A New Year's tradition

This morning I started writing my yearly letter to K - it's a tradition I started last year and want to continue for a long time to come.  It's a letter about the year that has passed and looking forward to the new one to come and most importantly, how K has been a big part of it, some things that he has done to make the year more special and some of the lessons I've learned from him during that year.  I end by describing the gift I have bought him - a gift that symbolizes something special.  My hope is that I will collect these letters and gifts (or at least pictures of these gifts because who knows how long they will last and if they will be able to travel with us over the years) and share them with K when he is older and can read the letters himself - I want him to have something that he can always remember me by and feel how special he is to me.

So last year, when K was 2.5 years old, the letter was about us being a family and some of the things he use to say that showed me he knew we were a family.  For example, when calling for us to pick him up from his crib in the morning, instead of calling myself (mommy) or M (tat - the Shugni word for father) separately, he would always say "mommytat" and whenever the two of us were going somewhere like music class or the park, I would ask him "where are K and mommy going?" and he would always say "and tat."  I recalled my favourite time of the day when he would come into our bed after waking up in the morning and the 3 of us would spend some time reading a book, talking, singing or just sleeping - it was such a special moment.  I then went on to tell K about the gift and what it means - it's a small toy plane that symbolizes a journey we will take and as long as we take it together as a family, we will be fine.  I ended with a poem with a wish for K

for the upcoming year -

May the road you walk be a smooth one,
May your trouble be few - if any,
May the days and years that lie ahead
Be health, happy and many,
May you have friends in abundance,
May the sun shine bright around you,
May the world be a wonderful place to live

And may God's love always surround you.

I'm in the process of writing this year's letter and as I write it, I can't help but feel lucky and grateful for having my son.  He's brought so much love and meaning in my life.  The letter starts out with recalling the toy plane from the previous year and the journey it symbolized.  Who knew how far the journey would take us and that we would, 9 months later, fly on not one but three planes to move from Canada to Tajikistan for K to learn about part of his culture and get to know his family in Tajikistan.  As I write this, it's been 3.5 months since we've moved here and while we're still getting settled (although K seems to be fitting right in very quickly), I still can't believe we made this big and courageous move...yes, COURAGEOUS - as I reflect on its magnitude during this time.  While there have been some ups and downs during this journey, we have done this as a family and K has and continues to be a big part of that family, no matter how small he is.  His gift this year is a toy of hundreds of sticks with magnets that can be attached in many different ways to build various shapes of different colours and sizes.  This toy symbolizes us building a life here in 2012.

Finding a Preschool

Now that we’ve found an apartment to live in, the next thing on our checklist is to find a preschool for K.  The first thing M and I need to agree on is which language we want K to be learning in – Russian, Tajik or English.  M wants English and I want Russian, so we know that Tajik is out.  After much reflection on this, we decide it would be great for K to learn Russian at an early age (he already speaks in quite well for a 3-year old) and where better to do this than in Tajikistan, a former Soviet republic?  “I’ll be speaking to him in English at home so he won’t lose it” I tell M one evening after putting K to bed.  We can always put him in an English school as he grows older if we want to. So in search of a Russian preschool in the city, I contact friends and old-colleagues of mine who live in Dushanbe and have children – they share their experiences with Russian schools and give me the phone numbers of schools to contact.  But this is not where we find the school K is currently attending as I write.  It is the suggestion of the principal of a nearby school that is closing for a few months due to some upcoming renovations.  She tells us about a new private Russian school, called Panda, where her friend, Gulnora, is the principal.  M speaks with her to get some more information about the school and asks when we can come by and see it.  She invites us to come later that day.  So off we go to catch a taxi during a busy lunch hour in the city.

After numerous taxis filled with passengers pass us on Rudaki street, the biggest street in the city, M finally flags one down and mutually agrees on a reasonable price with the driver.  We have the address, but after driving for about 15 minutes (we’ve been told it’s only a 10-minute drive), we can’t find it.  This is nothing new since street signs are not as visible in Dushanbe, Tajikistan as they are back home in Vancouver.  We pass an elementary school and ask a lady selling knickknacks on the side of the road where the school is.  She points in the direction of the street we just drove down and motions for us to turn right and keep going for a while, or at least this is how I interpret her hand gestures and tone of voice while not understanding a word she is saying in Tajik, the national language.   The taxi driver, a young man who seems to want to impress me with his loud music on the radio, makes a quick u-turn back to where we came from and then I hear both him and M, who is sitting in the front passenger seat, both say “there it is” in Russian.  Strangely enough, the preschool is located right behind the woman we asked for directions.  Mental note – always, keep your eyes on the lookout and don’t trust the directions someone gives you.  We get out of the taxi and I smile as we head towards a big gray gate at the end of the alleyway painted with some big white and black pandas and cars from the popular children’s movie bearing the name.  After ringing the doorbell, we are greeted by a woman in a white uniform and hat, similar to the ones worn by nurses at the hospitals here.  M lets her know that we are here to see the principal, Gulnora, whom he spoke to earlier about coming to see the school.   K’s face lights up with a smile probably bigger than mine as he looks around the huge garden filled with swings, a basketball net, balls, toys, and a rabbit running around (yes, I did say rabbit).  We’re immediately shown the way to the principal’s office, requested to take off our shoes and put them aside since no one is allowed to wear shoes in the school. 

The corridor opens up into a lunchroom with a checker board decorated floor, an aquarium and where the kids are seated on small red wooden chairs at tables that fit 4-5 of them, eating their lunch.  As I walk by I look to see what they are eating – macaroni and meat sauce – “looks good” I think to myself. We turn left into Gulnora’s office, a woman in her late-50s nicely dressed in a spinach green two-piece suit who looks up at us through her thick black rimmed glasses that are taped up on one side.  “Privet” (hello in Russian) she says and asks us to come sit down.  We tell her that we’re looking for preschool for our 3-year old son and she begins to give us very detailed information about the school – she was so thorough that she answered almost all my questions before I could answer them.  Gulnora has an aura of authority about her that is typical of a Soviet era bureaucrat and this is quickly contrasted by the sweet way in which she speaks to K and the other children who come into her office while we talk.  Across from her opened door, there is a staircase.  While talking to us, she tells the children running up the stairs to be careful and walk slowly. 

She continues by telling us that this school follows the Russian school curriculum where the children go through the day learning various subjects like mathematics, Russian literature, culture as well as do activities that help promote their fine motor skills, artistic abilities (they have music class once a week and perform plays) and physical education.  The school hours are from 8 to 5 and they provide a pick up and drop off school bus option with 3 meals a day (breakfast that consists of oatmeal and various grained cereal, lunch that consists of vegetables and protein and then an afternoon snack including blinchik, cottage cheese and some baked goods) – all the food is made fresh daily at the school kitchen.  During the meeting, the owner of the house where the school is located, who happens to be a graduate of one of the American funded fellowship walks in the room and sits on the chair at the back of the room.  Gulnora introduces him as Fariddun, the owner and her boss.  I am immediately taken aback at the words she chooses to use since it is very unusual in this context for a younger person to be the boss of an older person.  His demeanor is respectful and quiet.  Happy to hear him speak English, we begin chatting about the six years he spent studying business administration at Omaha State University in Nebraska.

A few minutes later, Gulnora asks if I have any questions before she takes us on an excursia (tour) of the school.  I tell her that I only have one question to ask her and that had to do with how they discipline children when they are misbehaving or fighting with other children.  I was later to find out that Gulnora was probably stumped by this question because it’s not something most parents ask here.  I was very impressed with her answer – they don’t punish the children, they remove them from the situation and explain why the behaviour is not acceptable and they put them in time-out like we do back home.  If the behaviour continues, she talks to the parents and helps them deal with the situation at home.  I am so engrossed in the conversation that I forget that K is not sitting on the couch next to me – he has gone outside to play with one of the teachers.  We go and look for K who is playing outside with some coloured plastic balls and asking the teacher if she can pick a persimmon from the tree above.  “Do you want to come to this school tomorrow?” I say to K and he immediately responds “No, I want to go to this school now.” I take this as a good sign and accept the offer to keep K there for the rest of the afternoon to try it out. 

We pick K up a few hours later only to find him playing on the trampoline with the other kids and not wanting to go home.  “This is the school for us” I say to M who is smiling while watching K who is talking to a little girl in Russian.

A Visit to the Doctor

While looking for apartments in the centre of the city, my mother-in-law calls to tell me that K has a fever and his mosquito bites are swelling up.  She’s going to call her sister to find out what to do and then call me back.  I wonder if I should go back home immediately, but then realize that she’ll know exactly what to do – she’s raised 3 sons who have turned out to be just fine, I just need to trust her.  About an hour later, she calls back to tell me that K is ok, the fever has gone down and after giving K a bath and putting some red beets and salt on his bites, so has the swelling.  I’m all for traditional and natural healing and have been ever since I saw a religious healer for a boil on my face many years ago when I lived in Tajikistan.  I was cured after some prayers, verses from the Quran written on pieces of paper that I had to dip in water and burn for 7 nights in a row and some sheep’s fat to put on the boil to get rid of the evil spirit that had come into my body.  Some hours later, I come home only to see that K is running around the apartment playing with his new soccer ball.  He seems fine and I am relieved.

I wake up the next morning, turn over to see K sleeping next to me.  The mosquito bites have spread on his face and I quickly get up and check the rest of his body – they’re all over his arms and legs now!  I begin to worry but then tell myself not to worry – I’m sure it’s just that he’s getting use to the new environment and food.  The more I look at my red spotted son, I start to think the worst – does he have malaria?  does he have typhoid? Is it bed bugs?  what have I done by bringing K here to this dusty city? Before going further with my worst case scenario imagination and my negative judgments on the country, I turn to M on my other side and tell him that we need to get K checked out.  I recall that there is a medical clinic staffed by European doctors in the centre of the city and suggest we go there.  “I’d feel comfortable going somewhere where the doctors speak English” I say to M who sheepishly agrees.  My mother-in-law walks into our room and M tells her that I want to take K to the doctor and she agrees while reassuring me that K is just adjusting to this new environment. She calls a nurse in the family who tells her to go to the nearby hospital and see the allergy specialist, one of the best in town who studied in Germany.  I agree and after having breakfast, the usual naan (traditional bread) with cheese and sausage and a cup of coffee, we get ready and walk down the four flights of stairs of the apartment building. 

In one of the busiest intersection's of the city, we catch a mashrutka (mini-bus) and get off at the stop about a 10-minute drive away.  My mother-in-law tells me the hospital is only a few minutes walk away, but I know that she’s being kind knowing that I am worried– the hospital is a bit more of a walk and after a while K tells me he’s tired of walking and wants to be carried.  K has become so tall and too heavy for me to carry him so I give him to M who carries him until we reach the local hospital.  Along the way, M tells me to sit in the waiting area while he, K and my mother-in-law go see the doctor.  Again, I start to make judgments as to why I, K’s mother, cannot go with my son to the doctor.  I catch myself thinking the worst about the country and immediately ask M why.  “They might not treat him if they know you’re a foreigner” he says, and I back down with complete understanding because all I really want is for my son to get better. 

M, K and my mother-in-law are called into another room and I remain sitting in the dark waiting room with men and women who have come to see their loved ones who are patients in the hospital. I think about when we lived in Vancouver and those times I took K to the doctor for regular checkups and to the health clinic for his vaccinations and the times I called the nurses’ hotline in the middle of the night when K had a fever – these were the time when I felt most like his mother.  But here in the waiting room of the local hospital, I am saddened, helpless and feel ignored as my role as a mother has been stripped away from me.  I wonder if my mother-in-law knew what I was feeling (since she is a mother herself) when I see her calling for me from the hospital door motioning for me to come in.  I ask M if it is ok for me to come with them to see the doctor and this time he says “yes.”  I’m not sure what transpired in those moments but in the end, my role as K’s mother is reinstated as the 3 of us (K, M and I) sit on the chairs in front of the doctor as she checks K’s spots.  In her white doctor’s gown, she comes over to where K is sitting and looks at the spots on his face, arms and legs.  She touches them and lets us know that these are mosquito bites that have been exacerbated by the new environment and new foods K has been exposed to, not to mention all the scratching he has been doing.  She gives us a prescription for some tablets to be taken orally and some ointment to spread on all the spots 3 times a day and gives us a pamphlet highlighting which foods he should avoid eating and which ones he should eat more of.  I’m consoled in knowing that these are only mosquito bites and the natural reaction children have when being in a completely new environment – “phew, nothing serious” I say to myself.

We walk out of the hospital, I buy K a toy guitar for being so patient and brave at the doctor’s office and hand him off to my mother-in-law who gets the prescriptions filled at one of the many local pharmacies in the neighborhood.  M and I take a mashrutka to the centre of the city to continue looking at apartments to rent.

It’s been a few weeks since that visit to the doctor and the spots on K’s face are almost gone and he hasn’t had a fever since.    

Found in Translation

Usually K is the one to lock himself in the house - in fact he has locked himself in every room of our old house in Richmond, BC, from the washroom to his bedroom and our bedroom which had child safety handles inside that he didn't know how to maneuver.  My favorite (although not at the time) was when he was about a year a half...it was December 2009 and it had snowed all night.  The next morning when I looked out the window, I saw the driveway covered in a blanket of snow and decided it would be a good time to stay home from work and daycare and play in the snow with K.  So I bundled up K in his snowsuit so we could make a snowman in the backyard.  And then I remembered, I left K's mittens in the car.  So I told K to stay put in the hallway while I went to get his mittens from the car.  I closed the door behind me, walked to the car parked on the street, got the mittens and came back to what I thought would be an unlocked door.  But to my surprise, it wasn't.  I tried to explain to K how to unlock the door, but he couldn't and started to cry.  My landlady wasn't home so I couldn't ask her to come downstairs and open the door...hmmm, what to do now? I thought to myself.  And then I remembered that my landlady's daughter who has an extra set of keys and lived a few houses away worked from home.  I told K to wait there and that I was coming back.  I walked over to my landlady's daughter's house, hoping she would be home.  I rang the doorbell and she answered...I told her what happened and she came back with me and the extra set of keys to open the door.  As we walked back home, we could hear K crying from inside.  My heart sank and we walked faster.  We opened the door to find him red in the face from crying so much and standing helpless in his blue puffy snowsuit.  We went inside the house and he motioned for me to go in the house by myself while he stayed in the hall and did his business.  Now I understand the meaning of "I was so scared I shit in my pants."

It seems locking oneself in a room in the house runs in the family and this time it was M's turn.  It is around 7 am the morning after moving into our new home in Dushanbe, Tajikistan.  I am talking to a friend on Skype, M is taking a shower and K is sleeping in the next room.  I hear K's footsteps in the hallway...he walks towards the washroom and then into the living room where I am...he asks me where his dad is and I told him he was in the shower.  A few minutes later, I hear M knocking on the washroom door...I walk over to check and see what's going on only to find out that he has locked the door and can't get out.  I turn to K who ks standing right next to me with his blanket and I smile - this time it's his dad's turn.  We try to open the door, but to no avail.  I suggest that I go upstairs to the 4th floor of the apartment building (we live on the first floor) and let the landlady know and ask for her help.  The only challenge is my Russian is not good enough for me to convey such a message.  So I ask M to dictate what I should say...I write it down and repeat it back to him to make sure I am correct.  I turn to K and ask him to come with me.  He stops me in my tracks and, very slowly, reminds me that first we need to go to the store and buy some soap to wash the clothes (this is something I told him before going to bed the previous evening - he never forgets).  Both M and I can't help but laugh...K obviously doesn't understand the urgency of the situation at hand - to get M out of the locked washroom.  So I assure K that we would go to the store and get the soap but that first we need to go to the landlady to help us get his dad out of the washroom.  I put on his shoes and then mine and again, he stops me in my tracks again and questions why we were going in our pyjamas.  Clearly he doesn't understand the urgency, so I calmly tell him that it's ok for us to go in our pyjamas because we need to get his dad out of the washroom.  As we walk up the 4 flights of stairs, I practice what I am about to say and ask K to help me out since he speaks Russian very well.  He responds by saying, "how am I suppose to know what to say in Russian?" We get to the door and knock on it....no answer.  I ring the doorbell, no answer.  I start to worry and ring the doorbell again.  Our landlady comes to the door and asks who it is...I tell her it's me and she opens the door - we've woken her up.  So I begin to apologize profusely with the Russian word for 'sorry' (I've learned this from the numerous times K has had to apologize to M for misbehaving...glad that I could put it to good use now).  Nervously, I read every word from the paper and then K, who realizes I am stumbling and probably not making any sense, chimes in and says 2 key words in Russian - "open door."  That seemed to do the trick and my landlady calls to her husband and lets me know that he will come down in a few minutes.  While walking down to our apartment, K and I recall how K has locked himself in every door in our house in Richmond and that he also locked himself in our room at my in-laws place when we first came to Tajikistan and that now his dad has locked the door.  I end with "the moral of the story is we don't lock doors anymore."  We laugh for the remainder of the walk downstairs.

The Nutcracker

It's 6:30 in the morning and I hear a noise coming from the balcony - what is it? I wonder. I turn over in my mattress on the floor only to find that K is not on the mattress next to me.  So I follow the noise - it sounds like a hammer pounding a nail into a piece of wood.  And then I see that it's K squatting on the balcony floor with a rock in his hands - he's hitting the shell of a walnut on a wooden cutting board.  I ask him what he's doing and he, very casually, explains to me that he's getting the walnuts from the shell, as if he's done this before. 
Ever since we arrived in Tajikistan, I have been amazed at how quickly and seemingly K has adjusted to a lifestyle that is so different to the one he is use to in Canada.  He manually fills the washing machine with water and rinses the soap out in the bathtub (instead of just putting the clothes in the washer and then in the dryer once it has been rinsed automatically), sets the dastarkan, tablecloth, on the living room floor for all our meals (instead of eating on a dining table), gives old bread to the girl who comes asking for any leftover bread every morning (children begging for food is not something he has seen in Canada), sleeps on the floor with M and myself (instead of crib in his own room in Canada) and takes a bucket bath (instead of in a baththub filled with water and his bathroom toys).  Nothing seems to phase him and he doesn't question why things are different than in Canada - he's soaking it all in.  

After reaching M’s childhood home, K was all smiles when he saw his grandmother, Babulia, calling him from the window on the fourth floor of the apartment building. He grabbed my hand and we headed up the flight of stairs and found Babulia in the hallway with her hands wide open for a hug from her grandson that she has never seen. K climbed up the last flight of stairs and ran into her arms and gave her a kiss. It was as if he knew her and hadn’t seen her in a long time. K went into the apartment, sat in the entrance hallway, took off his shoes and hugged his grandfather, Dedushka Mabatsho. He then proceeded to look throughout the apartment he had never been in saying "I need to see something." He walked through the living room onto the balcony to look out the window - it seemed like this home was familiar to him.

As I watch K interact with his Tajik family with familiarity and comfort, I am truly amazed.  It really is quite something how children can adapt to a new way of life so easily without any judgement - something we adults can learn from.

The Family Home

We're currently staying at my in-laws apartment and the place M called home for 30 years.  It's a very simple 2-bedroom apartment - the small room close to the entrance is where my father-in-law, a geologist, sleeps in a tiny twin sized bed.  Walking into the room, one is overwhelmed with the wall to wall bookshelf filled with books, most of them having to do with geology, including the book about geology in Central Asia that he recently translated from Russian to Tajik and is very proud of.  His rock collection which was, until now, spread on different shelves now sit in one line along with 2 rocks K brought for him from Canada.  

M, K and I sleep in the biggest room of the house, probably half the size of K's room back in Vancouver. We sleep on separate mattress type bedding and use the same pillows from the living room at the end of the day. We set the mattresses on the floor every evening and put them away after waking up to make some space in the room to sit, use the computer, change and talk to each other.  Across from our room is the living room with the most prized possession, a flat screen TV with a satellite dish with quite a number of channels.  This TV was purchased after about 3 decades…the previous one being a small (probably 12 inches or so) black and white one.  This is where we eat all our meals on the floor and where M’s older brother and mother sleep at night. 

The balcony is located on the way to the kitchen.  It is covered with a red carpet with intricate designs and looks out onto the neighborhood and the numerous kids playing outside on their tricycles, with their soccer balls and skipping ropes.  The balcony also houses the refrigerator (about a quarter size of the one we had in Vancouver), potatoes, onions and a cup board with cooking utensils and dry ingredients.  It is now home to 3 of our very big and heavy suitcases until we find a home of our own. 

On the other side of the living room is the kitchen the size of our washroom in Canada equipped with a 40-year old stove and buckets of water collected when there is running water in the morning and evening.  The big blue bucket of water is meant for washing dishes, bathing (this water is warmed up on the stove before bathing) and brushing teeth.  The clear jars on the side are filled with drinking water that comes from the tap.  K is learning the distinction between the two sets of water, that water is scarce in this apartment and that we need to use it wisely and not waste it.  Keeping the water running while brushing our teeth back home has a whole new meaning now.  A new purchase that sits to one side of the kitchen is the clothes washer – K has already learned and participated in putting dirty clothes in the washer, rinsing them in the bath tub and then hanging them to dry on the balcony.  His love of washing clothes has not changed since moving across the world. 

One of my favorite moments was when K was watching his grandmother make a famous dish call mantoo (dumplings filled with meat, onions and shredded pumpkin) and wanted to make them too.  So his grandmother, who is in heaven right now with K being here and is spoiling him rotten, showed him how to roll the dough.  K’s love for cooking has also traveled with him and I’m looking forward to more moments like this. 

Next to the kitchen are two rooms – one with a toilet and the other with a bathtub.  A bucket filled with water is located at the entrance of both rooms – the one in the toilet room is used when the flush doesn’t work and one in the other room is used for brushing teeth and washing our hands.  The first time K used the washroom, M took him.  When he needed to go again a little while later, it was my turn to take him.  I was impressed with how normal the routine seemed to him when he said “this how we wash our hands here” and proceeded to walk me through the process of getting some water with a jug from the bucket, soaping up his hands with the oval shaped soap and pouring the water onto his hands. 

The hallway is where the shoes and jackets hang.  It also holds what M calls a relic – a 30 year old shoe horn.  I loved watching my father-in-law showing K how to use the shoe horn and how focused K was on the demonstration.

It has been really great being in the home where M spent his childhood and to see how comfortable and with ease K is adjusting to all the differences in living. 

Getting our Tajik visas

“I want to go to Tajikistan” says K as we wait in the small, stuffy, crowded room at the airport in Dushanbe with the rest of the foreigners anxiously, but patiently waiting to get their visas – permission to enter the country.  I can feel the tension in the air as I speak to Virginia, a lady from Palau in the Pacific Islands who is working in Darfur, Sudan and has come to Tajikistan to visit a friend.  She tells me the story of when she was here 2 months ago and waited for almost 5 hours to get her visa…she said she learned her lesson the hard way and decided to stay seated and quiet until her name was called by the visa officer at the other end of the hall.  “I’ve learned that the more I talk, the more questions they ask and the longer it takes to get a visa” she tells me.  I’m so intrigued by my conversation with Virginia that I have forgotten that K is with me until the room goes completely dark and I begin to look for him only to find him near the light switch – that HE has turned off.  “Don’t turn off the lights, we might not get our visa” I whisper to him as a woman from Ontario and a man from London look on and nod in agreement while chuckling to themselves.  Getting the visas is my husband, M’s, territory since this is his country – he’s been told to fill in another application form for each one of us and then come back.  There’s a photocopy machine near the visa officer but M has not been given permission to use it.  So he fills in 3 forms double sided as I try to keep K busy with various toys and food in his backpack while Virginia continues to talk to me about the media’s exaggeration of the situation in Darfur.  After what seems like hours, M gets to the front of the line and I am excited of the prospect of getting our visas and finally getting our bags and seeing our family.  But no, there’s a glitch, or so I think.  The visa officer asks for a copy of our return ticket and directs M to the photocopy machine.  A few minutes later, Virginia gets her visa and comes to tell me that it looked like our visas were being put in our passports.  I don’t hold my breath because I know that anything can happen.  “I need to pee” screams K who is standing a few feet away from me.  I take him to the washroom and he immediately scrunches up his nose and in English says, “ewww, it’s so smelly in here, I won’t touch anything” and as the cleaning lady nearby looks on, I’m glad that he didn’t say this in Russian.  Once done, we head back to the visa room and wait with my new found friends who are sharing a common experience of frustration.  One by one, their names get called and they return with smiling faces and good wishes to the rest of us who haven’t been honoured with the Tajik visa.  Finally, I see M coming down the hall towards me with a smile and I know all is well and we can go to the next line with another form to show our passports with our newly stamped visas in them. 

K is now distracted by the cleaning lady who is mopping the floor behind us and I am looking ahead to see if I can locate our luggage, all wrapped with a rainbow coloured tag for easy spotting.  It’s pretty easy to find our bags since we’re the last people in the line and all the others have claimed their bags, gone through the security scanner and met their employers, family and friends in the pre-dawn morning. After scrutinizing each of our passports and looking at our faces with a half smile, the customs officer lets us through and I begin to collect our suitcases as M goes to get some trolleys.  K is doing his part and has now spotted his Thomas the Tank Engine suitcase and grabs it from the luggage claim area and adds it to our pile.  I’m impressed that all our suitcases, 8 in total, arrived in relatively pretty good shape given the distance and the connections – Vancouver to London to Istanbul to Dushanbe.  The one thing that didn’t make it was K’s stroller.  We leave the luggage area and are stopped by another airport staff person who checks our baggage claim tickets against our suitcases and lets us through to the next station, the security machine.  M empties the first trolley and heads over to the other side while K and I wait on the other side with the second trolley.  I offload the suitcases one by one onto the machine and begin to head over to the other side to retrieve them when I am stopped by K’s insistence to put his blanket through the machine.  And now it’s finally time, about 2 hours after landing at the airport, where we are greeted by M’s brothers and go outside.  “This is Tajikistan” I say to Kimran who is holding onto his blanket, sucking his thumb and taking everything in.

Our New Adventure

The past few months have been an interesting journey to authenticity for me.  After announcing that we're moving to Tajikistan (the countdown is on...a little over 3 days left till we get on the plane), I have had all kind of reactions from extreme support and encouragement to questioning why in the world would we do such a thing.  My favourite was when someone said "isn't that nice of you to do this for your husband?" in a negative condescencing manner.  In all this time, I've come to the realization that one needs to have strong convictions and belief in the reason for making a big move like this and really stick to them in spite of what people say (and here I mean those on the negative end of the spectrum).  Each time I hear negative comments about this move, I look within my heart and remember the main reason....my son.  Kimran has been the inspiration for this move and this has, by far, been the biggest lesson he has taught me in his short life so far (I'm sure there will be many more to come).

This move is an effort to teach my son some really important lessons, but in order to do this I need to actually show him that I'm practicing what I preach.  I want Kimran to follow his heart, be comfortable with the unknown, have strong convictions and passion, learn about the world and to make changes in his life even in the midst of fear and insecurity.  In the months since making this decision, I feel like I am doing all of these things that I want to teach Kimran and the best thing is we're doing this as a family.  After reflecting on this decision, there are so many things that come to mind but the most compelling is that each one of us has good and some different reasons for going, so how can it be wrong?  For Kimran, this is a chance to get to know part of his culture, get to know the other half of his family (he's been  blessed to have spent the first 3 years of his life with my family and I see how wonderful this has been for him), be immersed in the language (he speaks Russian really well), learn how to travel, eat new foods and live in a different life - I'm so excited for all the things he's going to learn during this time.  For Manucher, this is a great time to be back with his family and friends after being away for 6 years and use his education and experience gained in Canada for the benefit of his home country.  For me, this is a great opportunity to take care of my family, teach Kimran some of the values I want to teach him in life (and have a hard time doing so in the consumer based, fast paced Canadian society), challenge myself in my work and continue working towards improving the quality of life of people I'm so connected to.  As I write this, I get more excited for what is to come for our family.
Now I know there will be challenges.  And I know that each one of us is going to have different feelings during this time.  And I also know that we might doubt ourselves and our decision sometimes.  But isn't this what life is about?  Are we suppose to stay in one place just because we're comfortable?  I don't think so.  This is the time for us to challenge ourselves and really take control of our lives.

So here's the first post of many to come on our new adventure.

The Sorry Card

The other day, while eating dinner, Kimran said "I want to make a sorry card."  I tried to find out what he meant by this as he seemed insistent on doing it right then and there.  After many attempts to investigate this further, I learned that Kalum (one of the other kids in daycare) gave Patty, the teacher, a sorry card and Kimran wanted to make one for Patty as well.  So in my head, I thought that perhaps someone in Patty's family passed away and she mentioned it to the Kalum's mom who got him to make a card and say sorry to her while giving it to her.  I gave Kimran some coloured construction paper and he began to scribble something in a colour that was not visible on the paper and then proceeded to cut the paper with his scissors (the ones he's allowed to use). I didn't think it was a big deal since he cut it up so I didn't put it in his school bag to take the next day.

The next morning while dropping off Kimran at my mom's place before heading to work I happened to mention the "sorry card" to my mom...immediately Kimran started to cry while telling me I forgot to bring the card so he could take it to daycare and that I had to go home and get it right now!  I managed to distract him with something so that he would forget about this "sorry card" and I could leave the house to go to work.  A few hours later, I listened to a message on my voice mail...it's my mom telling me to not forget the "sorry card" and to call Patty to find out how Kimran was doing because he was crying so much when she dropped him off at daycare in the morning.  So I called Patty and I tried to find out what the "sorry card" was all about - it was not clear after my conversation with Patty who said that Kimran stopped crying soon after my mom dropped him off.  I hung up the phone wondering what I should do - get a condolence card from the dollar store and have Kimran give it to her when I pick him up from daycare?  And then, I decided to email Kalum's mom with the subject line: "Can you solve the mystery of the sorry card?"

Kalum's mom emailed a little while later saying that she was upset with Kalum who, along with Kimran and Kade (another kid at daycare) ran from the park all the way to daycare without listening to Patty's pleas to stop the other day.  She felt that Kalum is at an age (he's a year older than Kimran) where he knows better than to do this so she decided that his punishment would be to write a "sorry card" and then get a time out for 40 minutes in his room without tv and toys that evening.  Aha, the "sorry card" mystery was solved.

I can't help but wonder if Kimran, in his own mind, understood what the "sorry card" meant because he was so insistent on making one as well and became so upset (more than I've ever seen him be) when he wasn't able to take it to daycare the next day.  I hope this means that he is learning to be a caring boy - a skill that I think is so important in developing in our children these days.

A Conversation With My 98-Year Old Self

At the end of a lunchtime presentation on Authentic Leadership, the speaker gave us something to think about.  He said, "think of yourself on your deathbed when you're 98 years old and what you would say to yourself at this time in your life."  Hmm...that really got me thinking.

This question comes at a time when I am contemplating making a change in my life as well as the life of my family - so it's exactly the kind of thing I have been thinking about for quite some time.  I've spent the past 6 months or so thinking about how I want to live my life.  In fact this topic of conversation seems to surround me with my friends and colleagues almost everytime I come into contact with them.  I don't know if this kind of thinking happens in your mid-thirties or if we're just saturated with this kind of talk in North America.  Whatever it is, I think this is the first time where I've really thought about what I want to do with my life based on my own values, not on what society or people in my life expect of me.  It's exciting and scary at the same time but I have someone else to think about and that's my almost 3 year old son.

So I think my 98-year old self would tell my 36-year old self to take risks, raise a son to be an ethical and caring man who is proud of his cultural heritage, do what you're passionate about, and make a difference in people's lives.

This is exactly the journey I'm on right now and can't wait to start this next chapter in my life.

Stay tuned....

The Singing Clown

There's a small toy clown that sits on the kitchen counter at daycare.  It's been there ever since Kimran started daycare almost 2 years ago. It's tucked away in the corner and is hard to see unless you specifically look in that direction.  The clown has been something that Kimran has been silently afraid of - perhaps he's not sure how to tell me he's scared of it.  But I know he is because he's mentioned it a number of times.  One morning this past winter, I wore a warm jacket with a feathered hood - it was cold and snowy outside and I needed to keep warm outside while scarping off the snow and ice from my dashboard before going to daycare.  I buckled Kimran into his car seat and he came near my face and screamed "take off your hat."  I kind of laughed until I saw a serious (and almost scared) look on his face so I asked him why he wanted me to take it off and he said "because you look like a clown."  It didn't click with me at that moment so I just laughed it off as a funny joke.  Later that evening when I picked up Kimran from daycare, he slowly whispered to me "I'm not scared of the clown" as I put on his shoes.  Now that I was in that context, it made sense...I asked Kimran to show me the clown and he pointed to it immediately.  In my mind, I knew he was trying to be brave by saying he wasn't scared of the clown but really he was.  So I consoled him and told him that there's nothing to be scared of and I just kept thinking how this must have been on his mind all day.

Last week, Kimran woke up between 3:30-4:30 am about four days in a row and slept with us in our bed.  He has been sleeping through the night since he was about 5 months old and only sleeps in our bed when he's sick.  I didn't really think anything of it and again, laughed it off when, on the first day, I asked Kimran why he woke up so early in the morning and came to sleep with us and he said "I finished sleeping in my crib."  But as the week went on and this started becoming a habit, he whispered to me that the clown is singing in his room.  Ah ha, Kimran was scared of the clown he was "seeing" and "hearing" in his room and that's why he was coming into our bed in the middle of the night.  So I began to think about how to make his room more comfortable and safe for him so I put a picture of the 3 of us in his crib and a tulip he got from his grandmother's house in a vase in his room and explained to him that if he wakes up in the middle of the night, all he has to do is look at the picture and tulip and feel happy that he's not alone.  He has slept through the night ever since.

Kimran is a sensitive boy and I really love this about his personality.  He is able to show empathy and compassion when others are hurting.  Needless to say, we won't be hiring any clowns for his birthday party anytime soon.

A Parenting Moment

They have a love-hate relationship.  My son (K) and a boy the same age (let's call him D) at daycare have known each other since they both started going to daycare a year and a half ago.  Now that they're 2.5 years old, they're into the hitting, pushing and scratching.  One minute they will be playing with each other and saying they're each others' best friends and a minute later, one of them will hit the other because they want to play with the same toy and inevitably, my little K will cry.

For the past few weeks when I have been picking up K from daycare, the following scenario (in one way or another) seems to unfold.  They're both putting on their outside shoes while D's mom or granfather (who often picks him up) and I wait.  Something happens (it could really be anything) and one of them will hit the other which results in the kid who has been hit to hit the one who hit him.  The adults try to diffuse the situation and then eventually they have their shoes and jackets on and we're ready to go.  D will say "I want to go out with K" and will hold his hands as we head out the door. 

Last week, while my K was crying because D hit him, D comes right up in K's face and says "you're a bad boy."  I was so proud of K when he responded by saying "I'm not a bad boy" especially since I've been trying to teach him to respond with words...and then whack, K hits D.  They leave the daycare holding hands and I continue the same conversation on the way home...."why did you hit D?  Now we don't hit, ok?" and so on...

The next day when I come to pick up K, I am greeted by D's mom and another mom of a younger boy.  I go say hi and hug K and this is followed by D putting his arms around K in a very loving way.  The hug ends up getting tighter and tighter and I can see K getting upset and saying "don't do that."  In the background I hear D's mom (who is chatting to the other mom near the door) "he doesn't want you to hug him" and continues to chat with the other mom.  In the meantime, K (who is now being held even tighter by D) scratches D and I quickly pull them apart.  K begins to cry and and I grab him while he's wailing, say "don't do that" and put him on the floor to calm down.  D's mom is still chatting at the door and acting like what just happened is not worth doing anything about.  At this point I am livid....am I the only parent here?  I decide to stay behind to talk to the caregiver about this.  When it's time to put on their shoes and jackets, D says "I want to go out with K" and I say that we're not leaving right now because I want to talk to the caregiver.  We wait till they leave.  The caregiver agrees with me and tells me that when we pick up our kids, it's not her responsibility anymore to deal with such situations.  She said she would talk to the mother but not say that it came from me.

That evening while K is doing a puzzle at home, I see that he is struggling to fit a pieve of the puzzle.  He's getting frustrated because he can't do it and then I hear him say to himself "I'm a bad boy" in the same tone that D used when he said that to him the day before.  My heart just sank as I put 2 and 2 together and saw that what D said to him had really affected him.  I comfort him and tell him he's not a bad boy and help him put the puzzle piece in the right place.  The next day I tell the caregiver what happened and how this is affecting my son and how it's even more important to talk to D's mom now.

I'm so proud of myself for sticking up for my son.  I know kids will hit each other and say these kinds of hurtful words to each other and they'll need to figure out how to deal with it.  But right now my son is only 2.5 years old and needs someone to fight for him...and that person is me!

Going to Tajikistan

We finally booked our ticket to Tajikistan!  I'm so excited for Kimran to meet his family (grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and a lot of extended family) for the first time.  We're going for a month in September (can't go that far and not stay for a while) when Kimran will be a little over 3 years old.  We've been preparing him and getting him excited about going.

One night before going to bed, we told him that we're going to Tajikistan and asked him if he wanted to go.  At first he said "no" but when we showed him how excited we were to go, he said "I want to go" in the tone of voice he uses when he wants something now.  The next morning when he woke up, he said "I want to go to Tajikistan."  Of course he said that - how does he know what September is and why are we talking about this so early in the year?  As we walked out the main door of the house to go to daycare, he stopped at the entrance, held my hand and looked up at the sky and asked "where is the plane?"  And I just said, "if it were only that easy that we talk about going one day and go the next day and how wonderful, that the plane comes and picks us up at the door."

And then a few weeks later while putting him in his car seat after picking him up from daycare where he heard me telling his teacher that we're going to Tajikistan, I told him we need to take 3 planes to get to Tajikistan.  He looked at me, then at the sky and in a very contemplative manner said "mommy, I don't know how to go in the clouds."  "Oh, Kimran" I said, "the plane will take us in the clouds."  And now everytime we see a plane in the sky (which is very often since we live about 10 minutes from an international airport) I point out that the plane is going take us in the clouds.

We've had a look at our travel route on the map...from Canada (Vancouver) to the United Kingdom (London) to Turkey (Istanbul) to Tajikistan (Dushanbe). 

I've already started thinking about the things we can do when we're there...like baking a cake with his grandmother (whose cakes are amazing) and looking at rocks with his grandfather (a geologist). These are some of the things Kimran loves to do and won't it be great for him to be able to do this with his family in Tajikistan?

Algeria!

Today during sports class while the teacher took attendance she asked the kids to say their favourite thing to do and gave examples (playing on the playground, watching a cartoon, playing sports, etc.) to get them started.  She called Noella's name who smiled and said she loves chocolates as her mom watched on.  Then it was Alex's turn who raised his hands to indicate he was in class - his answer, watching Thomas the Tank Engine.  Before my son's name was called out, I asked him what his favourite thing to do was and he looked at me sheepishly and whispered "countries."  I immediately knew he was talking about looking at countries on the map hanging on our dining room wall.  And then it was his turn and I wasn't really sure he was actually going to answer and even more, if he was going to say what he told me (I was hoping he would because I just loved his answer and was so happy he came up with it).  He paused for a few seconds and then blurted out "Algeria!" in a high pitched tone.  I smiled and explained his answer - "he likes to look at countries on the map." 

Some months ago, I went to a work event about international development and got a free world map developed by the Canadian Development Agency (CIDA).  I remembered an Ellen Degeneres episode a while back where a little girl, not more than 4 years old, was on the show.  Her talent - ask her where any country was on the world map and she could tell you.  She was amazing.  It all started when she was about a year old and her dad showed her where Thailand was and said "this is where your uncle is right now."  He showed her the map the next day and she pointed to Thailand.  And then the next day he asked her where Thailand is and she pointed to it on the map.  He figured she was really enjoying the map and he spent everyday teaching a new country till she learned them all.  My son is a mixture of his two parents from different parts of the world (his dad from Tajikistan and me from Canada but whose parents and grandparents are from East Africa and great-grandparents from India) and one of the things I would like to instill in my son is an appreciation of different cultures around the world.  So I put the CIDA map on a wall in our dining room (where we spend a lot of time eating meals and pretend cooking and playing in my son's toy kitchen).  The first two countries we taught our son were Canada and Tajikistan - where his family lives.  And then we moved onto Nepal where Zack the Yak, a character in a book we sometimes read before going to sleep, lives.  And when we found out that a friend was going to Egypt, we showed it to him on the map and said “Salima is going there.”  So far, at 2.5 years old, my son knows the following countries: Egypt, Libya, Algeria, Morocco (when I showed it to my son, he said “it’s behind Algeria”), Kenya (where a friend was born), Papua New Guinea (my son just loves the name), Australia, China, Russia, Mongolia (next to China and Russia), Tajikistan, Belarus (where Rosie’s mom in the book, How Mama Brought the Spring, lived), Tajikistan, Canada (where we live), India, Brazil, Nepal, Argentina, United States (where his cousin lives), El Salvador (where my son’s daycare teachers are from) and New Zealand (where an earthquake happened; my son has learned and continues to practice going under a table for an earthquake drill he learned in daycare one day).

Since spending time looking at countries on the map, my son has asked me where certain things are on the map.  When we were about to go to a friend’s birthday party one day, he asked me where it was.  I told him it was in Port Coquitlam and he asked “mommy, where is Port Coquitlam on the map?”  And then one day he was playing with an empty roll of toiled paper and said “it looks like a spaceship” (we had been reading a book about astronauts and space the previous few nights) and he asked me “mommy, were is space on the map?”  I have even shown him where his sports class and his daycare are on the world map.

I want my son to travel the world and I think he’s on his way.

90 Minutes For Me

I started Bikram's hot yoga this week - I've been twice and although I feel sore in my legs and arms this morning, I feel good.  Exercising in 40 degree temperature and feeling like you're going to pass out is not anyone's idea of a fun time, but as skeptical as I was about the whole thing (a number of my colleagues swear by it), I think I'm sold for a number of reasons.

First of all, doing yoga is a nice change from the swimming I've been doing for the past year and half.  I guess I was feeling like I wasn't getting the same out of swimming like I was when I first started after returning to work post maternity leave.  While I love the early morning before work routine to jump start my day, I needed to stir things up and work different parts of my body.  I was getting bored and not looking forward to swimming each morning, so this is a nice way to get over that.

Secondly, doing Bikram's yoga is a challenge for me.  I've never been one to like heat (let alone exercise in heat) and never really understood the benefits of the stillness of poses, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth and that whole downward dog thing everyone seems to be doing nowadays (even my son when he's procrastinating going to sleep at night and wants to play with me "one more time, mommy").  As I sit here typing this before starting my work day, I feel energized and calm - ok, so maybe there's something to it.

Thirdly, I am so proud of myself.  Not only have I driven the 30 minutes to get to the yoga studio each way, I have gone by myself.  Yes, it would be nice to go with a friend to motivate me but I guess there's some kind of inner voice in me motivating me to go and enjoy the solitude of being by myself.  And even though there are 35 or so other people in the room sweating, stretching and breathing out loud all around me and an instructor talking through all the poses on a microphone, I feel like I'm all by myself.  There's no time to think of the outside world - work, wondering if my son is sleeping or giving his dad a hard time, what I'm going to cook for tomorrow's dinner or to remember to pay the rent when I get home - when you're so focused on getting through the 90 minutes in the heat.

This is really the only time I feel like I am focusing on myself, completely. 

Remembering Nan Khotun

Nan Khotun passed away this morning.  I met her in November 2004 when M and I were dating.  It was the first time I was meeting the family and I was so nervous.  But it was nan Khotun who put me at ease as I walked through the door into her open arms as tears ran down her eyes - even though we couldn't speak to each other (we didn't have a common language), I could tell she was very happy to have me in her grandson's life.  During dinner with the family, nan Khotun sat right next to me and I could feel her staring at me when she told M (who then interpreted for me) that even though she couldn't see very well, she thought I was beautiful.  She went on to say that this was the first time a grandchild ever brought home their partner to meet her and she was very happy.  From then on I knew this woman was special.  She was like M's mom and even though she had been through a lot in her 84 years of life (including the murder of her youngest son many years ago when he was in his 30s), nan Khotun always had a way to make people laugh. 

After living and working in Tajikistan for 3.5 years, I was leaving to come back home to Canada.  One afternoon, I told her and M's grandfather that I was going back home because my contract was over.  Nan Khotun asked me if I was going to come back to which M's grandfather chimed in with "why would she come back if her contract is finished."  Nan Khotun responded with "don't you know anything about love?"  And that shut M's grandfather up for the rest of our conversation.  It was a very funny scene.  And then there was the time when M and I visited in 2007.  After an 18-hour bumpy and dusty ride from Dushanbe to Khorog , we arrived at nan Khotun's house late at night.  We immediately went to sleep and when I greeted nan Khotun in the morning, she immediately asked "what's wrong with you hair" referring to its messiness after the journey.

Nan Khotun was M's 'mother' and grandmother and she was a very special woman.  I'm sad that she never got to see K (we are planning on visiting Tajikistan later this year) but am happy that she knew about him. 

Even though K is only 2.5 years old, I feel like he understands more than we think.  On our way home from daycare this evening, I told K what happened and I explained that nan Khotun is tat's (Shugni word for father) babushka (Russian word for grandmother) and Babushka Gulanor's mommy.  I told him she lived in Tajikistan and now she is gone.  He came home and went to M and said "sorry about nan Khotun" and then told me that tat is sad because nan Khotun went away to Tajikistan.  It was really cute.

Nan Khotun will be missed.

Blowing out the birthday candles

My son, K, has been asleep for the past couple of hours and I've been roaming the house with nothing to do.  I know that sounds strange for a mother of a 2.5 year old....of course I could be preparing my lunch for work tomorrow because that will not happen in the 45 minutes I have in the morning to get up, take K to the washroom to pee, eat breakfast and get changed (lucky for me, lunch is provided at daycare so I don't have to worry about that).  There are so many things that I could clean up...like the puzzle pieces on the floor in the living room or the shoes and Winnie the Pooh boots in the hallway or the dishes in the sink.  Or I could even be sleeping given that I need to wake up in a little over 6 hours (and maybe earlier if K wakes up to go to the washroom which if the past 2 days are any indication, it will be around 3 or 4 am).  But I've decided to finally start a blog called Ode To My Son.  I've been thinking (notice the emphasis on the word 'thinking) about writing a blog for quite some time.  I've even spoken in length to my coach and a friend of mine who is blogging.  And just a few weeks ago, I started doing some research on how to start a blog.  But just like almost everything that has to do with me lately, I just put it off.  So it's fitting that I officially (well at least it's official for me, I'm still not sure if I want followers yet) begin my blog in the last half hour of my 36th birthday.

Ode To My Son is a legacy for K- a set of short stories about him, life in general and the impact he is making on my life.  I want to write these things down instead of have them floating in my head only to forget these special moments I've already shared with him and plan to share in the future.

I want to begin my first blog entry with a story that began when K turned 1 years old on July 21, 2009.  It was around 4 in the afternoon and the daycare that he had just started going to a few weeks ago was having a birthday party for him.  The room was filled with balloons, presents and kids wearing party hats (but not looking too happy about it - I'm sure you can picture it).  The incident began when Patty, the caregiver (and an amazing woman), lit the candle on his birthday cake.  Like all the other kids around the table, K (who was in an exersaucer because he couldn't yet sit in a chair by himself) was starring intently at the flame.  And in a split second (with all the adults watching, by the way), K's curiosity got the best of him and he reached out his hand and touched the burning flame.  You can guess what happened next....my heart sank as he began to cry and guilt immediately looked me in the face (how could I watch this happen and not protect him?  Now I understand how quick a split second really is).  I ran over from behind my video camera to comfort him while Patty went to the kitchen and came back with a frozen teething ring to put on K's hand.  He calmed down and the party continued (mental note: keep frozen teething rings handy at home just in case). 

Fast forward a year later and K is sitting at the table at daycare and the kids, Patty, Neftali (Patty's husband and the other caregiver at daycare) and I are singing Happy Birthday.  K runs towards me and hides behind my legs as the time nears for him to blow out the candles (there have been many birthday parties and Kimran has figured out when it's time for the birthday boy/girl to blow out the candles).  After numerous attempts of me trying to calm him down and convince him to blow out the candles, K stays true to his plan to not blow them out.  In the end all the other kids and I blow out the 2 candles on the cake.  And then this morning as we're driving to daycare, I tell K that when he comes home we're going to have a birthday party for me (just the 3 of us) and there will be a birthday cake.  I ask him if he can help me blow out the candles (thinking that might be a better way alleviate his fears).  He immediately says, "I help mommy blow candles" and continues to say this until we reach daycare while looking out the window in the back seat.  It's as if he's trying to talk himself into being brave for me - I wonder if he thinks I am scared too?  After dinner, I bring out the birthday cake and candles and K takes each candle one by one and puts them on various parts of the cake.  As I light the candles I see him starring at them intently, but not in a scared kind of way.  After he and M sing Happy Birthday to me in a mixture of Russian and English (which sounded really funny), I ask Kimran to help me blow out the candles (still not sure if he really is going to do it).  And to my surprise he does until all the candles are blown out.  This was a huge step for K and I know he felt proud of himself in that moment.  I'm so glad it happened on my birthday.

My son is truly a miracle (I will write about that in another post) and he has taught me so much in the short time he has been in my life.  Over the past 2.5 years, I have laughed, cried and most importantly, started reflecting on how I want to live my life and the kind of person I want to be.  I am excited about this journey I am on with my son and for right now, very excited to capture these moments.

Stay tuned...