So, today I came into work for the morning with the plan of meeting my folks at our house around noon for lunch. Lucy would be well rested from her usual 10-noon nap and we’d all have a fantastic afternoon together.  But we all know what happens to the best laid-plans…

Justin sent me a cryptic text message earlier this morning: “I don’t think we’ll be eating lunch at home today…”

Hmm. No biggie, I thought. The propane tank is probably empty. We’ll eat in town and refill the tank.

But then I remembered that we just refilled the tank a few weeks ago. It couldn’t be empty already.

Too curious to wait, I called Justin to learn that there is a shit storm in our house. Yes, a literal shit storm.

Sewage has backed up into our showers and the entire house reeks of shit. Worse, it’s probably our own shit. Gross.

In a previous post, I referred to good days as lemonade days. From here on out, we’ll be referring to shitty days as, well…shitty days.

Justin and I celebrated our 4-year Nicaversary yesterday, which is amazing because it took him almost half that long to persuade me to move here in the first place.

Yup, that’s right – it took Justin nearly 2 years to convince me to move abroad.   He launched his campaign shortly after returning from a solo mission to San Juan in 2006.   Having just completed a year-long intensive international MBA program, he was feeling the travel itch, which I encouraged him to scratch before diving back into the real world of job hunting and desk jobs.  So, he went to visit our friend, Zach, who would later become an accomplice in Justin’s bid to move.

Barely off the tarmac, Justin began listing the benefits of a move to Central America.  Warmer weather, cheaper drinks, happier people…I was terribly reluctant, but Justin and Zach were persistent.  Weekly phone calls from Zach began with a weather report, followed quickly by a financial report.  The sun was shining and people were buying real estate.  Why were we still bitter in New England?

Eventually, Justin convinced to me go for a visit.  We arrived in Nicaragua in March 2007.  I was underwhelmed.  It was hot, dry, dusty, and brown and I was relieved.  It would never be my home.  We would stay the week, enjoy our friends and Don Ron and then return home to New England.

So how is it that less than one year later, I was disembarking in Managua with just two suitcases, one carry-on, my husband, and my dog?  And how am I still here after 4 years?  One word: Justin.  Okay, one more: faith.  I had faith in Justin.  And I will be forever grateful to him for inviting me on this journey.  For extending his hand and saying “come along with me.”  “As long as we are together, we will be okay.” And of course, “What’s the worse that could happen?”

And the thing is, sometimes, it felt like the worst did happen.  When I woke in our one-bedroom sauna of a house curled up in a little ball and wanted to stay that way all day… except that I couldn’t because the mosquitoes were eating my ankles and the sweat was pooling at the base of my spine.  Days when I felt lost in Spanish or lost altogether.  Days when I stepped on stingrays and in cow shit.  Days when I didn’t fit in, couldn’t keep up.  Days when I just didn’t want to squeeze my full-size body into a half sized bikini.  Days when I missed my friends’ weddings and my nieces‘ birthdays.  Days when I learned that my dad had fainted or my mom was unwell or my uncle was sick or my grandmother had passed away.  Everyday days and special days – Thanksgivings and Christmases and Fourth of Julys.  Days when the economy was in the toilet, real estate was dead and our bank account was empty.  Days when the power went out and stayed out.   Days when the car didn’t start, the internet was slow, and I could watch the mold growing on our walls.  Days with cold showers and unpaved roads.  Days in Managua.  Days I feared men with machetes and women with gold teeth.  Days without pretzels, blueberries, and good bread.  Days when I felt lonely and overwhelmed and angry.  Days when I searched for flights back home and let my finger linger over the mouse, tempted to click “purchase.”  Days when I felt a million miles from home.

But the other thing is that the best happened, too. I learned that bad days come, but they go, too.  And that they are often replaced by the best kind of days.   I learned to let go.  I learned to slow down.  I became a wife.  I became a mother.  I embraced my plus-size body, on the beach, no less.  I learned Spanish.   I learned to swear in Spanish.  I got a job, in Spanish.  I got promoted in Spanish.  I made new friends, in Spanish.  I gave birth in Spanish.  I tried opening a business.  I failed at opening a business.  I discovered family in my friends and likewise, friends in my family.   I found good bread.   I shared good bread.  I learned to walk in the shade and avoid the shady.  I marveled at sunsets.  I traveled.  I began to write.  I continued to write.   I discovered that it’s okay not to do what’s expected of me all the time.

I learned to keep a flashlight next to the bed. I learned that the guys with the machetes were just cutting the grass.  I learned to be patient.  I learned that showing up 45 minutes late was still early.  I discovered new foods, new culture, new music (and reaffirmed that I still dislike Reggaeton).  I stopped worrying about how I looked and instead, focused on how I felt.  I rediscovered yoga.  I discovered my faith.  I befriended and be-familied people I would never have met elsewhere.  I learned that the things we assumed would be easy, took weeks and those that we thought would take weeks, took hours.   I learned to stop assuming. I learned to live with less and appreciate more.  I learned that there is no place like home, but that you can have more than one.

I learned that no matter how crazy he sounds, that I have faith in my husband.  But I also have faith in me.  What began as one anxiety-riddled, sweltering year abroad has turned into something more.  Nicaragua will forever and always be the birthplace of our daughter, our marriage, and in many ways, me.

Your Hard is Hard from The Extraordinary Ordinary

Quiet is Seldom Discussed from Girl’s Gone Child

A Mountain I’m Willing to Die On from Momastery (Glennon’s post Don’t Carpe Diem went viral a few weeks ago and the writing only continues to get better)

Negotiations in Second Grade Lunch Trade Reach Impasse from Some Species Eat Their Young (this guy, Chase McFadden, is pure awesomeness – seriously funny comic relief, with just the right amount of sentiment)

The Witching Years from The Never-True Tales

Happy Reading!

You might have heard me mention our friends, Eric and Stephanie, in previous posts. They are expats, like us, having moved to San Juan del Sur in 2008.  Shortly after their arrival, they opened Pan de Vida, a brick oven bakery.  You can read more about their adventures in baking at International Living and read an awesome review of their breads and desserts in Hecho Magazine.  If you are in the area, be sure to stop in for their cinnamon raisin swirl bread, some oven-fired focaccia bread or my favorite, their orange nut bread.  But this post isn’t about promoting their business – although you’d be a fool not to try their homemade chocolate chip cookies.

In addition to raising a fabulous business, Stephanie just gave birth to their second daughter last week.  Upon their return from the hospital, our wise friend, Kelly (whom I’ve quoted more than once in this blog), said to Stephanie and Eric, “do you guys realize that you moved here with each other and a car, but if you were to leave tomorrow (hypothetically – don’t worry, they aren’t going anywhere), you’d have a cat, a dog, a business, and two beautiful daughters?”

Sounds to me like their bread basket is full.  Love to you all and congratulations on the birth of Felicity Rae!

Felicity, Stephanie, Olivia, Eric, and Bruzer, the dog. Toots, the cat, was too busy chasing birds to make a photo appearance.

10,672 photos to be exact.  If you consider that Lucy has been with us for 419 days (1 year, 1 month, and 24 days), that means that we (I) averaged almost 25 photos PER DAY.  That’s more than one photo PER HOUR every day or a photo every 56 minutes.  And if you consider that we sleep for 7 (hah!) of those hours, it’s actually 1.5 photos per hour for 17 hours (my math is terrible, so don’t judge me if this is all wrong).

I guess that’s the beauty and the curse of the digital camera.  You can shoot to your heart’s content without paying the hefty price to develop, but it can also consume you, and your loved ones.  We (I) rarely leave the house without the camera because what if, just what if Lucy does something terribly cute and we fail to capture it for the grandparents?  I’m beginning to discover that, as her mom, I think that pretty much everything she does is cute.  Except maybe for yesterday morning when, on the changing table, she reached down and grabbed her poop-filled diaper and rubbed it on her face. Although, admittedly, if I had had the camera next to me, you can be assured there would have been a photo of said event.

I should probably heed my own advice and the subtle warnings from my Mac that it, too, is overloaded by photos.  How much longer can that pinwheel spin before leading me to the blue screen of death?

So In honor of Photo Friday today, I will leave my camera at home.  I will not take one single picture (at least not of Lucy) today.  This commitment is brought to you in part by Eric and Stephanie who borrowed our camera last night, making it that much easier for me to not take photos.

But also, because it’s Friday the 13th and I don’t want to tempt fate with the computer gods any longer, I will be transferring all of my current photos to a backup drive and deleting them from the laptop.  Seems easy enough, right?  Except that when the transfer is complete, you still have to drag your photos to the TRASH CASH and then chose to “EMPTY TRASH.”  And just in case you aren’t 100% certain of your decision, Mac gives you one last opportunity to change your mind…”are you sure you want to delete the 10,000 photos permanently?”  And then, in even smaller print, one final hail mary to get you to reconsider, “you cannot undo this action.”

Well, no, no, I’m not sure that I want to press that “OK” button and delete the first 36,201,600 seconds of my daughter’s life.  But, it has to be done.  It has to be done for the sake of my computer’s health and perhaps my own and Lucy’s.  And the truth is, I’m not actually deleting anything at all because it’s all stored right up here, in my memory (and on Justin’s computer, Picasa, and my back-up drive), but, whatever, you get the point.

disclaimer: this photo was NOT taken today

Lucy was a little unsure of the Año Viejo in the park

In honor of New Year’s Eve, I am reposting a description of the Año Viejo that I wrote for my Expat Life in Nicaragua Blog a few years ago:

The Año Viejo is a fiery tradition that symbolically burns up the failures, regrets and anger of the old year in order to usher in the hopes and resolutions of the new one. On the last day of the year, people construct effigies that might represent an irritating person, a disliked political figure, or even disappointment about past mistakes or unachieved goals. A handwritten note is pinned to the dummy explaining why it must be burned and what changes and improvements are desired for the coming year. Then, to a chorus of cheers and clapping, the effigy is thrown into the street and burned to ashes.  Some people stuff the año viejos with triquitraques (firecrackers) and watch the “man” explode.

So, say goodbye to the old as we usher in the new (although, please don’t catch on fire!).  Happy New Year to all!

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the casa,
Not a creature was stirring – Caramba! ｿQue pasa?
Los ninos were tucked away in their camas,
Some in long underwear, some in pijamas,
While hanging the stockings with mucho cuidado,
In hopes that old Santa would feel obligado,
To bring all children, both buenos and malos,
A nice batch of dulces and other regalos.
Outside in the yard there arose un gran grito,
and I jumped to my feet like a frightened cabrito.
I ran to the window and looked out afuera,
And who in the world do you think that it era?
Saint Nick in a sleigh and a big red sombrero,
Came dashing along like a loco bombero.
And pulling his sleigh instead of venados,
Were eight little burros approaching volando.
I watched as they came and this quaint little hombre,
Was shouting and whistling and calling by nombre:
“Ay Pancho, ay Pepe, ay Cuco, ay Beto,
ay Chato, ay Chopo, Maruco, y Nieto!”
Then standing erect with his hands on his pecho,
He flew to the top of our very own techo,
With his round little belly like a bowl of jalea,
He struggled to squeeze down our old chiminea.
Then huffing and puffing at last in our sala,
With soot smeared all over his red suit de gala,
He filled all the stockings with lively regalos,
None for the ninos that had been very malos.
Then chuckling aloud, seeming very contento,
He turned like a flash and was gone como el viento,
And I heard him exclaim, y esto es verdad!
Merry Christmas to all, y Feliz Navidad!

Sunset strolls down the malecon, pre-Lucy, were often accompanied by catcalls from fisherman and Sunday drunks.  But once Lucy joined our afternoon walks, those catcalls were quickly replaced by oohs and ahhs from elderly abuelas and seven year olds.

At first, I thought the excessive overtures were simply because Lucy is an exceptionally cute baby  But, gradually I came to realize that people here are like this with ALL babies.  You could hand them the Seinfeld baby (Jerry: “Is it me or was that the ugliest baby you have ever seen?”  Elaine: “Uh, I couldn’t look. It was like the Pekinese”) and they would coo over it as if it were the baby Jesus himself.

Nearly every time we go out for a meal, a waitress lovingly scoops up Lucy and entertains her while we eat.  If they are busy with something else, they are happy to let your baby explore the restaurant with carte blanche.  Imagine putting your kid on the floor at the Capital Grille and letting her wander… Here in Nicaragua, even the male waiters come over for a high five and smile.

You can’t pass by the pulperia, the “laundromat,” the video rental store or the neighbor’s house without stopping in for a quick hello and a hug for Lucy.  No matter age, gender, or socioeconomic status, people here love children.  Kids are the great equalizer.

The other day, we went swimming at one of the local hotels.  When we arrived, I saw that there were a handful of women sunbathing and I worried that Lucy’s toddler presence might annoy them.  Man was I wrong.  They watched her splashing in the pool, they made her laugh, she made them laugh, they talked to her and they even took photos with her. Brangelina?  Nope, just Lucy.

Even the vocabulary that accompanies this adoration of children is abundant.  It far eclipses our own English use of adding the “-y” or “-ie” to express cuteness.  Here, simply add the suffix “-ita/-ito” to the end of a word and you’ve got a dictionary full of adjectives for your little one: Angelita (little angel), Gordita (little fatty), Munequita (little doll), Jovencita (young lady), Pedacita (little piece), Pobrecita (poor little thing).  This culture even has diminutives for their diminutives.  Your child is not just “Chiquita” (loosely translated to mean petite or small).  No, your child is “Chiquitita” (exceptionally tiny).

And do you know who loves babies more than Nicaraguan women?  Nicaraguan children.  I took Lucy to the park over the weekend and 5 kids, of varying ages, scrambled over to play with her.  Walking thru our barrio last week, two of the neighbor’s kids came barreling out of their house at the sound of the stroller.  A couple of weeks ago, we took Lucy to the beach to release baby turtles.  Some of the kids from the nearby neighborhoods came to help, but when they saw Lucy (and our friends’ daughter, Sierra), their attention quickly shifted from tortugas to toddlers.  They took the girls by their hands, lifted their feet as the waves rolled in, and brushed away the sand when they fell.

Language and cultural differences are not obstacles for kids the way they are for adults.  Most kids like to  chase, swing, build sandcastles, and splash in the ocean.  It doesn’t matter what language they speak – as long as they can play.   If they don’t understand, they invent their own ways of communicating, teaching each other along the way.

Children are cherished and celebrated in this country.   Like Mother’s Day, el día de los niños is an all-day event here.  There is no eye rolling here when you arrive with a toddler, only smiles and outstretched hands.   At a time when the presence of a child on a plane or in a restaurant can spark a debate in the likes of The New York Times, I feel blessed to be living in a place as welcoming as Nicaragua.