dreaming of a white Christmas

               Fall in Colorado starts when the Aspen trees turn from yellow to orange to a deep crimson red.  It means that you pull on a sweatshirt in the evenings when you step outside to throw the chicken on the grill.  Fall gusts of wind bring shivers along your neck and handfuls of crunchy, scraping leaves along the sidewalk.  It means that there are special Halloween movies on television and the candy aisles in the grocery store burst in colors of black and orange.  Fall means football season and Sunday afternoons of queso dip, tortilla chips, and Coors Lights. 

                Now, here in Lesotho, the leaves are changing, the weather is crisp and cool in the morning, and I’m ready for Halloween and Thanksgiving.  I’ve even busted out my Ugg Boots for the first time this season (telltale sign of winter for us Colorado girls—Ugg Season).  Except this year, the holidays won’t be coming anytime soon.  It’s only April.

                I knew when I joined the Peace Corps that I’d be missing out on these familiar comforts of home for a full two years.  I knew that inevitably, there would be weddings and funerals, babies born and relationships come and gone.  It’s not hard to keep in touch with everyone from home, so these things (hopefully) won’t come as a surprise as they happen.  I won’t be completely out-of-the-loop when I come home in December 2013.  I might be a little shaggier, stinkier, poorer, and more Peace Corps-looking.  But I’ll have somewhat of an idea on big life events that I’ve missed.  

                However, it doesn’t make it any easier dwelling on the little things that I know are happening at home as the seasons pass.  The routines.  When you’re stuck in the routine, you forget about how nice it can actually be. 

I miss so many routines.  I miss eating frozen Kit Kats and ice cream with a fork with Dad, watching HBO late at night.  I miss driving my little sister to school in the morning and then going to the Einsteins drive-thru with Kristy.  I miss getting ready on Friday nights with my friends, taking shots at our basement kitchen table in between applying mascara and straightening our hair (“Al, are you wearing heels?”  “What do you think?”).  I miss drinking wine with Mom on the back porch while we grill steaks.  I miss driving around with my brothers while they introduce new music to me—way cooler music than I’d ever listen to.  I miss grocery stores and big fruits and vegetables.  I miss couches.  I miss the morning news and a good cup of coffee.

Here, there is no routine at all.  Waking up every day, I may have an idea of what might happen… but no two days are ever the same.  

                Maybe it was easier last Christmas being away for the holidays (for the first time ever in my life) because the weather was warm.  To be honest, I hardly noticed that I missed out on Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  I think this colder weather and the changing leaves are triggering some inner nostalgia for home.

                My Mom gave me some great advice a few months ago when I was feeling particularly homesick.  She said, “in two years, you’ll be homesick for Lesotho”.  I’m trying to keep that in mind as I think about home.  I’m trying to live in the moment and appreciate what I have right now.  Funny how it takes moving thousands of miles away from home to finally understand these things.

                For now, I’m going to celebrate the holidays anyways.  Not sure how I’ll manage to bake peanut brittle in a dutch oven, or watch football and drink a cold beer, but I’ll figure it out.  Things always have a way of eventually figuring themselves out.          

Pen pals

               In class on Wednesday last week, we learned how to write “friendly letters”.  In friendly letters, as opposed to a business letter, you use casual language, you chat about your life lately, and you sign off using just your first name or maybe even a nickname. 

                My kids are writing friendly letters to their new “pen friends” in America.  I was lucky enough to be paired with my little sister Lindsay’s classroom through the Peace Corps World Wise Schools program.  Through the program, I’ll write letters to Lindsay’s classroom and share my experiences abroad.  After discussing with Lindsay’s teacher, Mrs. Jensen, we decided that we also wanted our students to have the opportunity to write to each other directly.

                My dad and my stepmom immediately jumped at the chance to get involved with the project.  My stepmom Kristy went to Lindsay’s classroom and took individual photos of the American students to accompany each letter.  My dad financed sending the package through DHL, so hopefully we’ll be receiving the letters in the next few days.

                Of course, my kids were absolutely ecstatic that they would have new American friends.

                So, after introducing the topic of the “friendly letter”, we decided to brainstorm some questions that we could ask these strange American kids.  The usual questions immediately surfaced: how old are they?  What do they eat?  What do they do in their spare time?  Where do they go to school? 

                They were good questions, but I wanted more… pizzazz.  How many chances will you get in life to ask an American student anything you want??  So I started egging them on. 

                “Do you know that in America, we don’t have buckets?  Everyone uses SHOWERS!!!”

                Gasps erupted around the classroom.

                “And did you know that in America, the kids wear their street clothes to school, every day?!”

                One of the boys didn’t believe me.  How could they go to school in anything but a school uniform?  What an outrage.

                This provoked some interesting questions.  I asked the students to begin their letters with a personal introduction, write a second paragraph explaining a little about Lesotho, and end with a final paragraph with any questions that they wanted to ask. 

                The third paragraphs were easily the longest of the three.

 

                What kinds of transport do they use in America?  Donkeys or horses?  What do they use for bathing?  What do they do in the morning?  What do they want to be when they grow up?  Why didn’t they come visit last weekend?  What is their mother’s name?

                We wrote a draft letter on Wednesday and made corrections in class, so that the following day we could write a beautiful, perfect letter on clean white paper.  My students are meticulous about making their letters straight and legible and mistake-free.

                Thursday morning was the big day.  I walked into English class at 9:20am with my stack of loose leaf paper.  Some of the girls who sit nearest to my desk were whispering and giggling.  As soon as I sat down, they said “we are so happy today, madam!” 

It took at least an hour to copy down the letters that they had written in class the day before.  But they didn’t quite copy word-for-word what they had previously written.  They must have been inspired overnight, because they tried their hardest to spice up their writing to impress their new pen friends.  One of them even signed off her letter by saying “pass my greetings to mum and dad!”  Honestly, I don’t know where in the world they hear some of the things that they say.

                I can’t wait for them to hear back from their pen friends.  It sounds like a typical, sappy Peace Corps moment, but watching my kids hunched over their letters, scribbling away madly and perfecting every line, made me feel like I suddenly had a big lump stuck in my throat.  I felt like I needed to puff out my chest and make more room to breathe.  Some of these kids have, quite literally, nothing at home.  Having a letter from their own friend in America (with a personalized photo!) is going to mean the world to them.

like an African princess

                Last Friday, I was invited to a wedding.

                I had no idea who the bride and groom were, where the wedding would be held, or even what kind of gift I should bring.  A teacher who works at a nearby high school invited me as his “plus one”.  I figured I could use the invitation as an opportunity to see further into the Basotho culture, maybe meet a few friends, and at the very least, I’d surely be eating free meat.

                I also mentioned to you that I’d been feeling pretty homesick for the last couple of days.  I needed to get out of the house.  The last thing you want when feeling sad is to be cooped up inside of a dusty hut, all alone.

                So I went.

                I guess I didn’t prepare myself before coming to Africa expecting to be invited to weddings.  I suddenly felt a familiar feeling from back in my college days, getting ready to go out on Friday nights...”I hate all of my clothes! I have nothing to wear!!” L  The nicest dress I brought along was a low-cut black dress.  And no heels.  Who would imagine to be tromping around in heels in the African mountains? 

                My host sister and the teacher who invited me assured me that a black dress was OK to wear to the wedding (I coupled it with a cream colored cardigan, so it wouldn’t be too morbid-looking).  But one step outside of my house yesterday morning before the wedding, and my host mother and other host sister insisted that I change.  They said that I was going to this wedding as a representative of their family, and I needed to look hot.

                Eventually, we settled on a floral skirt, black shirt, teal cardigan, and flats.  My sister Mpoi tried to fix my hair as well, but speaking from experience, I have yet to find a Basotho who can handle my “white girl hair”… so I politely declined.

                Soon, I understood why they were making such a fuss over my appearance.

                The cars that came rolling into this wedding (after the line of 60 or so horses) were nicer than many cars I have seen in America.  Mercedes, BMWs, and Range Rovers filled the parking lot.  I’ve never seen so much wealth in one place in Lesotho.

                 I was hanging out in the parking lot with my teacher and three of his friends; we were listening to music with the trunk open and having a tailgate of sorts before the reception began (Oh, yes—we didn’t attend the actual ceremony; I was told it was long and boring, and the best part of the wedding is the reception, anyway.  Hello, free food and drinks?!).  One of them casually mentioned that this was a royal wedding, and my eyes bugged out of my head.  Holy shit!  Why didn’t I think this was a bigger deal, why didn’t I care to pick out a good outfit and do my makeup and actually care about this wedding!

                After we were sure that we wouldn’t be the only ones sitting down waiting for the lunch to begin, we walked inside.  This wedding was huge.  I started to ask my friend how the bride and groom could know everyone in attendance, but I quickly bit my tongue—they didn’t know me. 

                We found a table towards the back of the wedding party’s tent, joining a group of prissy, grumpy South African girls who were friends of the bride.  They sat around frowning and complaining about having to wait for the buffet line.  At least they were speaking English.  Eventually, we agreed to sneak up to the buffet line in pairs so we wouldn’t have to wait so long to eat.  It didn’t matter, anyway; most of the food was picked over by the time that we made it to the front.  I’m not complaining, though… it was better than what I would have had at home.  We were served beef on the bone, chicken in a spicy sauce, some unidentifiable mixture of lentils and mashed potatoes, and a bell pepper, olive, and feta cheese salad.  All of it was chased down by a glass of white wine, and then a glass of red wine, of course.

                A few tables away from me sat the King of Lesotho, who is also coincidentally my neighbor.  Not literally my neighbor, but he lives one village away, and I often see him speeding along our road with his entourage of three Mercedes.  I was star struck; I had to go talk to him.  So I did.  I just walked up to the King, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced myself.  I think he was unimpressed, but he did say that he always notices me on my evening runs when he comes home from work!

                I also met some South African television star named Sushi King (yes, there were two kings in attendance last night).  I had absolutely no idea who he was, but he caused more of a stir than the King of Lesotho himself.  Sushi King was more animated while he talked to me; we took a picture together, chatted about America, and he even sought me out later on in the evening before going to start the DJ booth.  I lied and told him that I had seen his reality TV show; I didn’t want to be rude.  I don’t think he would have been as friendly if I told him I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was.

                I was home by 7:30pm and asleep by 8:30pm.  I was exhausted.  Apparently, the festivities are continuing today, this time in the groom’s hometown of Maseru (last night took place in the Mafeteng district).  I’m not sure if I can muster up the energy to attend again, but I’m going to try.  It’s not often that you witness a royal wedding anywhere other than on a television screen. 

Mexican food and monkey business

                It was hard coming home from my first vacation in South Africa.  I haven’t felt this homesick in a while.  For an entire week, I could walk the streets at night, eat Mexican food, wear a skirt that came above my kneecaps, nap on a couch in front of a television, grill meat on a patio and buy drinks for my friends…

                It was almost like being at home.

                After going back to our respective training villages for a week of Peace Corps-mandated training sessions, a group of about 12 of my fellow volunteers and I took off for the Wild Coast in South Africa—more specifically, to a place called Umzumbe.  I think that’s how it’s spelled, anyway.

                We rented an entire van to comfortably fit all of us for the seven hour drive.  I felt bad for our driver at first; I think he was a little overwhelmed to be driving a group of loud, excited Americans, drinking beers and listening to hip-hop.  But a couple of times, I noticed him smiling in the rearview mirror as he watched us singing out loud in unison to Adele.  He had a gold tooth and he told us his name was Joseph.  He even pulled over on the side of the road for us whenever we all needed to pee.    

                The most exciting part of the journey was driving through a natural park and seeing monkeys casually climbing along the guardrail.  I think monkeys are to Africa what squirrels are to America.  They were everywhere.  Walking to the beach in the mornings, I would look up at a moving branch and see a monkey staring back at me. 

Do you think the locals consider monkeys as pests, like we do with raccoons?  Do you think they get into trash left outside, or do they do crazier things like you might imagine monkeys doing?  Vandalizing property, jumping out and scaring you on your morning run… monkey business.  I’m not sure.  I never did find out. 

                We stayed at a great hostel in Umzumbe called Mantis & Moon.  It was nestled in a thick wooded area, filled with dark palm trees and exotic birds, so it almost felt like we were staying in the middle of the rainforest.  The whole place had a cool, beachy atmosphere—there was a hot tub and a pool hidden like a grotto in the middle of the property, a fire pit, grill area, and a divey-type bar.  We only spent two nights at the Mantis & Moon, but I could have stayed there the entire trip and never needed to leave the hostel.

                Our days in Umzumbe were spent at the beach.  We bought bags of peanut butter, crackers, and fruit from a snack stand nearby and had a picnic on the beach while we watched the surfers tackle the strong waves.  I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in a long time as I did when one of my friends lost her swimming suit top after a particularly robust wave—and didn’t notice for a couple of minutes. 

                The best night spent at the Mantis & Moon was when a small group of us walked down to the beach one evening to see the full moon and go for a midnight dip in the ocean.  We didn’t notice the sign until the next day that read “no swimming between dusk and dawn: sharks feeding”.  Yikes!

                The third day, we took a taxi back up north to Durban, about an hour’s drive away.  Durban isn’t a beautiful city, but any city can be beautiful after living in a rural African village for six months.  It must have been funny to watch us “ooh-ing” and “aah-ing” at our first glimpse of the Durban skyline as we pulled into town.  I don’t think any of us have seen a building more than five stories high in a long time. 

The hostel where we stayed in Durban had an entirely different feel to it.  It was in the middle of a sketchy part of town, and the hostel was more like an open, lofty apartment building.  None of the guests mingled like they did in Umzumbe.  In Durban, we spent more time out in town at restaurants, walking the crowded beach, or sight-seeing.  I finally got to eat Mexican food and drink a margarita, and I think, for a good hour or so during dinner, I was the happiest person in Africa.   

Every night was spent milling around Florida Street and walking from bar to bar.  We took turns buying every round of drinks, which surprisingly, didn’t get too messy.  My repertoire of types of alcohol surely increased after the trip.  In the course of a few days, we consumed: tequila shots, bubblegum tequila shots, several Smirnoff Ices, vodka, chocolate vodka, brandy, sherry wine, Jaegermeister and Red Bull, a shot called Liquid Cocaine, and too many beers.

Needless to say, I am starting a cleanse diet next week.

Now I’m here, back to the daily grind in Lesotho.  As depressing as it may have been to come back, not all is terrible.  My dog, Beans, had five puppies while I was away!  They are still too small to walk, and so they are hidden underneath a piece of scrap metal behind my house.  From what I can see, they are a mixture of black, brown, and yellow coloring.  I’m trying really hard not to get attached to them (or Beans, for that matter), because I’ve heard too many horror stories from previous volunteers that say dogs in Lesotho die all the time.  But if you know me at all, you know that my heart just melts for little baby animals. J   

I also discovered a rat in my latrine.  I don’t know what he wants in there, but it’s gross.  I lit a mosquito repelling candle in there this evening; maybe the smell of it will drive him out??  That’s my next big project for the week to come. 

let me get the ball rolling and tell you about grading papers

               When I was little, I used to play “school” with my babysitters.  I would make them sit on the couch as I strutted around the room, calling out spelling words and explaining new vocabulary in a prestigious, egotistical sort of way.  I would get angry and embarrassed when the babysitter would laugh at me or pretend like she knew more than I did.  I was the teacher, after all.

                Grading papers was the best.  I would collect the spelling test, or the pop quiz, or the essay, and mark all over the paper until it bled with red ink.  I loved making comments the most.  “Great job!”  “Amazing!!! J”  “Nice work!”  I don’t know why, but it somehow made me feel important.  I felt that I could really influence my student by what I wrote on her paper. 

                Now that I really am a teacher, things haven’t changed much.

                I will openly admit that I LOVE to grade papers, namely compositions.  Especially now that my students speak English as a second language.  They try to use fancy idioms and proverbs in their writing that usually don’t fit in with what they are trying to say.

                Last week, my 7^th graders wrote a composition about what they want to be when they grow up.  Most of their introductions began something like this:

•           “Let me get the ball rolling by telling you what I want to be when I grow up.”
•          “Let me take this moment to break the ice and tell you about what I want to be when I grow up.”
•          “In black and white, when I grow up I want to be a nurse.”
•      “I’ll blaze a trail by telling you about what I want to be when I grow up.”

The rest of the paragraphs were mostly jumbled and confusing.  All of the “nurses” said something along the lines of wanting to be a nurse to “wash her clothes” or to “give them medicine and injections”.  When I asked them if nurses in Lesotho wash their patients’ clothes, they laughed and walked away embarrassed.  I still don’t know whose clothes they were interested in washing.

I was impressed with some other students’ writing abilities.  One of my best students explained that she wanted to work for the Ministry of Education as a researcher in impoverished areas of the country.  As an orphan herself, she said that she wanted to bring school supplies and provide scholarships to orphans in rural areas who would otherwise be forgotten. 

For the better part of last week, we worked on perfecting our compositions about what we want to be when we grow up.  To my dissatisfaction, I used less and less red ink on their papers as the week went on.  Instead, I drew smiley faces and stars and “Well done!!!”s all over the page.  As I graded, I even exclaimed “WOW!!!!!!” out loud to the class.  They all simultaneously would look up from their desks and smile, only to bend down again and scribble away furiously on their papers.  By Friday, the students were thrilled with their final drafts.  I even read some of the better compositions out loud to the class, to the mixed embarrassment and pleasure of the authors. 

Their usual class teacher was absent for most of the week because her child was ill, so they were anxious to present to her what they had written. 

This week I’m on the rotation again, working at a different school.  Mahloenyeng 7^th graders learned a fun one this week: what sounds do animals make?  You can only imagine me in a classroom full of 13- and 14-year olds purring, roaring, and whinnying.  I’ll tell you, no two days in Lesotho are ever the same. 

lost in the woods

                One year ago today, I was wandering down the Las Vegas strip in the mid-morning sunlight with two of my best friends.  We were stumbling around in that confused, hazy limbo between hung over and still drunk from the night before.  We were armed with vodka-slushies and decked out head-to-toe in green for St. Patrick’s Day.  For some reason, we were becoming best friends with everyone on the strip that morning.   We took pictures with tiny men dressed up as leprechauns in the doorways of casinos; we overexcitedly screamed out the names of anyone we recognized on the street like it’d been years since we saw them, even though we hardly knew them back at university.  For some reason, everyone went to Vegas for our senior year spring break.  

                Today, I spent the day at a track field with my students, watching them race in the blazing sun from underneath the cool shade of my umbrella.  I came home alone, exhausted, and celebrated St. Patty’s Day by pouring myself a glass of wine—when I say glass, I mean a fancy Nalgene bottle.  I got a little crazy after that, so I washed the dishes while singing out loud to my iPod.  And now, I’m writing you this blog post by the twinkling light of my paraffin lamp, waiting for this bowl of beans next to me to cool down enough to start eating.   

                Holy shit, how life can change in a year. 

                It blows my mind to think of what I used to consider “normal”.  Things like driving a car to go to the grocery store eight blocks away.  Taking a hot shower.  Eating cold foods—and drinking cold drinks.  Turning on a dishwasher.  Worrying about “repeating outfits” too many weekends in a row.  Walking to the mailbox at night.  Going to drive-thrus. 

                What blows my mind even more is what I consider normal now.  Going to bed at 8:30pm, and waking up at 5am.  Seeing a herd of cows walk past the window during class.  Peeing in a bucket.  Wondering when my unrefrigerated milk and cheese will go bad.  Rushing home at dusk so that wild dog won’t chase me again.  Fetching water in a bucket.

                They say that one thing all human beings crave is routine.  Something normal.  Even the most globetrotting of types have a general “routine”, whether they notice it or not.  The way you brush your teeth.  The direction in which you swirl soap in your palms to wash your hands.  The side of your head that you start brushing first.  The side of your mouth that you chew with first.  Anywhere in the world, and you will adhere to these tiny, insignificant personal routines.

                Getting over big changes in life is about finding your routine after it’s been unexpectedly taken away.  It’s like becoming lost while wandering down a path in the woods.  Your heart stops.  You panic.  You start to wonder where you went wrong, where you turned off the path and how you will get back.  Your mind races about what might happen if you’re lost forever—or maybe not forever, but for a while.  Do you have cell service?  Should you scream for help?  How much sunlight is left in the day until you’re stuck in the dark wilderness for the night?  What will you eat?  Where will you sleep?  Is there anyone out there to help you?

                Of course, you only know this feeling if you’ve ever had the misfortune of being lost in the woods.  Growing up in the piney forests of Colorado, it happened to me a couple of times.  Maybe for you, it was getting separated from your parents in the shopping mall when you were 7-years old.  Regardless, the feeling is the same.  It’s this primal fear of being completely and utterly lost.

                But then, suddenly, the rocky ground in front of you vanishes away into a trodden-down path.  You recognize that crooked tree on your right, and you know you’ve been here before.  Your heart slows down, and one foot automatically follows the other in a sense of recognition, and you’re once again enjoying that walk in the woods.  And strangely, an overwhelming sense of happiness takes over, because you know that you’re not alone and lost in the middle of nowhere.  

momma hen

                Ever since school started in January, my students have been practicing for the infamous Moshoeshoe’s Day.  From the beginning, I had a love/hate relationship with Moshoeshoe’s Day, because since January, our afternoons have been dedicated to practicing various extracurricular activities instead of attending regular classes.  It just seemed like a complete waste of time.

                Oh, by the way, it’s pronounced “Moh-shway-shway”.  I didn’t guess the first time I read it, either.

Moshoeshoe’s Day rolls around every March.  It’s a day to celebrate the founding father of Lesotho and (all three of) his subsequent ancestors.  For Moshoeshoe’s Day, schools across the country compete in traditional cultural activities, such as dancing and singing, and not-so-traditional activities, such as “athletics”—or what we would call track and field. 

I have to admit, the traditional dances are so cool.  We don’t have anything like a “traditional American dance” that we can proudly showcase on the 4^th of July.  The twist?  The hand jive?  Can you imagine schools training for months to have a national Hand Jive competition?   

The boys have a dance where they do high-kicks and stomp around with bells attached to their ankles, all while jabbing sticks in the air and acting threatening to anyone who happens to be nearby watching.  They wear colorful man-skirts and long, bright feathers attached at their shins.  Despite the costumes involved, it’s actually a pretty testosterone-filled dance.  My students are anywhere between 10 and 15-years old, but when they start doing this dance, all of the sudden they spontaneously grunt out loud in these deep, manly voices, and hold their little muscular arms outstretched like a rooster showing off by fluffing up his feathers. 

The girls have a couple of dances; one is Lesotho’s version of the Beyonce booty shake.  They wear short, thick grass skirts with loud bells attached underneath, so when they pop their butts in the air, the grass flies up just enough to see their tiny (and usually naked) butts underneath.  They pop their booties to the rhythm of a deep bass drum being pounded by one of their classmates.  The simultaneous clinging of the bells in their skirts makes the whole thing sound so… tribal.  Also, traditionally, most of the girls go topless during the dance.  Apparently this is all OK—the girls are still too young for it to be considered inappropriate.  To my surprise, my 7^th grade girls (who are not too young to still look like boys) were totally comfortable wandering around topless for a good part of the afternoon of Moshoeshoe’s Day.  A part of me was jealous; never in my dreams would I have been that confident at 13-years old. 

The second girls’ dance is more of a shoulder-pop move, where they kneel on the ground and move their shoulders back and forth in harsh rhythm to the deep bass of a drum while waving feathers or sticks in the air.  Their costume for this dance is much more conservative: a long, flowing skirt matched with a buttoned-up blouse. 

Maybe I should have mentioned this a few paragraphs up: today was Moshoeshoe’s Day.  Finally, after months of practicing choir songs in a stuffy, overcrowded classroom, and running sprints in the scorching afternoon heat, and monotonously clapping along to the rhythmic beat of an African drum (an overturned large plastic bucket), we were ready to compete.

We left school this morning around 9:00am—only an hour later than when we were actually supposed to leave.  Not bad for Basotho time.  We had arranged for three taxi-vans to pick us up from school.  When the taxis pulled up with electronic music playing at deafeningly full blast from the speakers, the kids were uncontrollable.  We finally got them all loaded in, and after a strict talk about not dangling their bodies out the window while we speeded down the highway, we were off.

We drove to a nearby elementary school, about 15 minutes northeast from our school.  We were the last of eight schools to arrive.  We quickly met with the other schools’ staff members for a coffee and bread in the teachers’ lounge before the day began. 

We started with athletics—100 meter, 200 meter, 500 meter, and relay race.  It took hours.  By the end of it all, I felt awful for my kids.  They were so exhausted, and water was extremely limited.  I spent most of the afternoon either screaming along the sidelines at my students during the races or herding the tired, hot kids underneath my umbrella and in the shadow of my skirt to rest in the shade.  I felt like a real Momma Hen. 

On the way back home, electro music blaring from the speakers and the bass so loud that my ponytail quivered with every beat, the kids still screamed and danced just as enthusiastically as they did at 9:00am on our way to the fields.  They were just totally overtaken with excitement and happiness from the day’s activities. 

I couldn’t help but think back to similar events during my middle school days—field trips, school carnivals, ice cream socials—they were the only thing you ever had to be preoccupied about for months.  Nothing else really mattered.  And the “day of” was so overwhelming, that I would think about it for weeks afterwards.

My kids are surely no different.  I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the ride home.  For some reason, I felt so proud and happy to be a part of such an important day for them this year.  I wanted to squeeze all of them and tell them individually how well they did in the day’s events and how proud I was of them.  I think that would have been a little creepy, so instead I showed them videos taken on my cell phone during their traditional dances.  Their faces lit up when they saw themselves on the screen.  They didn’t need me to tell them anything; they were proud for themselves.