simon took Caroline’s hand in his and placed a delicate kiss on it. To which Caroline responded with eyes still closed:

“Nope. It has to be on the lips.”

I am pleased to report that Simon didn’t balk. He manned up, puckered up, and broke the spell that caused her to collapse on our floor.

In case that wasn’t cute enough, the drama really ramped up a few weeks later. This time we were gathered at Caroline’s house for dinner the night of my half marathon. The guys were out picking up our dinner while Carrie, the kids and I waited for them. As usual, I was mostly ignoring the kids in favor of chatting with Carrie. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I realized that there was some drama going down. Not drama of the “she hit me” or “he won’t share” variety, but real drama, Shakespearean to be precise.

It’s unfortunate that I’m never going to be able to do this justice. Picture the two kids standing face to face, just a few inches apart. Caroline reaches up and clasps Simon’s face in her hands. Simon mirrors her.

“Promise me you’ll never forget me,” she says earnestly.

“I’ll never forget you,” Simon responds.

“Promise me you’ll always love me,” she entreats.

“I’ll always love you,” he reassures.

“Can I have a lock of your hair?” she asks, stroking his hair.

“You can have a lock of my hair,” he offers, and leans closer to her.

She mimes clipping his hair and putting it in a locket.

“I’ll never forget you,” she promises.

“I’ll never forget you,” he promises back.

“I’ll love you forever,” she goes on.

“I’ll love you forever, too,” he replies.

And then, after this rather amazing display of romantic love, Caroline throws herself on the ground and calls out,

“I die!”

At which point Simon collapses next to her.

“I die, too.”

Over in the adults’ corner, Carrie is looking horrified, and I am losing it. Carrie is worried that her daughter is turning 15 overnight, and I’m absolutely amazed at Caroline’s direction and Simon’s gameness to go along.

The next day I double-checked the recent KIP school schedule and discovered that, lo and behold, a Shakespeare company came to the school earlier in the week and performed a preschool version of Romeo and Juliet, which obviously made its mark on the young Caroline, who in turn made quite an impression on me.

That girl, I tell you, is the second cutest kid on the planet.

By now, I’ve been out of the work force for a year and a half, a part of a preschool community for over three years, part of a second preschool community for over one year, and part of a volunteer organization for four years. The connections are starting to not just form, but also to cross and develop into a true Louisvillian web. What follows are two recent examples.

Tale #1: The Preschool Connection

Three weeks ago, Simon had a make-up swim lesson at the JCC on a Tuesday. Afterwards, we hit the playground, where Simon befriended a boy, Mikhael, who is about eight months older. The next day, I was sick with a fever, so Matt took a half day off from work. The weather was nice, so he decided to take Simon to a local park, Big Rock. Shortly after arrival, Simon saw Mikhael, cried out “Hey, I know you!” very happily, and ran off to play.

Fast Friends at Big Rock

That left Matt to chat with Mikhael’s mother, who was with a two-year-old girl. The conversation went something like this:

“So how old is your daughter? “

“Two.”

“Is she in preschool?

“Yes, she’s at AJ.

“That’s interesting. My wife drives a two-year-old girl to AJ a few times a week.

“Really? Who?

“Agotich Kwai.

“She’s in Avigail’s class. I know your wife!”

And she does. Avigail’s family moved here from Israel about a year ago, and Keren (the mother) and I have compared notes about how much the girls are speaking at all, and what percentage of their speech is in English as opposed to their native tongue. Come to find out, Mikhael was very close to going to KIP for kindergarten, so he and Simon just missed being classmates. We’re setting up a play-date for this week.

Tale #2: The Elementary School Connection

I’m getting ready to gear up for choosing a kindergarten for Simon. The process here in Jefferson County is so deeply divided, complicated, controversial, and—if I do say so myself, stupid—that I’m not going to get into the details. Suffice it to say, I have a few magnet schools I’d like to check out, and then I plan to tour neighborhood schools. Magnet schools are chosen by lottery, and Simon is not guaranteed his neighborhood school either, so I have to look at several schools and rank them. Further, at least half of the schools I choose must be in neighborhoods with low income levels, low rates of education, and high percentages of minorities.

Anyway, given all this drama I’ve been asking around about people’s experiences with schools. Where are their kids, are they happy, and the like. I’m especially interested in those who are happy with a B cluster school, i.e. one of the schools in the low-income, low-education areas. About a month ago, I talked to the assistant in the toddler room at AJ, Agotich’s class last year. Margaret has kids at Byck, a B-cluster school.

It wasn’t her first choice—or even her second. It might have been her last one. She was devastated and frankly worried, but headed off to open house with an open mind. What she found was a well maintained building, an energetic staff, and a Waldorf-inspired program that appealed to her. She enrolled her boys, gulped hard, and hoped for the best. Which is what she got; her kids are in their third year at Byck, and the entire family is very happy with the school.

This made me feel better. Byck came up again when the daughter of an extended family member (my sister-in-law’s sister) ended up there this year. She had been at a different school for kindergarten and first grade, but the family moved last year and had to choose all over again. They, too, got Byck, and the school was their last pick as well. They are also happy with it, something we discussed at my nephew Ben’s birthday party last month. Then Julie, my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law joined the conversation.

“Are you talking about Margaret’s kids? They’re our new next-door neighbors.”

Seriously, that’s how small Louisville is. But wait! Just three days ago Matt, Simon, and I stopped by Guitar Emporium to run an errand. Matt has been building effects pedals lately, and he and a guy who works there were going to exchange some components. The conversation turned to kids, then I directed it to schools, and soon after Greg was telling me a now very familiar story about Byck.

“You know, I heard a very similar story from a family member and from a teacher at AJ.”

“Are you talking about Margaret?”

“Yes!”

“That’s my wife.”

THAT’s how small this city is.

But wait, there’s a…

Bonus Round:

Two weeks ago we had an electrician out to the house. As we’re chatting while ensuring that I ordered the right switches (my house still has some early twentieth-century knob and tube wiring), he says to me,

“Now, did I get your name right? Jessica Goldstein?”

“That’s me.”

“Rita’s daughter?”

“Yup. She’s the one who gave me your name.”

“Does that make you related to Perry?”

“He’s my brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

They are friends, as it happens. Chris, the son of my mom’s electrician and the one who came to our house, is somehow related to old neighbors of my brother.

Can you believe how small this city is? I could go into how the home inspector I used to refinance two years ago screamed “Goldstein’s sister!” when he laid eyes on me, or how I see the woman who is a family friend and who inspired my name every Sunday at the JCC, or how I avoided a fellow KIP parent for several years because he was my worst baby-sitting job ever, but I think you get the idea.

The moral of this story:

1. I should really go check out Byck;
2. I should be nice to everyone, because you never, ever know when doing otherwise could come back to haunt you.

And he is, though not as much as I booked him for this past week. Behold Simon’s agenda for the last seven days:

• Saturday: School birthday party
• Sunday: Swimming class and family birthday party
• Monday: School and then not much else
• Tuesday: School, play-date with Taylor at Grandma and Papaw’s house, Rookie Hoop Stars basketball at the JCC
• Wednesday: School, play-date at Puzzles Fun Dome with Braylon
• Thursday: Full day with Caroline, including 2 hours running around the house shrieking and over 2 hours at the Speed Museum’s Art Sparks Exhibit
• Friday: Trip to the Newport Aquarium with Ruby

I am sure that a golden mean of children’s activity exists; I am equally sure that this wasn’t it. I began to realize this, unfortunately, at promptly 1:15 p.m. on Friday when, upon paying the hefty admission fee and entering the aquarium, Simon announced he was hungry and tired. Thankfully, he did not pull out Baby Kitten on us, but it was close! He laid down on every bench he found, slouched over and against display walls, and did that thing where he twists his legs, trips over himself, and declares himself unable to walk.

We made it through the exhibit, saw some interesting and beautiful sights, and had a fine time, but it took a marathon of coaxing, encouraging, borderline bullying, and sugar-based bribery to get there. Once we hit the penguins (a disappointingly small and isolated display, incidentally), the last exhibit before the exit, I felt a palpable sense of relief.

The funny thing about this, is that I should have seen it coming. For on Wednesday, an hour or so into Puzzles Fun Dome, Braylon announced that he was ready to go back to Simon’s house. I didn’t understand this at first: Why would he want to just hang out at home when he could be out doing something fun? Then I thought about the fact that Braylon is at school until 5:30 every day and probably relished some down-time with a single child. He was exceedingly happy to sit on our couch, watch Looney Tunes videos, eat a snack, and then play with hot wheels. After the week Simon had just had, I think he was ready for some low-key family time today.

So Simon, I’ve got some really good news for you. Tomorrow we have a family dinner for Aunt Bobbie’s birthday. Sunday you have a half-hour swimming lesson. And the rest of the weekend? Nothin’. We’re going to have the kind of weekend that makes you feel like an amnesiac when asked about it on Monday. A happy, well-rested, amnesiac. Bring on the nothing!

It all started the week before last, when I had a five-day fever that didn’t end until Yom Kippur was over. This was the same week I learned that my neck was a mess. (PT is helping, by the way, but I still have an appointment with a neurosurgeon in three weeks.) The timing was pretty bad, because I wanted to use that week to get my house in shape before birthday-palooza arrived.

Then, Sunday night, Gabriel called. Agotich had been sick with a fever since Friday night and was refusing to eat or drink. He was looking for parent-to-parent advice until he could get her to the pediatrician the next morning. I wasn’t too concerned about the food, but the lack of fluids made me nervous. I gave him the address of a pediatric immediate care center, he decided to go straight away, and the doctors there immediately referred Agotich to Kosair Children’s Hospital. Turns out, she had an uncommonly severe form of Hand Foot and Mouth Disease that had left her entire mouth and throat covered in ulcers. That’s why she refused to eat or drink, and the two-day fast had left her dehydrated. Poor baby.

So what’s a family with one car, one licensed driver, and a five-month-old baby to do when a second child ends up in the hospital? Anyieth couldn’t go to the hospital with her parents, Alek doesn’t drive yet, and Gabriel couldn’t leave Agotich alone in such strange and stressful surroundings. They needed someone who could pick up Alek and Anyieth, drop off Anyieth somewhere to be watched, take Alek to the hospital, and then reverse things several hours later.

Friends Alier and Yar helped out, Matt and I helped out, and staff at Agotich’s preschool helped out. I’m sure others did too: they had to. Agotich was in the hospital for six days, during which time this family needed the kind of support we lucky ones get from our extended families. How does anyone do this alone? I can’t imagine. My Sudanese friends have friends, siblings, and cousins, but none have parents to help.

I was happy to step in, and I tried not to think about what it boded in the days ahead that I spent several hours on two different days running carpool instead of getting ready to entertain twice. A sick child takes precedence over parties. Nor did I think too much about the time I was spending coordinating a preschool fundraiser that week. Nor did I think too much about the time I spent in physical therapy for my neck. Nor did I think too much about the fact that school was out Thursday and Friday for Sukkot. Nor did I think too much about the fact that last week was my most intense week of fall half-marathon training, with runs of 6, 7, and 13 miles. I even managed to put out my mind the fact that Simon’s swim lesson on Sunday was going to take away precious preparation time.

I can assure you, however, that when I awoke Saturday morning spectacularly unprepared for the days ahead, I thought about all of these things! We were having 12-14 kids at the Louisville Nature Center for Simon’s class party on Saturday and a total of 18 family members for dinner at our house on Sunday. And as of Saturday morning, I had not made party favors; picked up my junk, much less cleaned my house; or gone to the grocery. I was as or more behind preparing for Simon’s parties than I have ever been for anything in my life.

Evie kindly helped out at the kid’s party and brought a key part of Sunday night’s dinner. Matt and Simon ran errands Saturday and Sunday to get ready. And my mother, an army of one in her own right, helped me cook Sunday and even, I’m embarrassed to admit, helped clean my house. The very woman that Alek wants to cook for was, in fact, cleaning my downstairs bathroom hours before guests arrived.

Thankfully, it all worked out. Simon had a fantastic time at both events, and we were graced with perfect fall weather. But man oh man was I pooped Sunday night. More than that, I was grateful for the village that helped me make Simon’s birthday special and that helps me in so many ways all the time. I’m going to be especially mindful of this when I pick up Braylon Wednesday so he and Simon can have a play-date and celebrate each  other’s birthdays (they missed each other’s parties), when I watch Caroline Thursday when school is closed for Shemini Atzeret, and again when I watch Ruby on Friday when school is closed for Simchat Torah.

Call it paying my karmic debt. Call it paying forward. I’m calling it being a villager.

Two weeks ago or so, Simon attended a friend’s birthday pool party. It wasn’t the perfect set-up for him, as the pool was so cold he didn’t want to spend much (or any) time in it. Still, he played outside, enjoyed being with his friends, and devoured a cupcake and some pizza.  That’s not too shabby for an otherwise under-booked Saturday afternoon.

Nor was it the perfect set-up for me, as (1) the pool’s shallow end was still over 3 feet, meaning mamma had to don a suit and get in the very cold pool with Simon*; and (2) the party favor was a fish. Yes, a real, living, breathing, swimming fish.

All I knew about keeping fish at this point was that I didn’t know how to do it. So when Josephine’s** mom handed me the bag with the blue betta fish in it, I considered handing it right back. I was only stopped by my own fear of appearing rude and Simon’s obvious excitement. We arrived home two hours before the local pet store closed, giving me 45 minutes or so to learn what Phineas needed and an hour or so to go procure it. I wasn’t sure what to do with little Phineas***, and worried as I was about water changes, I opted for the “first do no harm” approach of dumping him and the entire contents of his bag into a hurricane lantern until I figured it out.

After some frantic research, I went out and bought a two-gallon filtered aquarium, two plants, some food, water conditioner, and decorative gravel. I rinsed the entire aquarium (but no soap!) before its first use, and let the entire thing run for 12 hours before transporting Phineas. These measures ensured that the water was clean, well conditioned, and the exact same temperature as his previous water when he moved into his new home. As bettas are very sensitive to temperature changes, this step was crucial.

The next day, I met many of my fellow KIP parents at a school fall festival. Two got bowls for their fish, one used water conditioner and the other just distilled water. Another tossed fishy into his Koi Pond and called it a day. All three laughed at me for “spending too much money” and making too much of a to-do over my little fish. “You’re over-thinking this” was the explicit and implicit statement.

Guess who’s fish is the only one still swimming?

Sometimes, by George, it’s good to be a little OCD. Furthermore, Simon is sufficiently attached to Phineas I had better do right by him. Just Thursday night, Simon awoke at 5:30 a.m. because of a nightmare that something bad had happened to him; he only calmed down when Matt turned on the light and showed him that Phineas was happily swimming in his tank. Just keep swimming, Phineas, just keep swimming…

—

*At both this party and the pool this summer, I have been the only mom to show up in a standard two-piece suit. All the others are in tankinis, and most are in skirted tankinis. Honestly, I look terrible in those! And yet, I have to wonder if I’m breaking some “decent lady/mommy at the pool” dress code. It’s kind of funny to think that I of all people might be the trashy/inappropriate one poolside!

**Name changed.

***About the name Phineas. It was created on the spot, the aim being to have a play on words with “fin”. The next day, I began to consider our other options, like Fingal, Finbarr, or Finnegan. I especially loved the last idea, as it would allow me to host “Finnegan’s Wake” in the event of a piscine tragedy. Simon was having none of it, so Phineas it is and shall remain.

Yesterday was the Sixth Annual Celebration of Sudanese Scholars, and nearly everything that could go wrong did. Well, except this part:

The Class of 2010-2011

This part was awesome. We celebrated the graduation of 11 new associates, bachelors, and masters degree holders with ties to Louisville, 6 of whom were able to join us in person. Pictured above, from left to right, are Abraham Angol, Yol Goch Aciek, Christine Natiki Lokiru, Daniel Chakuoth, Abraham Deng Chol, and Mawut Mach. Our commencement speaker, Ngor Biar Deng, is another local Sudanese with a mind-blowing story, the short version of which is that he arrived in the US with a 9th grade education and managed to graduate from Louisville’s Speed Scientific School with a master’s degree in chemical engineering and a high enough GPA to garner tons of awards. He’s now a chemical process engineer; I don’t even know what that really means!

So that part, the commencement speech, the tributes to scholars, the recognition of a friend of mine for her service, the heart-felt invocation–that part was all awesome. The after party wasn’t too shabby either:

Just ask Simon. With traditional Sudanese food, lots of friends, and, above all else, cake, what else could you ask for?

The before and after bits, though? A totally different story. It began when I arrived an hour and a half before the ceremony, as the board had all agreed, and found my friend and colleague Paula Cohn sitting on the church porch with bags of food around her. We were locked out! There had been a communication error, and perhaps a bit of a disconnect between American and African senses of time. We got in 45 minutes later, with exactly 45 minutes before our program was due to begin.

And speaking of programs, we didn’t have any of those either! My friend Vickie and I miscommunicated. I thought she had them; she thought I had them; you get the drift. Thankfully, a kind church administrator let me in the office to run off copies (I had an original with me), and I just left an IOU letter on the desk.

Two snafus dealt with, and I figured the worst was over. Oddly, it calmed my nerves so that even though it was my first time running the show, I felt pretty serene. I figured it would be smooth sailing for the rest of the day.

Celebration-wise, it was. But it turns out that the rain that came down so heavily during the reception, rain that Yar declared was “God’s blessing us on this special day” was more than just a little rain. Over 100,000 Louisvillians lost power, including us. And some key traffic lights between Resurrection Episcopal Church and my house, including an interstate off-ramp, were out.  When I arrived home at 8:00 p.m. (I stayed late to clean the church hall), the last bits of sunlight were fading, Simon was ready to go to bed, and I was a bit hungry with no way to cook dinner.

My mom offered to put us up for the night, but we declined. The weather was mild, my dad’s generator-powered refrigerator saved us from having to throw away tons of food, and friends around the corner invited us over for a play-date this morning. Plus, in all honesty, I couldn’t help but feel silly getting hysterical about a power-outage on a mild summer day when I had just spent the day with folks who never had power until they came to the US.

Still, the next time God decides to bless Sudanese with rain, perhaps we could get a gentle soaking and leave off the high winds and downed power lines eh?

To the delight and relief of many of my friends, the Republic of South Sudan became the world’s newest country and the 54^th sovereign nation in Africa on July 9, 2011. The Sudanese community of Louisville threw a big party to mark the occasion, and Simon and I were there. (Matt was home sick with a stomach bug that’s had him down for four days.)

Once I saw the event program, I had my doubts as to how long Simon would last. The planned festivities included two prayers, the raising of the new flag of South Sudan, the singing of the national anthem, and two musical performances. This was all good. The program also listed nine speeches, not including the speeches that introduced the speakers who give the actual speeches. By my arithmetic, we were looking at a solid two hours of talking in a room with acoustics that made it hard to hear what people were saying. Oh boy.

As I had described this event to Simon as a birthday party for the country our Sudanese friends are from, he was expecting the day to include way more singing, games, and cake—above all, cake—than it did. It also didn’t help that nearly two hours after we arrived, his friends Agotich and Aciek had not yet shown up, as their moms were busy cooking for the party and working, respectively.

Simon sang and clapped along with the visiting African American Baptist church youth choir when they sang, especially liking the clapping part. When my friend Gabriel raised the new flag of South Sudan and led the room in the singing of the national anthem, Simon dutifully put his hand over his heart and let me to lift him up so he could see the children and Mr. Gabriel better. And when we ran into people he knew, people like Kuol, Yar, James, Pajieth, Wesley, Gabriel, and Solomon, he remembered to smile, shake hands, and say “congratulations” as I had coached him.

But still there were all those speeches. At the two hour mark of the party, Simon was wilting and I told him we could go home. I also heaped praise on him for being so respectful during the speeches and acknowledged how hard it is for everyone—kids and adults alike—to sit for that long. On the way out, Gabriel’s niece Yar looked visibly upset that we were leaving and offered to go fix us both a plate of food to take home. Then, once we got outside, he sat on some steps and observed as small groups of mostly Dinka and Nuer men grouped and disbanded on their way in and out of the room. Sensing that Simon was tired of the speeches but not fully committed to leaving, I asked him if he wanted to go home, or if he just wanted to take a break and then go back in for the rest of the party.

This is long, so you can read the rest after the break.

Unbelievably, he chose the break option. So five minutes later, we were back in the Bakers Lane fire-fighters gym listening to three (or was it four?) more speeches. Thankfully, Alek showed up with the girls at the exact time we returned, and Agok followed with Aciek (pictured in the banner above playing soccer with Simon on July 4) shortly after. The kids hugged and tickled each other, Aciek played with Simon’s hair (he’s fascinated by straight hair), the speeches (finally!) ended, and Simon got to stay for his favorite part: As one man ran around the room with the flag of South Sudan, a large group assembled at the front of the room, chanted, and danced by jumping up and down in place and pumping their fists into the air.

In what had to be my favorite moment of the day, I looked over to see Simon smiling widely, jumping up and down himself, and thrusting his own tiny, pale fist into the air, where it joined a sea of larger, darker ones.  There were a handful of other non-Sudanese at the event, but only a very few and none young enough to un-self-consciously join in the chanting, clapping, or dancing. How I wish I had had a camera to capture the moment.

We left after I gobbled down some food. It had been four hours by then, and while I was delighted to tuck into kisra, greens and groundnuts, and some other stuff I can neither name nor describe, Simon is not the culinary adventurer I am. So while I shared my plate with an eager and hungry Aciek, Simon tried one or two things and then called it quits. Which was more than fine with me, as I thought and still think that he was an amazing trooper for a child his age.

A few more random thoughts:

• The dress code for ladies was a sight to behold: Women resplendent in traditional dress of either brightly patterned cotton dresses or solid colored, embellished long suits; young girls in fancy, frilled dresses, and teenagers in micro-minis and sky-high heels, looking like teetering storks—most sporting long and elaborately arranged braids. Standing out among the crowd was one young girl, around five, in a simple denim skirt, white ruffled shirt, and hair worn in the traditional Dinka style (short and natural). She was such an artful blend of tradition (skirt, shirt, hair) and modernity (the skirt was denim and the shirt stylish) that I wish I could have gotten a picture of her, too.
• I regret forgetting to tell Simon about ululation before we arrived. When the women started, he was quite startled and perceived it as screaming. Had I been able to show him a YouTube video and described it beforehand, my explanation of “clapping with your voice” would have worked faster.
• I also wish I had dressed Simon better. I put on a skirt, nice top, and heels, but let him wear a simple tee and shorts. And wouldn’t you know it, most of the other boys were in nice shirts and long pants, with more than a few in tiny little suits. This fall, I’m buying Simon at least one set of genuine dress clothes.
• I was simultaneously heartened and saddened by the fact that Simon did not seem to notice that we were at a party whose attendance was 99% very dark sub-Saharan African. Heartened because he’s been around enough Africans and is young enough that such things don’t register with him, and saddened because I know this won’t last forever. I wasn’t uncomfortable yesterday, but I certainly was aware of being “other.” But Simon? If he did notice, he didn’t say anything or show it.
• Kudos to the City of Louisville for sending, as a representative of the mayor’s office, a Persian immigrant who eloquently and thoughtfully congratulated Louisville’s Sudanese for the independence of their homeland and described his own experience of building a new life in one country while caring about and anxiously following events in another. It was just the right note for the occasion and audience.
• Finally, I was again reminded of how wanting many Western rituals are today when Simon asked repeatedly if we can run around with an American flag and dance next year on July 4. It’s a great idea, except for the life of me I can’t expect my nice middle-class family to go for it with the same gusto my Sudanese friends displayed.

Tube Trama

My first story comes compliments of my niece Maddie, via my mom. Maddie (10), her sister Olivia (12), and brother Ben (8), just returned from a ten-day trip to the UK with their parents, my brother Steve and sister-in-law Stacy.

On their last day in London, they took the Tube to Heathrow to get a rental car for the rest of their stay. As they approached the station, the train they wanted was waiting for them. Eager to not lose time waiting for the next train, they made a run for it. Maddie was at the front of the pack, ran her guts out, and hopped right on. At which point the doors closed, and the rest of the family looked on in horror as she was whisked away on the Underground all alone.

Thankfully, if this had to happen at all, it happened to Maddie. Sensitive, artistic, and very attached Olivia would have been very scared I think. Fearless, sweet, bull-in-a-china-shop Ben wouldn’t have known what to do. But Maddie is pretty together in most respects, and isn’t one to panic. She remembered that the stop was Baker St. and planned to get off and wait for the family. And just in case she needed help, a group of teens saw what happened and offered to wait with her at the station.

The rest of the family, as you can imagine, was less stoic. A station agent was notified, A description given, and staff notified to look out for and place in safekeeping a certain 10-year-old tourist from across the pond. As Maddie tells it, once the family was reunited, Maddie was somewhat surprised to find herself the only one not crying.

“I knew where to go, Bubbie,” she stoically. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Just like all 10-year-olds would have felt. Like I said, it’s a good thing this happened to Maddie.

Feline Fright

Yesterday, my neighbor Lin asked if I could come into her yard and help her look for Scarletti, her adorable orange and white cat of not quite one year. She had heard him for the last day or so, but had not been able to locate him in her yard. Had he found a new hiding spot?

So I hear a meow, look up, and spot him right away: About 30-40 feet up in a ginkgo tree.

Oh, Scarletti, what have you done?

Matt and Simon walked over, and we all watched helplessly as Scarletti mewled plaintively and walked in circles in his unhappy tree house. This was Monday night, and by our best guess he had been up the tree nearly 48 hours. Like many a young cat, he had run further up than before, and found himself too scared or inexperienced to make his way down. To make matters worse, Lin’s tree is very nicely limbed so that the lowest branch is about 20 feet up.

We called to him. He cried. We brought out food. He cried. We stupidly sprayed him with water. He climbed another 5-10 feet.*

The fire station reported that they couldn’t do animal rescues any more and referred me to Metro Animal Services. Metro Animal Services also will not rescue cats from trees and advised me to “let nature take its course.”** I went to bed with a lump in my throat and dreamed of rescue. Lin went inside resigned to the fact that Scarletti was going to have to figure this out for himself.

Working from a tip I found online, I set out to Target this morning to purchase a round laundry basket, a cat bed, tins of food, a tennis ball, rope, and the atlatl-like devise people use to throw balls for their dogs. The rope was secured at three points to the basket to keep it level at one end and to the ball at the other. I baited the basket with the bed and food, and Matt and I set out to throw the line over the highest branch we could reach, then hoist the basket up to that level so that Scarletti could hop in. Assuming all went well, we would then slowly lower him to safety.  Assuming it did not all go well, I had an arborist lined up.

It took a few tries to get the line in place. Matt’s got a fine arm, but our line kept getting stuck on small twigs and/or branches too small to support the weight of the basket with a cat in it. Then he scored a smooth, sturdy branch, about 5-10 feet below where Scarletti was perched. The basket sailed up nice and level, and once it reached the branch, Scarletti grew more vocal and began moving about. But he still looked uncertain, and after a time we decided that our presence was making him nervous. So we tied the line to a heavy bench, went inside, and planned to give kitty 45 minutes before I called the team of tree walkers.

Just before one, I peeked out my window to see if I noticed any new tilt to our basket. I thought I saw a motion. So ran out to the deck and shrieked with delight as I saw a little orange and white tushie shimmying down the trunk. He was already halfway between the ground the lowest branch, and in a mere seconds he made it the rest of the way. It looked like a controlled, skilled descent.

He then ran off under Lin’s deck, a favorite hiding place. Did the food in the basket give him ideas? Did he make a jump for the basket, miss, and scamper the rest of the way down once he realized he could? I’ll never know. But it seems like more than pure coincidence that after spending nearly 60 hours up a tree, Scarletti finally made his move within 45 minutes of our rescue attempt.

Anyone need a very slightly used atlatl or laundry basket?

*First thing I read online: Spray water at cat or otherwise bother it to get it to move down. Second through one-hundredth thing I read: For God’s sake, don’t spray water on the cat or otherwise bug it; it will just climb higher. Why did I find the idiot first? And why did I not realize that this person’s advice was so idiotic?

**Given the number of days Scarletti had been away from food and water and the heat index, “nature taking its course” likely means one of the following: (1) cat attempts descent when too weak to pull it off, falls, and is injured or dies; (2) cat dies in tree and falls out; (3) cat nearly dies in tree, falls out, then dies. I know nature is cruel and that I can’t save everything. But damn if I was going to “let nature take its course” while I had a front-row seat to the suffering.

It was, as ever, simultaneously relaxing and invigorating to dip back into our old lives and friendships after a time. I had last been in the Bay Area in late summer 2009 for business, but the entire family had not traveled to California for just over three years, a delay we weren’t thrilled about but thought necessary for Simon’s sake.

Two years ago he was an inflexible toddler that had trouble with crowds and change. It didn’t seem like the right time. Last year the call was even more difficult. Simon was social, but not 100% potty trained, was still struggling with loud noises, and still wasn’t what I’d call a trooper. We missed our friends, but the time still didn’t seem right. This year we declared Simon totally ready for such a trip, and with one minor exception (that I’ll save for a different post) he was.

Here, in short, is the trip in Simon’s own words:

The general vibe:

“I sure do love all my new friends.”

In the city:

“What was the most fun today, Simon?”

“The cable car!”

“Mommy, I’m cold in San Francisco.” (Welcome to the city in June, kiddo!)

King of the Road:

“Mommy, how do we get to San Francisco?”

“I’m not sure from here, honey. I’ll have to get a map.

“I think we take 13 to 24 to 580 to 80 and then boom! That’s it. You’re there. (He was right.)

“How am I going to take a BART train?” (next trip, honey.)

“How am I going to be on 680?” (possibly never)

On friendship:

“How am I going to see that tall girl (Kalyna) and her matching sisters (twins) again?”

[To Alise] “I won’t see you when I’m in Kentucky, but I’ll miss you. You know how you can come see me in Kentucky? You take two jet airplanes. Have you ever taken two jet airplanes?”

“I love Mr. Shawn’s house. And Mr. Ian’s house. I love being in California; It makes me happy.”

Me, too. Most of all on this trip because it was so clearly a vacation for Simon. He speculated about the speed of the cable car (110!), liked all the “secret lanterns” in the Japanese Tea Garden, and was proud of himself for pulling his own suitcase through the airports. But most of all, like his parents, his biggest thrill was a social one. Simon played super-heroes with Thomas and Theo, ran around shrieking with Kalyna and Alise, and took turns on an indoor slide with Alise and Thaylo. Most hilariously, he and Alise fashioned a game of Animal Hospital from a stuffed animal menagerie, a bed, and a roll of toilet paper. He seemed to form an immediate rapport with each of the kids: exploring his boisterous side with Thomas and Theo, being the big guy to Thaylo (who could hold his own and has a very similar temperament), and enjoying an easy and sweet friendship with Alise.

He genuinely liked them all. And while that may well be because he’s four and disposed to like anyone I call “a new friend”, I prefer to believe that he was naturally attracted to the children of people Matt and I like so much. Either way, we’re not waiting three years to dip back into these waters again.