January 17 - March 8
Table of Contents:
Rich’s OCD: Still in Check?
The Nelsons Take Dubai by Dust Storm
Christian Pimps Mom’s Ride (if you read nothing else, read this)
Henry Hollers his Head Off
Cyrus Begins to Gnaw
I overanalyze just about every situation. Amy regularly taunts me because I can’t help but feeling a tinge of self-consciousness whenever we are tooling down Al Wasl Road and somebody honks. “Are they honking at me?” I inevitably ask. “Did I cross the lane marker? Am I driving 5 kilometers per hour too fast or 5 kph to slow? Does the color of my vehicle offend them?” I wonder half-aloud. It’s not that I’m really self-centered. It’s more that I’m an obsessive analyst and I can’t stop my brain from trying to find the cause and the likely results of a given situation.
In stressful circumstances, this gift-to-a-fault really kicks in and I create an explanation for every cotton-picking event.
These days we are waiting to hear back from four universities (Brown, Virginia, UPenn, and Iowa) whether they will accept me into their doctoral religious studies programs. I recently contacted a few of these schools to let them know that receiving their decision by mail would be about as useful as a new scrunchy for Britney Spears since we are still receiving Christmas newsletters in our mailbox.
Each school I called listened to my question and then responded to the question they thought I would be asking, i.e. “When are they going to make a decision about my application? Huh? When? When are they? Are they looking at my application now? Are they almost done? Huh? Huh? Are they? ARE THEY?” So before any of them would agree to sending an email instead of a #10 envelope, they would say, “Now, they haven’t made any decisions yet, but probably within the week.” One department secretary was very helpful in providing details about the process. She said, “We have been absolutely flooded with applications this time and so the Graduate School has only allowed a few spaces.” She asked my name and continued, “Ah, yes, I remember your application. I have your email address as such-and-such. Now, tell me your phone number one more time so I make sure we have it.”
Now, to a normal person, this information would be very helpful. Since I’m already on the brink of OCD as it is, this information has WAY too much room for analysis and (in my case) over-analysis. My heart sunk when she said “there are only a few spaces this year” because my mind hears her saying, “There’s so much competition, I can’t figure out why you applied.” But then in the next breath her comment that she remembers my application is over-analyzed into “Despite the myriad applicants, your application sticks out to me and I will make it my personal mission to ensure that a positive response is communicated to you in your preferred method. Thank you, sir, for gracing our department with your resume and writing sample.”
The added insanity to this sordid tale of a crazed person is that Amy used to work in George Washington University’s Medical School admissions office. Okay—religious studies and medical school probably don’t have a lot in common, but I’m sure the basics are the same. So, again, useful information which ends up driving me batty! Amy honestly and simply replies to my complex, loaded questions with answers like, “Well, you know, Rich, I wouldn’t alternate hourly phone calls and emails to the department. They are not likely to look on that favorably and it might affect their decision if they see you as desperate to get in.” And it just burns me up that she’s right!
So, last Friday night Amy and I were watching a movie when our home phone rang. We just let it ring, and it was about 30 minutes later that I did the calculation of the time difference and said to Amy, “What if that call was from Brown or UVA? If it was them, maybe they will reverse a positive decision on the grounds that if the guy can’t even pick up a phone, how will he survive grad school?” So I’ve spent the weekend repenting of my erroneous ways in not picking up the phone when it rings. Lately I write beautifully sad poetry, have taken up learning Esperanto, and am thinking of cutting off my ear and sending it to my brother.
Hopefully, by the time our next blog is written, I will be cured of this madness. . . .
In other news, Amy’s parents recently visited us and discovered that Dubai is NOT at all camels and sand dunes. In fact, it was a week and a half after they arrived that we went to visit the Empty Quarter including the world’s tallest sand dune. That was a truly amazing experience, but doesn’t really capture Dubai. Furthermore, I think the best moments of their visit didn’t have much to do with this town and had more to do with watching Christian and Henry reconnect with their grandparents. Henry still asks about “abot and abot” and Christian was quite proud to show off his swimming skills. Best of all, we got some family portraits taken and are happy to have some very nice shots of everyone.
For their part, Mom and Dad enjoyed visiting Makati City II. They weren’t five minutes off the plane before they were chatting it up with the Filipino staff of the airport coffee shop! Everywhere we went, Mom and Dad’s Fili-dar (that’s short for Filipino radar) would vector the exact location of Filipinos; within seconds they’d be asking them where they’re from and if they’d heard of the Church. Of course, it’s a big pond: the Philippines is the greatest labor exporter and the UAE is the greatest labor importer. Mom and Dad met a few familiar faces at Church services one Friday, Filipinos with whom they’d worked at the Employment Resource Center in Manila.
Dad took the opportunity to read parts of the Quran and was surprised at both the similarities and differences between Mormonism and Islam. Both Mom and Dad visited a local Mosque and had the in’s and out’s of Islamic rituals explained to them. We cooked a couple of our favorite Iranian dishes, and believe it or not Dad liked it (unless he was just pretending)! On one of our last nights together we made a dangerous trek to the Gold Souk—there’s no real physical danger, just danger to a husband’s pocketbook. Mom and Amy made off okay (even Annisa made off with some gold and she wasn’t even here!), and now Dad and I just have to take night jobs to pay it off.
(Alright, alright. Rich makes it sound much worse than it actually is.) Here’s an update on the kids.
Christian continues to polish off his acting and screenwriting skills. His latest venture into the medium consists of replaying scenes from our favorite television show, “Pimp My Ride.” I know, I know, you are all thinking Rich and I have three too many kids to be watching any show aired on MTV, but think again. It’s really quite a nice family show out here since every other word is bleeped out. Anyway, so he always gets to be the host, rap artist Xzibit, and I always play the unsuspecting hopeful pimp-ee. This is how Christian explains it (and keep in mind the whole situation is much funnier if you have actually seen the show):
“Okay, so I will come and knock on your door and then you open it and jump up and down and be really happy to see me and hug me a lot. And then we’ll go outside and look at your car and I’ll tell you how much I don’t like it. Then I will drive it to the West Coast and fix it up and when I’m done you look at it and jump up and down and be really excited to see it and hug me a lot.”
So I wait in the kitchen for him to knock on the door and notice he is outside walking around the car, talking to himself. Then he comes to the door and knocks, and after he tells me how much he doesn’t like my car and points out things that are wrong with it (of course my car is actually the plastic toy car), he gets into the car and says, “Off to the West Coast,” and Fred Flintstones it out of there. After he has finished with the car, he comes back into the house and tells me it is ready. When I walk outside, he has even picked up a beach towel that has been drying on the rack outside and has covered the car with it, just like on the show. When I come out he rips the towel off and says, “Your new car!” Then I jump up and down and hug him a lot. Then he gives me the keys and tells me I have officially been pimped. It is truly hilarious.
Two days ago we were in the middle of an episode when the phone rang inside the house. Christian raced to answer it, and as I walk in the door I hear him telling someone on the other end, “Yeah, I’m the guy who pimps Mommy’s ride.” Fortunately it was Rich on the other end, and no legal action was taken.
Christian is also harboring a borderline obsession with chewing gum. We keep reminding him he can have gum when after he turns six years old, and he keeps telling us that he is going to get gum wrapped up as a present for his sixth birthday. We cannot escape the grocery store without him handling at least a pack or two longingly before we head for the door. If only adults were so easy to please . . .
Henry is full of energy. He knows no fear and is coordinated enough to pull off most of his dangerous-looking stunts. He is catching on to the adults, however. He really loves Cheetos, and one night we were trying to get him to eat some lunch meat and so we kept interspersing Cheetos with the lunch meat: if he ate some meat, he could have some Cheetos. After each round of Cheetos, Rich would put some more meat on his plate and the cycle would begin again. After about ten minutes of this, Henry finished some Cheetos, suddenly looked up at us with new understanding in his eyes and in a loud voice declared, “Hey! No meat!” Not bad for a two year old.
Henry is also learning to go pee-pee in the potty. We’re not full-on trying to train him, but if we let him run around sans pants, he will go in the potty in exchange for gummy bears. He has had very few accidents, but I’m hesitant to issue the potty ultimatum until I am sure he is totally ready and wants it bad enough. He is such a strong-willed kid, this thing could backfire badly and he’ll be the only seventh grader with pull-ups.
His foray into the world of organized sports is proof of his will. He has been taking swimming lessons for a few weeks and he has already begun to swim minus the small flotation devices that came with his first swimsuit. As of late, however, he has decided he doesn’t want to go to lessons and he becomes very angry when he gets in the water. Of course this only happens at group swim lessons when everyone is listening to him howl and thinking in their heads what a terrible mother I am: at home he paddles around the pool calmly and happily. His anger stems from the consequences of screaming and crying in the middle of the pool: if he does, he gets a mouthful of water. So it is totally quiet while he is out in the pool swimming toward the edge. When he reaches the edge and grabs on, however, he opens his mouth and starts howling again. Then the teacher comes and takes him back out into the pool and starts him all over again. I think he doesn’t like to give up the control he has at the edge, and it infuriates him that he has no choice but to shut his mouth in the middle of the pool. For all this, I think he is getting better; hopefully he will soon realize that resistance is futile. It’s not like I am pushing him to become some Olympic swimmer or anything; it’s just that to give in at this point only teaches him that enough protests can get out of doing things he doesn’t want to do. Heaven help us all if that happens.
Cyrus is no longer toothless. He has one SHARP tooth on the left side of his bottom gum. At nights and for naptime, he not only puts himself to sleep, but he sleeps a dozen hours a night. He signals his desire to go to bed by shrieking shrilly for about two minutes at which point we put him into bed and he immediately falls asleep. He has been the happiest of our three babies, and his favorite activity is to stand on your lap and smile at you, stick his tongue out, and make smacking noises with his lips. He can roll over onto his massive stomach now, but gets frustrated when he can’t roll back over onto his back. He is almost grown out of his 6-9 month old clothes, but only turned 6 months old 3 days ago! What can I say: Rich and I, we make ‘em big.
We miss you all and look forward to seeing many of you in the summertime as we make stops in D.C., Idaho, Utah, and California. Stay safe.
Love,
Rich Amy Christian Henry Cyrus
Movie Quote: “Are you insane? He has a rotten brain!”
“It’s not rotten.” It’s a good brain.”
Young Frankenstein