Oxygen

So far homeownership has been akin to what I imagine a fast bleed must be like. Small purchases, big purchases...I'm constantly purchasing. The fence company is on day two of their build, Girl's super expensive 3-day-blinds just went up on day 14 (that's a rant for another time), and I just got a landscaping design and proposal that will require me to sell at least part of my liver.

Yesterday was my mom's last day in town. In the afternoon, she started doing her typical mom thing of straightening up unsorted piles and organizing a bit. I stopped her and told her what I wanted more than anything was to play with the kids while I left the house alone for the last time ever. She understood.

I don't have any non-PJ pants at the moment, so I went to try on jeans. I attempted to pull on a couple pairs, when I realized that what I really needed was a gym membership. I left the shop, drove straight to the closest gym with a daycare, and joined. I didn't hesitate to toss significant change at the personal training program. I start with a trainer on Tuesday and I fervently hope Boy won't get uninvited from their kids' center.

In an effort to squeeze as much as I could out of my mom's last couple hours in Colorado, I took the dog on a run this morning. Well, I ran, Dali trotted along like it was nothing, which was sort of insulting but no matter. My first conclusion is: where have all the oxygens gone? It's like some oxygen-stealing goblin flies around and steals alllll of the molecules and brings them to sea level, because there sure as hell aren't any left here.

To be fair, Estonia is essentially sea level. Exhibit A: there is no word to distinguish a hill from a mountain (both are "mägi"), as there aren't any of the latter and there are hardly any of the former. Exhibit B: Big Egg Mountain isn't. And when I ran (read: plodded) along the Gulf of Finland, passing a friend who had come out to clap for me, around mile 8 of my half marathon, I declared that the whole experience was worse than childbirth and whatever my body was doing at that moment, it was certainly not efficiently processing oxygen.

This is all to say, maybe it's me. Although it's also definitely the altitude. But it's really mostly me. For all the many commitments and contracts and purchases of the past few days, this is the one I'm most excited about: a little mom time, some great exercise, and hopefully more than a little self-confidence. Despite the perks of working motherhood (salary, adult time, you can sit down occasionally, I don't carry anyone at the office), fitness was the one thing I constantly sacrificed. I was gone from the house more than ten hours of the day and when I was home I was cooking, cleaning, reading stories, etc. The idea that I would take an hour of what time I had left and exercise just seemed, well, exhausting. I needed it, and I should have done it, but here we are. A fresh start.

On the Other Side

As we prepared to leave for our R&R a year ago, Boy's school said it might be good for him to have a few weeks away from the social pressure of group rules and norms. They were right. While our trip was never easy, really, we all breathed a little better. Some space and a lot of sun did Boy some good.

Somewhere during that trip, or shortly thereafter, we started wondering if we were doing this parenting thing all wrong. Was it worth it to drag our kids around the world? What would we do if we weren't dragging our kids around the world? I, for one, am completely unemployable in the private sector.

I love my job. I do. Along the way, though, I felt like I couldn't do it well or parent well or at least not both at the same time. A small doubt crept in and blossomed into surrender. I'm not cut out for this. Every other officer who is a parent makes it work. What's wrong with me?

Well, as the avalanche of articles on doing it all would attest: no, not every person makes it work. And, for better or worse, many Foreign Service families have one parent at home to work as the family manager and do the heavy lifting when life gets difficult.

We brainstormed and brainstormed, wondered how we could survive on one salary (what salary? at what job?) and eventually decided the best thing we could do is deal with it in summer 2014 as we left Tallinn. No need to rock the boat. Got some tattoos instead.

I made one mistake, though, which is assuming I'd have to seriously consider leaving the Foreign Service after Tallinn to care for my children.

Boy's medical clearance for Tallinn was revoked this week. We knew this was a possibility when MED sent us to Baltimore and we agreed with MED that we would do whatever we had to do to address his needs now, even if there were no viable options in Estonia. That email, though, sent me into a tailspin of guilt. I felt I let Post down, let all of working womanhood down (seriously, Rachel, get a grip), let my friends who are coming to Tallinn to replace Husband down. How? I don't know. By not being a better parent and solving this without turning the world upside down? I should file that under "Would if I Could."

Then, in a moment that was almost embarrassingly emotional, I felt more than anything that I've spent the past two years letting my son down. Buried under layers of guilt is an immense sense of relief: I can deal with this now, and in a way I couldn't if I had to work full time in a foreign country. 

The kids and I will go the U.S., and Husband will go on another unaccompanied tour to allow us to do so. Turns out, if you email the Department in December and say you might not be able to stay at post because of your kid, but maybe you'll be able to stay at post, but you don't know so is there anything in AIP* available just in case?, they will find something in AIP. 

I hated to tell our front office. I hated to tell Washington. I hated to tell our friends. To a one, they have all been supportive. 

Here's the deal: this job is inherently not family-friendly. Potentially long hours, high pressure, lots of travel, increasing amounts of responsibility, no local support network. That's diplomacy, my friends! The Department, however, has shown itself to be incredibly family-friendly on this one. Let's be clear: this is inconvenient for everyone, and not cheap. No one has told us to do anything other than what works for the family. I thought I had to give up this career, but now I know I can hit pause and try again in a year or so. It's not ideal, but that's life. I'm thankful to everyone who has made it possible to be the mom I have to be, so I can ultimately be the employee I want to be.

And now to pack out.

*Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan

An Accounting of 2012

The personal ledger:

Three trips to America.

One breast cancer scare.

One surgery (see above).

One non-surgical trip under general (Boy's tube removal).

Somehow only one trip to another foreign country (unheard of, really--2011 saw 5 in four short months).

Two hospitalizations (one for Boy and one for Girl).

Two teacher conferences. 

Five sessions with a behavioral therapist.

About a million question marks.

Twelve resolutions. Let's see how I did, shall we?

1. Sleep at least one night a week. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

2. Have a tough conversation or twenty. Ugh. Still hate to disappoint people and internalize every conflict. Yea for me!

3. Learn to garden. Um, no.

4. And then I will can it. Canning equipment still unopened.

5. Spend more date nights humoring my husband. What date nights? I have watched more of his movies when we hang out at home, I think. He will probably disagree.

6. Make academic goals for Boy. Yes, but turns out book-learning ain't the problem. Except in the way that it is. More on that later.

7. The dreaded baby books. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

8. Spend more time moving, and less time sitting. Well, I ran three races, including a half marathon. I was a no show for two others. Somehow I have ended the year a few pounds heavier than when I started, but I largely blame earlier snow and ice and a very festive series of holiday/birthday celebrations.

9. Make a financial plan and stick to it. Mostly.

10. Read more from our bookshelf. Well, not really, BUT I did read more on Kindle and I've indulged in more previously-unread classics (also via Kindle). Bookshelf still untouched.

11. Be a better emailer. HAHAHAHAHA.

12. Celebrate milestones on time. Hmmm. No.

So that's what, a 2.5 out of 12?

I'll post renewed optimism tomorrow. For tonight, Husband and I have already opened a bottle of bubbly, as we know we won't make it to midnight. Last year we were hanging with Digger and the Mrs. This year it's just the four of us. 

Head vana aasta lõppu, as the Estonians say! We'll cover the uut aasta tomorrow. Until then, I hope you are ending your 2012 wiser, healthier, and happier than when it started and even if you aren't, there's a fresh start tomorrow. Drink a lot, don't drive, have fun, and see you in 2013.

Change

I walked the aisles of a large chain grocery store today, pulling a few things from the shelves to stock the house of a new family that arrives tonight.

Või

Piim

Sai

Check, check, check

I remember when we walked into our house for the first time on that sunny evening in August and foods that were basic and familiar in almost every sense were alien in their names. I had spent a year learning the language, and while I knew the meaning of the words, this was the first time I had seen actual Estonian (singular nominative, natch) on something I knew as butter, milk, bread.

Või

Piim 

Sai 

When you PCS, kids or pets or both or nothing in tow, you arrive in a place that is foreign and instantly home and new and familiar and exhausting and comforting all at once. You have known for at least a year--sometimes two or three--that this is your destination, that this isn't a two week package tour or a visit to an old college friend. This is home and it was always going to be, long before you even arrived. 

You've probably seen pictures of your housing, or at least heard about it, and unless it's your first tour you can be damn sure you've already seen the furniture. And while you hate the Great Aunt Gertrude gold brocade, it's familiar. You see it and you think...here we go again.

But it's the food that makes you feel like the alien you are, homesick for familiar packaging and ingredients. Butter is butter is butter in most developed nations. Unless it's või or חמאה or a word you can't read but a picture that inexplicably connotes "butter." Maybe it's the obvious--a cow--or the less obvious--a field of flowers or a windmill--but you just know it's butter. And you know that this is what butter will look like, and this is what you will call it, and that in a few years, after you pull your welcome kit back out to sleep on papery sheets awaiting that final PCS flight out, you will stop looking for või and, in all likelihood, you will never look for it again.

Sluggy Diversions

There's too much awfulness in the world. I can't write about it. Not about Colorado (fires or shootings--take your pick!), not about Syria, and certainly not about the presidential campaigns. So instead I will write about

GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS.

And I will type that in caps every single time.

Wait, bigger:

GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUGS

I was plodding along on my recovery run today (did I mention I'm training for my first ever half-marathon? I am), and because it's damp (as always) and the light was starting to dim (it was 10:00 p.m.), I took great care to leap over the many many snails that peppered the wet concrete. Snails are okay--they are slimy like slugs, but as long as I don't have to touch one I don't mind them. They politely have a house on their backs to obscure much of their yuckiness, and I appreciate that gesture. Unfortunately, they do make an awful crunch when you step on them and send you into a guilt-spiral in which you contemplate the Snail as Man and Runner as God arbitrariness of it before your Beastie Boys track snaps you back to your task at hand. (I said Beastie Boys because I want you to think I only listen to cool things on my runs. It could be Beastie Boys, but if I'm honest it could just as likely be Nicki Minaj.)

I avoid the snails. To do so, my eyes stay pretty trained on the ground in front of me, just a few feet out. As I was running tonight, my mind when something like this:

Starships are meant to fly-y-y-y. 


SNAIL SNAIL STICK SNAIL


Hands up and touch the sky-y-y-y.


SNAIL ROCK SNAIL CHUNKY STICK


But wait! That was no chunky stick. That was a giant monster Estonian slug.

A GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG

I never stop when I'm running because my body loves it some inertia. If I stop, I can't convince it to seriously get going again. But I was horrified at what could have been--the splat would have been unbelievable--and believed that Husband needed a picture of this thing immediately.

I tried to use my finger for scale, but I was too squeamish to risk touching the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG, so please keep in mind that my finger is about three inches from my phone and another three inches from the GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. To do this thing justice you have to keep the perspective in perspective. I'd say it was easily twice as thick as my finger and about four inches long.

GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG

Well, when I look at it now I think this picture doesn't quite convey the gawdawfulness of it. Such giant slugs in such a tiny country! Estonia is 55% forest and 35% slugs! That does not leave a lot of space for the people.

I'm aware the folks in the tropics scoff at my GIANT MONSTER ESTONIAN SLUG. Granted, it is not a stick insect the size of my arm, but it is a helluva lot slimier so that must count for something. The ick factor of a slug is pretty much unparalleled.

And since I know you are wondering, yes the rest of my run fizzled out. It was okay, though, because I was tired of breaking in my seriously tight compression pants and had to send out urgent text messages re: slugs.

Totally worth it.

Report Cards

I'm having one of those weeks (er...two months, really) at work. We can file certain consular work under "N" for "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." It is very demotivating.

So! Let's focus on the darling children instead. Nanny returned back to the U.S. on Sunday. Well, more accurately she left for the U.S. on Sunday. Because the airline industry is the airline industry, the fact that I paid more for her ticket so that she could be home in two connections and 16 hours mattered little to the The Fates. She left here at 2:00 p.m. on Sunday and finally touched down in Kansas City at about 1:00 a.m. local time on Tuesday night (read: 9:00 a.m. Estonia time on Wednesday). That is one hell of a trip, and my understanding is the fine folks at LOT decided to scream at her instead of apologizing profusely for such egregious cancellations, re-routings, and baggage-losing.

Anyway. Nanny is gone. Girl started Estonian daycare last week, and Husband took this week off to rearrange the house. Girl finally has her own room, Boy moved up to Nanny's room (his own bathroom and everything), and we surrendered and turned the living room into a giant playroom. Seven-year-old me would be so jealous.

Girl is certainly a more relaxed person than Boy, but she hasn't been in daycare since she was a newborn and doesn't yet speak Estonian, so I was nervous. No need. Her report card thus far:

• Joyful smile
• Very well-behaved
• Eats well
• Dances during music class
• Naps like a pro
• Hates to wash her hands or her butt (no wipes, I guess?)
• Will not walk to the park using the rope; insists on being carried or holding hands

Unlike Estonian children, Girl has not been potty-trained even though she is at the advanced age of almost 19 months. As for the walking, I haven't said anything about it, but she knows adults would normally freak if she walked into the street on her own. When she's intimidated, she wants to be held. I imagine walking down a sidewalk and crossing a street is a bit initimidating. To her school's credit, they aren't too worried about this and noted that she is, of course, the youngest one in the school. I don't want to be the parent who refuses to make the teachers' lives any easier, though, so at the very least we will practice spraying her little tush down with the bum shower (as the men of the house call the very European sprayer). The American in me shrugs at the hand washing and thinks, "She's small! Just make her do it. Ignore the screams," but from what I can tell the Estonians do put a premium on voluntary cooperation. I don't know that my kids are capable of such a thing, but I'll try.

Which brings me to Boy. At the risk of jinxing absolutely everything, we've gone most weeks with barely a negative remark from his teachers. He still gives us hell at times, but more often than not he's just ridiculous. His teacher mentioned the current challenge is his bug obsession. He collects all the bugs he can find on the playground, lays on his back, puts them on his chest, and let's them wiggle around on him. At home, he does such charming things as place two plastic bowling pins between his legs and declare, "My junk has engines!" (a la rocket engines). Someday he will HATE me for putting that on the internet, but I feel like that's his own fault for saying his junk has engines. Actually, at the time I placed the blame solely on Husband having taught him the word "junk" in such a context. 

Maybe it's the sun and the mild temperatures and all the outdoor time that comes with it, and maybe it's that he'll be four years old in just a few weeks, but perhaps we can hope against hope that he's turning a corner. Neither Husband nor I expects that Boy will suddenly be cooperative and have superior (or any) listening skills, but as long as the violence dissipates and the tantrums become fewer and farther between, he's headed in the right direction.

I'll take it.

Playing Hookie

I took the afternoon off work today. I'm not sure I've ever done that before--just blow off work (aka "take annual leave") to explore the city I'm in.

After months upon months of No Visitors (no visitors in snowy April? Why ever not?), a long-lost friend who happened to be in Helsinki hopped over to Tallinn for the afternoon. A few instafriends and some fabulous moments involving Ye Olde Archery, Ye Olde Chainmail, and Ye Olde Beers later, I wrapped up my most relaxed afternoon in Tallinn to date.  It was much needed.

Husband and I bid farewell to Nanny this Sunday and our world will change. Not only do we lose someone who has lived with us for 15 months and cared for our kids while being ridiculously funny, but we lose the flexibility of having a night out here and there. Today reminded me that we can still use our annual leave creatively and shoot for an afternoon off once a month or so to just dink around this storybook town of ours without worrying about potty breaks and snack time and other kid-centric concerns. Our kids are the center of our lives, no doubt, but having spent a few hours in the company of some truly intrepid travelers, I'm reminded that this is quite a gift, earning money to live abroad. We should enjoy it while we have it.

On another note, enjoy your Independence Day. I will spend most of the holiday working at two official Fourth of July events, which is the trade-off for earning money to live abroad. It'll be too bright here for fireworks, so light a sparkler for me and grill a burger or twelve. Head iseseisvuspäeva!

Haapsalu Redux

Today was a beautiful blue 68 degrees. On a whim, we loaded up the family, medicated the hell out of allergic Husband, and drove to Haapsalu. It's been over nine months since we were there last. Oh my, the children have changed.

Bears!

All my brewing posts must be pushed aside for the following important newsflash:

There was a bear in my neighborhood this morning/early afternoon.


I live in the capital of an EU member state. Even though the vast majority of Estonia is covered with forest and all the friendly/man-eating creatures that inhabit such ecosystems, I thought the largest city in the country would be immune to, well, bears.

Not so, it turns out. A large brown bear was spotted a stone's throw from here, near the very famous song grounds at Lauluväljak. A little while after that, the police received a report that it had moved just past us to one of the patches of woods nearby. Take precautions and stay inside something (house, car, bus, your own shell-like fear of bears), said the Rescue Board, and most certainly call the 911-equivalent if you see a bear.

We drove to a friend's house just around the corner, all to avoid losing our sweet children to a presumably hungry bear. I figured this was a statistical improbability, especially with the massive dogs in each front yard. I suspect the presence of a bear on our street would send them into a very loud frenzy, giving us ample time to seek shelter. Ample time to seek shelter from a bear. This was very surreal.

At any rate, as I was heading home, I checked the leading Estonian newspaper's website and cheerfully announced to the assembled folks that, no worries, the bear had been caught. That was my assumption, after all, when I read a headline that said "Search for Bear Has Ended."

Further reading revealed that emergency services just gave up looking. Call us if you see him again, but for now we are going home.

Well. Now I know why every Estonian house has a fence. It's not so much to keep kids and dogs in, but more to keep bears out, which is a useful feature of an urban residence: electricity, patio, sauna, and no bears.

Muted

Girl just spent her second night in the hospital. I think, though I can't be sure, we'll be here another night. A week of stomach virus left her zapped of fluids and energy, so here we are.

I am the first to say I probably needn't have learned Estonian for work. I read Estonian correspondence and news in the office, but I really don't speak it to clients or counterparts. My local staff could have translated the written stuff for me. Waiters and waitresses all speak impeccable English. Bizarrely, Estonian has come in most handy in the bank and pharmacies. And now, in the hospital.

There are many English-speaking Estonian doctors. In Finland. The residents we've been seeing here are certainly capable, but speak less English than one might expect. The nurses don't speak English at all, but I find that, as native Russian-speakers, their Estonian is slow and crisp and therefore much more intelligible to this plodding American.

The nurses alternate between speaking to me as if to a baby: loudly repeating nouns while pointing to the object in question, and speaking at their normal cadence. I'm not insulted by the former; my Estonian brain only works when I turn it on and anticipate the context of the question. I've occasionally misunderstood basic questions, leading to my own infantilization. It's not their fault. We are in Estonia, after all; it would be presumptuous to expect that everyone speak a non-local language.

I've always been intimidated by doctors. So when the doctor discharged Girl yesterday, I didn't know the right way to ask to stay. I didn't know how to tell her that it took three sticks to get an IV in and how I didn't think 500 mL of fluid was enough. I didn't know how to say that Girl wasn't herself. I couldn't advocate for her. They didn't teach us "intravenuous" and "lethargic." She sleeps more than generally. She is very dry. I wasn't making my case.

The discharge instructions were understandable when predictable: no dairy until her poop is normal, lots of fluids, probiotics. Look for a dry tongue. The rest, I have no idea. She could have told me to hang Girl by her toes and I would have just been nodding compliantly.

After six hours at home and a mere three tablespoons of water, we were back, tears in my eyes as I apologized. For what? I don't know. For not explaining my doubts earlier. For not successfully hydrating her. For being at the office for every bad diaper that week. For not being able to explain what it looked like, not because my language skills weren't adequate, but because I hadn't been there when she was sick.

I apologized to Girl for the five more sticks it took to find a vein again.

Girl is sleeping now, IV back in place. She won't let me put her in the crib, so she's on the bed, beloved elephant and blanket in tow. She'll be alright, thanks to the luxuries of sterile needles and IV fluids.

Intravenous. I'll have to look that one up.

The Foreign Service Kitchen

I like Estonia. I do. There isn't much to complain about, other than 6 hours a day of dingy not-darkness in the winter (I would not call it sunlight)  and ice and snow falling from the tops of buildings onto unsuspecting pedestrians below. The people are polite, emergency services are diligent, the democracy is healthy and transparent.

So this isn't a complaint, but merely an observation: if you asked any Foreign Service family anywhere in the world what they miss most about the U.S., some liars might say "family," "friends," or "The Jersey Shore." All the honest folk would say: Mexican food, specifically Tex Mex. (To be fair, the many people stationed in Mexico would probably not say that.) Depending where you are, that answer could be expanded to: Tex Mex and Chinese takeout or Tex Mex, Chinese takeout, and brunch. Or, if you are me: Tex Mex, Chinese takeout, brunch, and sandwiches.

Estonia has many positives, but so far the restaurant scene is not one of them. There are some very good ones, to be sure, but they aren't cheap. There are a handful of reliably delicious mid-range places and you can get some mean pancakes (read: crepes), but there is not a ton of variety. Tel Aviv had some amazing restaurants of all types of food--a perk of being an immigrant culture--although the fantastic Mexican restaurant burned down. Seoul had some quality offerings, but tentacles always seemed to appear on my plate, no matter what type of food I was eating. Mumbai had killer street food (I actually don't mean that literally....street food is so piping hot that it killed most things. Restaurants were more dangerous.) and some fantastic upscale restaurants. Kuala Lumpur is worth a tour for the food alone. But Tallinn is Baltic, which means there is no love for spices and somehow herring is always on the menu.

Girl has just weaned herself from a bottle and about a month ago started rejecting all purees. A year ago yesterday, we had Boy's tonsils out, and the surgery combined with a two-and-a-half year old's palette ("No like it!") resulted in significant weight loss and much fretting. Now he has a voracious appetite and is an adventurous foodie. I have growing kids and I'm not too keen on putting a bunch of preservatives in their little bodies.

Also, I work and come home about 45 minutes before Girl taps out for the night.

So if you combine those three things, I have a bit of a Parenting Challenge on my hands: the lack of local options, the need to actually nourish growing children, little time.

Foreign Service families get creative. People make their own beer, yogurt, mozzarella. They grow their own vegetables and occasionally pluck their own chickens. I've recently acquired canning supplies and a bunch of gardening equipment, and I'm eagerly awaiting the spring (ha! summer) thaw.

There will be salsa. Lots of it. My pressure cooker already helps me make refried beans and anyone can shred chicken, but local salsa is suspiciously reminiscent of tomato sauce. I cannot live that way.

Last weekend I made pumpkin cinnamon rolls. Every weekend usually sees pancakes and some sort of fruity bread. Last night I cooked up some killer potatoes au gratin and some very sad turkey burgers.

My late grandmothers would laugh if they heard me suggest any of that is roughing it. One was a farmer's wife and the other the daughter of a baker from The Old Country. One waited for my uncle and Pop Pop to finish skinning squirrels so she could cook them up (I'll never forget that meal). But as a child of the 80s, I saw potatoes au gratin come from a box and cinnamon rolls come from a tube. Doing things from scratch is a new idea for me.

I've started dabbling in freezer cooking, but I can never find a full day to prep and cook without a small child hugging my leg. I'm playing with ideas and since I know you are waiting eagerly to find out how I feed a family of hungry kids with early bedtimes during the week, I'll let you know what I come up with. I am open to suggestions.

(And no, Husband is no help on this: he literally has spent weeks at a time subsisting on beer, beef jerky, and chips, and as a result is a bit apathetic about what happens in the kitchen. Damn his metabolism.)

Bookends

A year ago, on January 1, 2011, we trekked out to Roosevelt Island with our newly expanded family in order to run the little guy around a bit. A now-long-lost friend used to say Roosevelt Island was his favorite place in the D.C. area. I didn't ask why, and I regret never having asked to tag along. It's a beautiful, secluded yet easily accessible, little nook of national park. We got some great pictures of Boy in front of various Roosevelt sayings (Teddy, not Franklin) and even a couple of the 7 day old Girl nuzzled up to me in her wrap.

A year later and we're in Tallinn, where we've (finally!) been graced with a little bit of snow. What an amazing mood lifter. Estonia gets about 6 to 7 hours of daylight this time of year, and even that is more gray than anything anyone would ever call sunny. But a little snow brightens up the place, and for the past couple days we've actually seen the real, honest to goodness sun. We spent some of this New Year's Day outside. Boy and I had our first snowball fight. Girl drove her coupe around the neighborhood. The snowy trampoline got a bit of a workout. It just felt good.

When in Estonia...

...it is generally advisable to do as the Estonians do. I will certainly continue to follow that maxim come the first dark, cold, snowy day, when I take layering advice from the various tall blonde people who live on my street.

So when I woke up sick this morning, I decided to heed the advice of the Estonian general I met at the Ambassador's house last week, and fire up our sauna for the first time. [Note to people considering the Foreign Service as a career: it can sometimes be delightfully surprising.] We have a proper, full-sized sauna, with a little dressing area and separate shower. I stretched out in the 52 degree dry heat (what is that in Fahrenheit? a million? Five years abroad, and these things still baffle me) and relaxed. I am sad to report I am still sick, but it was a very pleasant experience, and I'm sure it will be a common response to the cold wet days we are about to endure for months on end.

Said general also confirmed what I had heard to be true: Estonian children of course frequent sauna as well. Boy entered for a mere moment out of curiosity, declared it too hot, and stood outside the glass door, crying because he thought I was going to get burned, despite his father's and my calm assurances. I love the passionate, illogical devotion of little children.

Estonians and Finns use the sauna to socialize, of course, with family/co-workers/total strangers beating each other's backs with various be-leaved branches. I skipped that part. The sauna was also a birthing room, for the obvious advantages of heat and hot, sterile water. It was a morgue, a respectful and cherished place to place your loved one. There are sauna competitions, with naked Scandinavians competing to see how hot they can stand a sauna before someone dies. Pretty hot, I hear. Some locals have figured out how to make portable saunas with barrels and suspenders--the perfect perch for cheering on a heated cross-country skiing race. The Estonians could best be termed "a-religious." They are nominally Lutheran, but only thanks to years of German influence. But native Estonian culture is not at all a-spiritual. There's a relationship with the forest, especially, and the sea, with boulders and animals. And there is undoubtedly a strong connection with the sauna. I may never share that same innate love, but I'm happy to participate it in it (without the foliage, thank you).

Saaremaa Part 2: In Pictures

Saaremaale

Estonia's largest island, Saaremaa, is home to, among other things: the best preserved medieval castle in the Baltics, a crater, former Soviet bases, a nature preserve, windmills, lots of livestock, cliffs, and about 12 people. Outside of Tallinn, this country is shockingly sparsely populated. Saaremaa was also essentially cut off from the mainland by the Soviet army, who used the island for various military purposes. Estonians needed a permit to visit, and islanders found themselves stuck on the mainland, separated from family and their birthplace by unfortunate history, infamous bureaucracy, and a significant number of guns. Today, there are about 14 ferries each way on any given day.

The weather this weekend was fortunately spectacular: sunny, but breezy and chilly. It was a perfect September trip.

On a side note, I've now gone through three years of motherhood with very few pictures of me with my children. I keep waiting to lose the baby weight before I step in front of the camera, waiting to remember to wash my hair. This weekend I came to Jesus, and realized that I, as I am now and not as I wish to be, am a part of the kids' lives, a part of their childhoods. I do them a disservice if I hide all evidence of my existence. So I bravely sought out opportunities to take photos with them, only to find that Boy, when asked if he would get in a picture with me, kindly answered, "Oh, no thank you." We did the best we could. A few of our attempts are below. More to come.