Table for One. By the Window.

Our next door neighbor recently moved into a senior’s home and her children are slowly extracting forty years worth of living to get the place ready to sell. They found this kids’ table and chair set in the back shed and passed it along to us. The chair legs are straight up and down so that if you lean back even a little, you’ll probably get a concussion.

These are the remnants of a sticker on the table top. It’s likely been living in that shed longer than I’ve been alive. That makes me really sad, for some reason.

Lucy came over this morning while Colleen took Oscar and James to the library. (Jasper and Lucy are at that precious age when the only awesome thing to do at the library is rip books off the shelves) They had a forty-five second date at the diner.

 Jasper spent the entire time stacking his ice cubes and talking about himself. Lucy left to use the ladies room and didn’t come back.

Dominican Republic Part 1: Sugar Sugar

(Guest post by J.D.)

I’m typically not an emotionally reactive person. In fact, amid all of the poverty and challenges of cross-cultural travel during this trip, I only once felt like my emotions were getting the better of me. It was when a young boy, maybe a year or two older than my own son, took my hand and walked with me.

What struck me was the meritless and random determination of privilege. My son has a life in which all his basic needs are met. He has security. He has luxuries. He has great opportunity. That little boy has none of those things. Not because he is less deserving for any reason – but because of where and when he was born.

The first couple days after landing in the Dominican Republic were spent visiting bateyes. A batey (bah-TAY) is essentially a work camp built to house the people working in the sugar cane fields. Dominican sugar companies send headhunters over to Haiti to recruit labourers to fill jobs so bad that Dominicans are unwilling to take them. Rather than just being a temporary camp for seasonal workers they are communities with hundreds or even thousands of permanent residents: male, female, children, adults, elders. Many of these Haitians become practical slaves, unable to obtain the papers required to participate in Dominican society and constantly under threat of deportation by their employer. The bateyes are often given little or no recognition as towns by the government and don’t get basic infrastructure or support.

A sugar cane cutter works all day in the tropical sun using a machete to hack and trim sugar cane: tough and woody like bamboo, wrapped in leaves. They make around $2-3 USD a day. Essentially all income is spent on food – and even then it is not enough. Our group was given 100 pesos ($2.50 USD) and assigned the task of buying a day’s food for a family of seven. The results were sobering – food prices are not that much less than in Canada. We bought some rice, beans, oil – but not enough. With no money left, homes are cobbled together from scrap metal, scavenged wood, tar paper, and whatever else can be found. Many workers were supporting family members disabled by accidents in the field and unable to work with no support from either the government or their employer.

I’ve never considered sugar an expensive item by any measure. Not a luxury. I suppose those are the reasons why.

That little boy was one of many children who ran up to us when we arrived in the batey, took our hands, and stayed with us during our whole visit. Children are children everywhere and these were the same: smiling, fighting, playing, watching, making mischief. The boys all dream of playing major league baseball in the U.S. like so many Dominican athletes. Unlike most of those athletes, however, the children want to use their hoped-for wealth to help their community. The lucky ones will access education through the support of external forces – maybe become clerks, civil servants, teachers, own businesses, work in tourist zones. Most won’t though.

This is where and when they are born and that is what they can do with their situation.

J

(Later posts will be more uplifting.)

Day of Mothers

Jasper slept in until 7:30 this morning (usually he chooses 5 a.m. to not only wake up but to fill his pants. Yes. My day starts with feces most mornings.) So the extra poo-free sleep would have made my whole day but I also had breakfast made for me, a child free trip to the library (Hello books that are longer than twelve pages and not made of board) and sushi after the kids went to bed (James is totally sure he knows how to use chop sticks and becomes totally enraged when they don’t magically stick to his fingers and pick up his food. As a mother’s day gift to myself, I waited until he had passed out before we brought out the chop sticks).

I wanted some pictures of myself and the boys today but I waited until ten minutes after we should have put both of them to bed. James is smiling because I am simultaneously pinching his butt and promising him chocolate eggs left over from Easter.

Lately, they have started reading together. When this happens I am afraid to move or breathe, let alone reach for the camera, lest I break the magic. In this picture, the magic is broken. They did a good job of faking the magic, though.

Jasper took this picture of me. He was mad because I didn’t stick my tongue out or go cross eyed like a good mother should.

Love to all the Mamas out there, especially my own! XOXO

Buh-Bye

Broke

This is one of Jasper’s favorite words. If something is not as it should be according to his approximation of the world, it is BROKE.

That includes a bowl that used to have food in it but now does not. BROKE.

 

Foam Pit

The most comfortable place in Whitehorse.

Good Bye Dadless Days

He’s back! Not sunburned and only a little bit smelly (For my information, he showered every day while in the DR. With a bucket and ladle.) However, he is extremely sleep deprived, in reverse culture shock, and slightly jet lagged. But to distract him from all that, I had a packed line up of intense activities for his first full day back. A five year old’s birthday party at the gymnastics centre followed closely by a dinner party at our house  for ten. I also made sure to time Jasper’s next molar for today. He told me that a week in the third world with seventeen teenagers was never as intense as one ordinary day at home. He fell asleep on the couch in the middle of explaining all about how he was going to bed.

James was okay with this:

But not with this:

 

***

J.D. had a great experience in the Dominican Republic. I will have him post some of the photos once he gets them (and himself) all sorted out.

The Ninth Dadless Day

J.D. will be arriving home tomorrow afternoon after travelling all day today and spending the night in the Vancouver airport terminal. He will probably be sunburned and stink a little. (I’m having a Nighthawk flashback)

I hope he’s not too embarrassed by the butterflies, sun beams and tap dancers I hired.

The Eighth Dadless Day

James is quite sure that the Dominican Republic lies just beyond the mountain you can see from our front window. Every time an aircraft passes over head, he tells me that Dad’s just coming by to check on us. Where’s a flare when you need one? We miss you Dad!

The Seventh Dadless Day

Jasper and James have been in one giant bad mood for the past few days. Here’s a little home video I took this morning:

This afternoon Jasper found an elastic and kept trying to stick it in his hair.  I created a little blonde geyser out of his bangs and his mood did a complete one-eighty.  I guess being poked in the eyeballs all day by crusty spears of hair can put a person on edge. Time to bring out the IkeaClip.

I think the solution for James’ dark moments will be a little more complex. Maybe a pair of fancy shoes and a facial?

The public outpourings of emotion are starting to break me. He’s like a hyper sensitive smoke alarm that has no reset button. I try my best to lovingly wave a damp tea towel next to his sensors but sometimes I come very close to removing his batteries. One day I will call the fire department on him. Maybe that’s his goal…

If you’re sitting there recalling your own public smoke alarm story, please share. There is security in numbers.

Sixty three and a half hours left.

P.S. I love you James. When you tell me that tomorrow will be a happier day, I believe you.