June 7 - August 4
We returned to Dubai four weeks ago today and are essentially back to our pre-vacation routines. Not that there’s any stability implied in this: on the contrary, the “routine” I mentioned has more to do with more predictable crises happening at more or less predictable times. For instance, Christian likes “dog cereal” (which name he gave to the Australian version of Cocoa Puffs because a cartoon dog is pictured on the box, but coincidentally the cereal itself looks—and smells—like dog food). He expresses his desire to have dog cereal in a nearly twice-weekly negotiation ritual that we can count on any time we go near the cereal aisle at our local grocery store. We are prepared for this and know exactly where the fascinating “office supplies” aisle is and how far away from the cereal aisle it is. However, this same occurrence of asking for “more” at 20,000 feet above the earth in the confines of a Boeing 777 has little to do with negotiation and more to do with bribery; i.e., Christian can have as much dog cereal as he wants when we’re flying.
So the three-flight, 22-hour plane ride really spoiled Henry and Christian in some ways, so much so that we had to begin systematic deprogramming of their cute little minds to remind them that life, real life, is not like being on an airplane where mom and dad are obliged by the fear of offending other passengers to respond to your every wish. (We haven’t told them that the secret to getting anything you want from mom and dad is to find a similar weakness and exploit it.) They’ve done surprisingly well. Most importantly, they are sleeping when (and where) they are supposed to each night. Henry, for his own part, is much better at saying “beeeee” (for “please”) than whining or grunting to emphasize his wants. And Christian is free to run around the house wearing his batman mask and Charlie Brown blanket for a cape.
But I’m jumping ahead. Before all this we spent a wonderful (if short, as they always tend to be) vacation visiting our families in southern Idaho and northern Utah. I wasn’t surprised that the only thing difficult getting used to was—you guessed it: temperatures less than molten lava. Along with the lovely weather here in Dubai comes the forgetting of what clouds look like, five minute pep talks before going outside to walk to your car, and another reason besides Mormon theology to give funny looks to coffee-swillers. I even wore a jacket on a walk to the Shelley Municipal Park once!
So after a few days in the cool summer Shelley air, I was back into it: clear, blue skies; white, puffy clouds; and brisk mornings. Two days later I was at a family barbecue, downing my third char-broiled, American hot dog when I started to feel the jet lag (and a head cold) wash over me like a Persian Gulf high tide. I was down and out for three days, but happy that World Cup Soccer and lemon tea were accompanied by waking up late and just laying around “recuperating.”
Christian and Henry had definitely changed in their three weeks away from daddy (which, incidentally, begs the question as to the benefits of maternal over paternal influences): both of them were much more mature. Henry played happily with a food processor and wooden spoon for 3 out of 4 morning hours. One night, for the first time in Henry’s short-but-active existence, he paid attention to something for more than ten minutes. What, you ask, could that be? An episode of “Emeril Live.” I’m telling you: the kid is destined to be a chef . . . or maybe a short-order cook . . . or maybe head tortilla-roller at Taco Bell? sigh (Amy reminds me often that kids generally don’t grow up to be world-famous swimmers, renowned speech-writers, nor Michelin chefs. So, I put down the phone, mid-sentence, and cancelled my order for Le Creuset Kids’ Cookware set at $1499.95.)
Christian got in the habit of putting himself to bed. In fact, most nights he insisted. Of course, a couple of nights into it, he realized the real advantage of this: he could stay up as late as he wanted as long as he stayed in his room. Still, I’ve got to give the kid credit. He would generally go into his room, look at a storybook or two and then hit the hay.
Perhaps the best thing, though, was just seeing the boys have quality time with their cousins and even moreso with Grandpa and Grandma. We’ve got great photos of Henry riding Grandpa bareback, rodeo style and of all four of them jumping on the trampoline together. And, yes, while they were playing “Ring Around the Rosie,” Amy and I were off on a shopping date. After a healthy round of buffalo wings, we skipped the movie and knew we’d have a better time playing Settlers and hanging out in or around the hot tub.
And I haven’t even gotten started with the Utah leg of our vacay! This leg was a bit trickier since we crashed at a few different places and had to cart our luggage around with us. It was also more complicated just because we were closer to our return trip. We made two separate phone calls to the airline to confirm our seats. Based on what could only be called a truly heavenly prompting, Amy called one last time . . . just to be sure. I suppose this third customer service rep detected our skepticism that everything was “confirmed” and suggested that if we wanted to be really sure, we could go to the airport a day early to have our paper tickets converted to e-tickets. (As a side-commentary, have you ever thought how strange it is that an e-ticket—which I can only assume is a ticket that is floating out there somewhere in cyberspace—is somehow more valuable than a tangible paper ticket?!) We took her suggestion and traipsed to the airport. Lo and behold, after not 5 minutes, not 10 minutes, after 50 minutes: no ticket for Amy! “She’s confirmed,” said Duane, whose name I divined from the miniscule badge attached to his polo shirt and next to a presidential-campaign-style button reading, “How May I Help You?” in big, red block letters. “Well, Duane,” I said rather frustrated, “if your airline is willing to take my money and even says that the seat is confirmed, I think the best thing you can do to help me is to print the &*(#@ ticket.”
“It’s a problem with the pre-payment code,” Duane replied, in either a clear display of the lack of his ability to grasp the real problem or in an equally clear attempt to distract me with mystical airline terminology.
“I don’t even know what a pre-payment code is,” I said, “And, quite frankly, I don’t care! The point is, Acme Airlines [names have been changed to protect the guilty] took my money, agreed to provide a service, and WEEKS after I made a booking, you’re telling me that the definition of ‘confirmed seat’ has magically changed? Look, let me put my problem another way. I have two very young and very loud children. If you would like to wait until you can solve this problem to fly their 5-month pregnant mother across the Atlantic on another day, that’s fine: she’d thank you immensely. And I don’t mind doing my best to help my sons through 30 hours on your airplanes. But don’t you really owe it to the other passengers and the flight crew who will certainly be asking the question, “Where on God’s green earth is the mother of those bratty, snotty, screaming devils?”
Duane stared at me. I stared at Duane. I flicked his circumstantially hilarious customer service button with my fingernail and said, “Change the ticket, Duane. Please.” He picked up his phone and dialed the central office which reportedly sent a message to the Dubai office to change the pre-payment code so the ticket could be printed. I wish I could say I walked out of the airport with the four tickets in my hand, but, alas, even Duane—moved to fear or compassion by my vituperation—had not the ability to make rocks bleed. I spent another 2 hours on the phone with Acme Airline’s customer service reps to finalize the solution. In the end, we all four did get our confirmed seats. Funny enough, on two of the three flights, the seats were scattered all over the plane. I guess you have to pick your battles.
Thankfully, this was all preceded by very fun times. At a birthday party for my mom, my brother, his wife, and my sister had rigged up a piñata donkey from the basketball hoop over their carport (rather Napoleon Dynamite-esque, eh?). Christian, whose age, we felt, did not require a blindfold, tried his best at releasing its treasures, but did little more than bruise a hoof or two. When Aunt Joelle beat the thing into oblivion, nearly destroying the candy as well, all Christian could say with wide eyes was, “Joelle is strong like Batman!”
My sister Jen made an absolutely divine pasta carbonarra (where’s that recipe, doll face?!) and Joelle made an equally delicious stroganoff (same here—where’s the blueprint, babe?!). We also tried a couple of their favorite restaurants and had some deelish dishes, BUT by far the best gastronomic experience was incarnated in a cylindrically-shaped, corn-batter-covered, deep-fat-fried delicacy known as corn dog. Some of you readers are gasping, others’ stomachs have turned, but a very elite few know the glory of a truly well contrived corn dog. And certainly all of you—disgusted and gusted alike—can sympathize with having an annual craving. It’s not that I like to eat corn dogs all the time. I can honestly do with one to two per year and I’m satisfied. But there was something about returning to the motherland that made me “corny,” as corn dog lovers say, in the same way there’s something truly American about a corn dog.
And while I’m on the patriotic high-point of this blog, I might as well mention the great time we had celebrating Independence Day in the United States. Christian especially enjoyed the carnival, and it was—joking aside—a great chance to teach him the significance of our nation, even if in very basic terms. We had arranged everything so that Christian and Henry could see a fireworks show that night, but then decided they were so tired that we could see fireworks from my dad’s porch. We came back to his place and had a great time playing my brother Aaron’s favorite game, Killer Bunnies.
At my dad’s place we enjoyed hot breakfasts nearly every morning. Amy enjoyed it so much that she continued the tradition at our house. Then, when she coincidentally hit 32 weeks pregnant, we were back to cold cereal.
Everything is on track for our first international baby delivery. We can only pray that it looks like Amy.