DON'T Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Read This Blog

I honestly thought I'd be better about updating my blog. Granted, I haven't been a faithful blog-updater in the past, but I thought living abroad would change that: I'd experience so many wonderful things overseas I'd just HAVE to write consistently! I have indeed enjoyed a plethora of wonderful experiences since arriving in Istanbul, but that is precisely the problem--that and my 18-month-old son (that's a year and a half for you non-mothers out there--it used to annoy me to no end when moms would tell me their children's ages in months, but now as a mother myself I see why it makes sense--babies/toddlers change a lot from month to month!). Simply put, it's hard to get a moment to myself, and when I do have a free moment, I'm ashamed to admit I'm usually watching Hulu--Once Upon a Time or Revenge or whatever reminds me the least of normal life.

At this point, so many things have happened since I last wrote that I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps some highlights are in order? For context, after three months in Istanbul I already have more of a community here than I did after two years in Virginia. I'm not saying I have Anne-of-Green-Gable-level "bosom friends," but I have met many fun, interesting people and made many entertaining, intelligent new friends. Here in Istanbul there is always something to do or somewhere to go. In September, the stately but down-to-earth consul general and his wife held a welcome barbecue at their home for all the new people. The view of the Bosphorus was amazing!

The next month we reached an exciting milestone in our stay in Istanbul--a visit from our first guest! Our visit with L. (let's preserve a semblance of anonymity, shall we?) was an absolute blast! We visited the Grand Bazaar, where, sadly, we did not see any motorcycles speeding down the narrow walkways like in Skyfall, and where the manic shop owners split their attention between us adults, "It is time to spend your money! Yes, please!" And my sweet babe, "Gel, gel! (Come, come!)" We also visited Çemberlitaş Hamamı, where we were each the recipients of what was virtually a giant bubble bath. As the suds cascaded down my back, I couldn't help but laugh. I'm not sure my giggling was dignified, but considering all the women were topless, I'm not sure dignity was high on anyone's priority list. On a Saturday we forced our way through throngs of tourists to see the old sites, and I may or may not have confused the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya--kind of impossible to do, considering the Blue Mosque is actually BLUE, but I like to defy impossibility and blaze my own trail. Doesn't make for the best tour guide, though . . .

Our second guest, a true gentleman and a scholar, as well as a world-traveler and intriguing conversationalist, arrived in November, and we convinced him to extend his trip and attend the United States Marine Corps Ball with us. The night before he helped us pick up some helpful dance moves (my spouse is a talented dancer, and I enjoy swing dancing, tangoing, and waltzing, but the USMC Ball is more like, say, the prom, or clubbing, neither of which we've experienced), and the next night we put them to good use on the dance floor.

I feel this post hardly scratches the surface of the last few months. My time has been filled with Turkish lessons, book clubs, playgroups, and of course, watching my precious son. He is tirelessly energetic and his antics sometimes wear my patience thin, but who can resist this cuteness? Certainly not me.

His latest words are "meow," "rawr," and "backhoe," the latest a result of three backhoe loaders just outside our apartment. He also has started imitating the call to prayer, in a voice oddly (or appropriately, depending on your opinion) reminiscent of the sound he makes for a gorilla. Ah, well. I had higher literary hopes for this blog post, but at least I've written it. Wishing you all a happy Thanksgiving! I certainly feel thankful to God this year for my kind husband, my adorable son, and the wonderful city where I live!

(Mis)Communication

Prior to moving to Istanbul, I knew it would be challenging to live in a city where I didn't speak the language . . . I just didn't know *how* challenging. It is hard to do even the most basic errands without the ability to communicate. For instance, I once got lost trying to walk to a (relatively) nearby mall. I knew how to ask where the area was, "Nerede Levent?" But when the woman answered me in a flood of Turkish directions, I had not a clue what she was saying. Since the woman seemed to be going in the direction I wanted to go, I trailed her like a little dog for a few blocks, and eventually I found my way to the mall. Once I get to a mall, shopping in the stores also proves challenging. I can ask for the price of something, "Ne kadar?" But there are so many other shopping-related questions that elude me. Sometimes I will speak a little Turkish, and the salesperson will mistakenly assume I know more of the language than I do. I once tried to explain to a nice young man that I did not speak much Turkish. I had two similar phrases in my head, and what I said to him was a mixture of both. I meant to say, "I only speak a little Turkish," but what I said was, "I only speak a little Turkish water," or something to that effect. The poor salesclerk looked utterly confused, but I had made my point effectively. Although I desperately wish I knew more Turkish, at times it turns out for the best. While attempting to find the dry cleaning shop, I unwittingly entered the tailor's shop. He found a hole in my husband's pants that I did not know existed and fixed it for me. Considering he's a tailor, I'm sure he usually charges people for such a service, but I was such a clear yabancı (foreigner) that he didn't charge me and even helped me find the dry cleaner's. In a metropolis where I barely know how to communicate, I am thankful that I have one powerful secret weapon: an adorably cute baby. Normally, Turks are not very polite. Perhaps most notably, I once saw a car pulling out of a driveway bump into a man walking in front of it, and another time I watched in surprise as a motorcycle whizzed between me and another pedestrian on a crosswalk. Turks are not door-opening, pedestrian-respecting, walkway-yielding kind of people. But when it comes to a mother with her baby, they will go out of their way to be thoughtful and kind. Nevertheless, I can't wait till I can speak more Turkish! I am starting language lessons on Saturday, and I couldn't be happier. While I appreciate the humility I've acquired over the past month as I've made one communication error after another, I'm ready to move on to greater linguistic heights.

Istanbul hos geldiniz . . . continued!

[Written late last night . . .] To pick up where I left off, we began our journey to Istanbul on Wednesday, arriving at the airport around two o’clock in the afternoon Eastern Time, and we wearily stumbled into our apartment in Istanbul 18 hours later. For the first leg of our journey, we flew business class, and though I’ve flown on airplanes more times than I care to count, this was only my second time in business class. Compared to coach, I found it incomparably luxurious, but for the first hour I was distracted from my good fortune by my hysterical son, who was screaming inconsolably. (How delightful, to be that mother—the one with the screaming baby.) When he eventually fell into an exhausted slumber, I soaked up the comforts of business class, including ample space, my own large TV screen, a delicious meal of beef ribs and white wine, complimented by ice cream with chocolate and nuts for dessert, and a fully reclining seat. After sleeping on and off for four hours, my son awoke to a moody, irritable state of mind (Who wouldn’t at one in the morning?), but we managed to avoid any prolonged screaming episodes until the end of the flight. After a brief layover in Munich, with just enough time to transfer from one plane to the next, we started on the final leg of our journey, and two hours later we touched down in Istanbul, on the opposite side of the world from where we had stood less than a day before. It seemed like it took forever to find our way to the right baggage claim, collect our bags, and connect with our ride, and meanwhile I spent a long time splitting my attention between our luggage and our baby, while my tired but competent husband tried to figure out the location of our two lost suitcases (which we did not find and which arrived at our apartment a day later), and our sponsor from the consulate who was supposed to pick us up (but who could not come find us, since in Istanbul everyone must wait at the front of the airport for their friends or relatives and no one can come as far as the baggage claim.

I was thankful for a warning I had received about Turks’ love for babies, because while my son was toddling around the baggage claim, a lovely security employee (Turkish women are generally gorgeous—imagine lots of thin, dark, well-dressed women parading around the city in stilettos) came from out of nowhere and snatched up my baby in her arms. Startled and perturbed, he burst into frightened tears, but instead of putting him down, the security employee just tried harder to make him smile. That was but the start of his newfound fame. He seems to be virtually the most popular guy in Istanbul at the moment (excluding Ataturk, of course, who is honored throughout the city by many statues and monuments). It is hard to shop at the mall because whenever I go into a store, I am bombarded by female employees who are enthralled with Teddy: pinching his cheeks, making little noises to amuse him, and urging him repeatedly to come to them. Although perceptibly appreciative of the attention, he steadfastly refuses to go to any of them and clings to me as tightly as if I am a rock in the midst of a stormy sea. Over time, I think he will become less shy and more interactive with the Turkish women (and men!) who seem so taken with him, but for now his Western space bubble is unwaveringly intact. As a mother, I can’t help but appreciate how everyone seems to think as highly of my baby as I do, but I hope the excessive attention doesn’t go to his head, since I can’t imagine he will ever be more popular than this. ;-)

Exploring our house for the first time was overwhelming. We have relocated from an 800 square foot condo with a single bathroom and a single loft bedroom to a capacious apartment with three and a half bedrooms and three and a half bathrooms. I hardly know what to do with so much space! The kitchen is filled with cupboards, the long hallways house three closets and one wardrobe, the laundry room has two cupboards and space for folding clothes, and the master bedroom has a walk-in closet half the size of our previous living room! For a type-A, obsessive and compulsive perfectionist such as myself, the availability of so much storage space is intoxicating. Yesterday I took advantage of a rare moment to myself to open each one of the kitchen cupboards and investigate the organizational possibilities, and I was soon smiling to myself in the silliest manner, while my soul experienced a complex mixture of calm and excitement at the thought of having a place for everything. I am sure any perfectionist reading this blog can relate, and as for the rest of you, you have permission to consider me crazy. J Suffice it to say, I am filled with thankfulness in my heart to God, who so graciously supported me through over a year of living in cramped quarters with an energetic, restless, intense baby, and who has now brought me to a place of space and rest. “The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places: yes, I have a good inheritance.”

This blog post is quickly getting out-of-hand, and I am either giving false hopes to those patient readers who actually enjoy a long post or scaring away those readers who prefer the short and sweet, so I will conclude my update with a brief account of today’s visit to the open-air market. Although I had high hopes for Turkish produce, I was still amazed and elated by the quality and quantity of fruits and vegetables at the market. It did my California heart good to see the vibrantly-colored peppers, delicately-translucent green and yellow grapes, and delightfully-sizeable peaches. It had been a long time since this girl, who grew up in the San Joaquin Valley, encountered such an impressive produce paradise. Imagine walking into Whole Foods but seeing larger volumes of fresher-looking produce for half the price, and there you have the Turkish farmers’ market.

If I haven’t already convinced you indirectly, I am now telling you forthrightly: You must visit Istanbul! The city is filled to the brim with interesting sights and characters, and every day brings a new adventure. Red-roofed houses stretch as far as the eye can see, interspersed with elegant minarets reaching up to the sky as straight as pencils, and the bright blue Bosporus divides the city in two with a splendor only experienced in person and not in pictures or words. Come, come to Istanbul, where every Turk will greet you with a friendly hos geldiniz (Welcome!), and where the city itself will invite you into its arms and steal a permanent place in your heart. 

Istanbul hos geldiniz!

Until now, my blog title has been a misnomer, but that is no longer the case. As of this week, I am officially a resident of Istanbul. Istanbul! Even the name sounds exotic. The ordinary day for the ordinary mom can seem mundane, but my life for the past month has been the complete opposite of mundane—try chaotic—and suddenly a routine, humdrum day sounds positively delightful. My life has been so hectic lately that I am writing this blog post at a quarter to midnight while my baby screeches in the background, protesting jet lag, change, and sleep. Oh, my poor, poor son. Do not fight sleep. Sleep is your friend, as I should know. Sleep and I have not been on speaking terms for over a year now, and believe me, life without a good night’s rest is not pretty. Just give it up, love. It will all be for the best. (Apparently, I have no gift for telepathy, as he is still screaming.)

I feel like I should give some sort of account of how we transitioned from life in our cute condo in old-town Alexandria to life in a spacious apartment in the animated center of Istanbul, but I am frankly overwhelmed at the prospect. The middle of June through the beginning of August mostly consisted of a repetitive schedule of organizing household goods, throwing out less-than-essential items, visiting as many friends and family members as possible, applying for diplomatic passports and visas, preparing the house for rent, and trying to use up as many yoga classes as possible. (I wanted my money’s worth! :-P) Then August 6^th came. :profound sigh: Despite my efforts, we were far from prepared for the arrival of the movers, and when they showed up half an hour early that fateful morning, pandemonium ensued. People upstairs, people downstairs, stuffing items into boxes with the rapidity of Olympic track stars, while my husband held our bewildered son, and I tried to be everywhere at once: “Yes! That goes in that box! No! Please don’t put that there. Wait! What happened to those important papers on my desk? Packed already?” And then, when that excessively long and disorganized day was over at last, we moved into a hotel room for a week, which, though expansive for a hotel room was cramped for a 14-month-old, so that within a few days the baby and I had developed a serious and incurable case of cabin fever.

As much as I would like to finish this post, it will have to wait, because (miraculously!) the baby is asleep, which means I can sleep, too! [Posting this the next day . . . more to come once I get wifi.]

Californ-i-a

So it's been a while. But don't give up on me. Not just yet, anyway. ;-) I feel like May has been an awfully long month. Of course, last year May seemed even longer, as I waited for my due date to arrive and then watched it fade into the past while my son stubbornly refused to enter the world. They say babies who arrive later sleep better. What. a. joke. My son could scream well, turn over well (from a week old), observe well, and eat well (mostly), but sleeping well was beyond him. Now here I am, nearly a year later, *finally* sleeping through the night AND sleeping in--thanks to my family. I swore to myself I would not travel alone with Teddy on a plane (traveling with someone to help me half-killed me, so what would traveling alone do?), but we scheduled extensive renovations for our condo this month, and keeping Teddy in an 8-900 square foot space with the living room floor ripped up, the kitchen cabinets removed, and all the kitchen appliances taken away seemed impractical not to mention downright dangerous. It seemed I would be inconvenienced one way or the other, and I decided it was worth braving an onerous plane flight (I'm trying not to think about the return flight) if I could see my family at the end of it and then spend a few weeks resting, sleeping, and tanning in sunny California. So far, I've done a significant amount of all three. I've visited the local theater twice (once with my brother to see The Avengers and once with my Grandma to see The Lucky One--very different movies, haha), swum at two different pools, tanned multiple times (my skin is a *much* darker shade of white now! ;-), gone on several bike rides with my dad (curses upon thee, Lodi wind!), enjoyed a lovely dinner and wonderful conversation with my dear grandparents, and spent time talking with my mom and playing with my sisters. And the only thing better than all this has been watching my family members interact with my sweet little son. I love my family SO much, and being in California is more than amazing, but I miss my husband dreadfully! Seeing him walk in the door each evening is the best part of my day, and not seeing him for days on end makes my heart ache, even when I am in idyllic circumstances. I love you, my own Prince Charming!

Torture

No . . . this will not be a philosophical treatise about the moral dilemmas of water-boarding--just a post about the trials and tribulations of new mommy-hood. I was watching a MI-5 episode (the British show Spooks) last summer, and I found myself commiserating with the villain of the episode, because the MI-5 officers were torturing him by forcing him to listen to a certain sound frequency which was supposed to be the most painful to human ears. Before parenting a newborn, I might have laughed and found the idea absurd, but after several weeks of listening to my baby scream, I completely identified with the concept: particular sounds can be torturous. And there is nearly nothing worse than an infant's cry. I suppose God made it that way--mothers are supposed to care for their babies, and only the most hard-hearted of mothers could listen to her baby wail without some kind of emotional response--but for me it has occasioned untold stress.

When I was pregnant, I knew my baby could take after my husband (who, apparently, slept for hours at a time as a newborn), or me (a crazy baby who did not sleep well and who screamed and bit and kicked, etc., etc., etc.), and I entreated God for an easy child, especially because our condo did not contain any extra space (not even a Harry-Potter-sized closet under the stairs!). But God did not grant my request, and I choose to believe in faith that it was for my own good, even though there have been many times in the past ten months that it has not seemed that way. Before I had a baby, I used to be dogmatic about the infant sleep debate, but now I believe each family should do what it must to survive. I intended to sleep-train Teddy, but since he has shared our bedroom since birth, that has proved nearly impossible. Many kind, thoughtful people have suggested to me, "You should let him cry," but I don't think they realize I HAVE let him cry, over, and over, and over again. My stubborn little son seems desperately determined to cling to his nighttime feedings. :sigh: I haven't given up trying to get him to sleep through the night, but after many failed efforts I know it will take weeks, not days, to help him build better habits.

Meanwhile, I am growing successively more tired, and it is rather a miracle that I am not mumbling to myself in some mental hospital by now. Haha. Between the sleep deprivation and the stress of listening to my baby scream, I have reached the limits of my strength, and if I was in a torture chamber I would be yelling, "I give up! I'll tell you what you want to know! Just give me a quiet room where I can sleep!" :-P All is not lost, though. Do you have those days when God blesses you not just a little but far more than you ever could have hoped? I had a day like that this week. We finally received our housing assignment for Istanbul, and we will be living in a three bedroom, two and a half bath apartment in one of the nicest districts of the city. To go from cute but cramped living quarters to more than enough space . . . ? Well, I'm just so overwhelmed with gratefulness that I don't even have the words to describe it. So hang in there, self. It won't be like this forever.

And as for my health journey, I am now on a dairy-free, gluten-free diet. Depending on how I react to reintroducing gluten in a few weeks, this may be temporary or permanent. The dairy-free part is here to stay, though, since I've known for years that I have a milk allergy (I just chose to ignore it sometimes and eat yummy things like ice cream!). Part of me wonders, "How long can I sustain this?" My husband asked me tonight, "Do you feel better?" I thought, "Yes! But I miss Milton's bread and milk chocolate and Barbara's shredded oats and cookies and ice cream and so much more!" He's right, though. The truth of the matter is, I DO feel better, and that's worth more than the ephemeral pleasure of a delicious ice cream cone, a scrumptious plate of French toast, or a warm chocolate chip cookie.

That Health Thing

In an effort to bridge the gap between knowing and doing, I started seeing a health coach recently. It's not that I don't know how to eat right. When I was little, I was allergic to wheat and sugar and a bunch of other things, and I would break out in eczema whenever I "cheated" and ate the wrong foods. Since my mom and one of my sisters had similar allergies, everyone in my family ate according to a fairly strict diet. In my house, it was goat's milk instead of cow's milk, carob chips instead of chocolate chips, and fructose instead of sugar. You're either thinking, "What in the world?" Or, "Oh, that sounds familiar." As my sister and I grew older, we outgrew some of our food allergies, and my family became more lax about nutrition (i.e., we would eat ice cream and M&M's, although we never drank soda or coffee, or ate things like marshmallows or maraschino cherries). As an adult, I've become increasingly fond/dependent on/addicted to sugar and starches, and I've spent many an hour contemplating the conundrum of knowing what I ought to eat but not eating that way. Enter the health coach, a pleasant and sophisticated woman who reminds me a bit of Anna Friel. At our first meeting, she gave me two main pieces of advice, neither of them shocking: 1) Drink more water, and 2) eat more vegetables. Of course, it was a bit more complicated than that. For now, though, I'm supposed to start and end my day by eating vegetables, particularly greens: spinach, kale, bok choy, collard greens, mustard greens, chard, and arugula. She suggested starting my day with smoothies, and I have been trying to follow her advice. The first day's smoothie made me want to vomit, but I've become a little more proficient at making palatable concoctions, and today's blend of water, carrot juice, kale, spinach, strawberries, grapes, and banana wasn't half bad. Of course, what I'd really prefer after another night of interrupted sleep, thanks to my precious babe, is a bagel with almond butter and strawberry jelly and a hot cup of coffee with almond milk, but somehow I think I'll be happier in the long run if I minimize the sugar, starches, and caffeine, and rely instead on those oft-acclaimed, oft-despised veggies.

Adventure Calls

It is only four months till departure--four months till I say goodbye to the quaint, colorful city of Alexandria and say hello--merhaba is the Turkish word--to Istanbul, another colorful but very different city! In an ideal, type-A world, I would know every detail regarding our move, but since that is not the case, I am mentally preparing myself for a tremendous adventure, with many wonderful twists and turns that I will only become aware of as I experience them. The situation definitely calls for some flexibility! I'm sure I will experience culture shock at first, but ultimately my life in Istanbul will not be much different than my life here, which mostly consists of watching my sweet, funny, terribly active baby boy. It is odd to me how quickly life changes: for days upon days it feels like everything is the same, like life is lived in a terrible rut that endlessly (and sometimes meaninglessly) repeats itself, and then one day everything changes in an instant, and that frustrating (but comfortable) rut has vanished, and life has become unpredictable and unfamiliar. I would be nervous at the thought of moving to the other side of the world, but I know wherever I travel God will always listen to my prayers, and my adorable son will always require my attention, and my kind husband will always be by my side as my closest and dearest friend. And so even though moving to Istanbul will bring many changes, the important things will not change after all.