THE ABSENCE

I know that I owe all of you posts on Beijing and Dubai, among others. I have five unfinished pieces drafted at the moment, but each time I begin a post, I find myself in a mental state that precludes me from finishing. I have written quite a few other pieces that have gone unpublished – private writing for my own life notes and a bit of therapy. I will publish all of those pieces in due time but I feel compelled to share the ugly truth of what has really been going on inside my mind before I can illustrate the greatness of my travels.

In 2011 I found myself facing Everest’s peak, at least as far as my career was concerned. I have been very blessed in the working world, a career-driven woman with sights set high, escalating quickly within companies. I was promoted twice by my first employer in the two years I worked in marketing and was promoted three times in the three years that I worked in corporate communications for my second employer. I did very well for a woman in her late 20s.

When scaling mountains and escalating quickly, hikers face many challenges the higher they climb: unpredictable weather, unstable ground, the risk of an avalanche burying pack members, depleting oxygen levels that inhibit breathing, maintaining a healthy pace, fading support as team members give up or die trying. In my last few months at work, I faced every one of those challenges.

I had my sights set on becoming a vice president by 30 and emerging as one of the city’s “40 Under 40,” but somewhere along the way, I found myself dodging storms, attempting to unbury myself from the work piling, becoming a die-trying team leader when the people around me left and unable to breathe because of the pressure I felt I was under.

I endured a lot of emotions when we left the country: I felt remorse and guilt for leaving a few work projects unfinished, I felt sick wondering how my teammates would perceive me once I was no longer a member of the team and I felt relief knowing that my work was done.

Starting over was what I did best. My family moved quite a lot when I was younger and I developed a mentality to run away and start fresh. Any time I felt that I acted wrongly or disappointed someone or failed somehow, I was compelled to leave everything behind, go somewhere new and start a new life. A fresh start in Singapore was just what I desired.

Because I experienced full-blown burnout in my last position, I gave myself three months of relaxation and reflection before searching the local job boards and fishing for employment opportunities. When I entered the playing field, applied for roles and contacted employment agencies, I received one of two replies: either something along the lines of “you do not meet our requirements,” or nothing at all, the latter being the predominant response.

Six months or a year into my unemployment – not counting my unpaid, full-time work (I was volunteering) – my mind began to wander. I have a degree in communications. Does that mean that I absolutely have to work in communications? I run a mentor program for public relations students. Doesn’t that responsibility require me to be in a PR role? What are my other interests? And then the big question emerged….If I could do it all over again, what would I really want to be doing right now?

From there my mind spun out of control. My career scenarios spawned from ideas of actual positions to seemingly fictitious ones. What about all the careers that I didn’t even know existed? I could have been Dr. Brennan from Bones or a character now popularized as Olivia Pope who manages high-profile crises. Those television characters are highly successful and powerful women!

Should I go back to school? Obtain another degree? Apply for a master’s or PhD program? Why does everyone around me seem to be finding success – or at least jobs – and I feel like I am stagnant?

I found valuable work in Singapore, the kind of work that consumed hours of my time with an emotional reward in lieu of financial compensation. The work I did in the non-profit sector demonstrated local professional experience in my field, gave me a sense of purpose and landed a place on my résumé. I did find an available PR position at a top global firm but only weeks before we left the country.

Nearly two years ago we left Singapore for Papua New Guinea and my career enigma was further exposed with my abundance of free time. In Singapore I had friends and organizations to fill my social calendar. I had work to fill my days. I had meetings and lunches and events to plan, dinner parties to host and celebrations to attend. In PNG I had nothing. No friends. No organizations to join. No clubs boasting social activities. I had my husband, a television and a red leather loveseat.

The career thoughts crept back into my cognizance. If I had a hard time planning my future – heck, my present – in a thriving first-world nation, what the heck was I going to do in the land of no opportunity? My visa had the words “WORK PROHIBITED” boldly displayed. I lived in a place where illiteracy and unemployment were unbelievably high so available jobs needed to go to the local people.

At that point the absence took over. I was again face to face with an identity crisis. Where I come from, a person’s identity is tied to his or her profession. I once read an article that depicted identity roles based on U.S. regions – basically, how conversations flow in various parts of the U.S. People in the South identify with family name; people in the Northeast identify with educational institutions; people in the Midwest are defined by their careers, as evidenced by one of the first questions asked during an introduction: what do you do?

When I could no longer answer that question, either in response to a person or a piece of paper requesting some form of an answer in an otherwise blank box next to the word “occupation,” I began to freak out a little bit at a time. I did not have any negative thoughts about the word “housewife” or the duties associated – my mom was a great housewife in between her careers – I simply did not identify with the title.

I found myself sitting around a lot, watching television. I began purchasing ebooks like someone binging on sweets – I would buy six books at once and then go three weeks without any, then I would buy four books in one sitting. I read a lot. I began working out, using the gym and occasionally swimming (wading) in the pool. I spent a few months reveling in crossword puzzles.

Then, I panicked. Earlier this year I signed up for online courses in order to further my education; none of the courses were related to one another. I enrolled in a year-long interior design diploma program with the intent on learning technical terminology and understanding that I could apply to writing and my travels. I enrolled in a financial accounting course because my former boss told me that instead of earning a master’s degree in a field in which I am already skilled, I should choose something challenging and unfamiliar, like business accounting. I also enrolled in a constitutional law course because I felt that I needed to better understand my own government while residing under someone else’s. I spent a few weeks attempting to learn French but found myself so consumed with the other courses that I lost momentum. I did everything I could to fill the void of empty, unproductive time, all short-term solutions that appeared to me to be of long-term benefit, none which were actually relevant to my actual career.

This time last month I broke down when I realized what I was doing, what I was feeling and finally put together all of the pieces of the puzzle that I had been forming over the last 15 years.

Before the creation of TLC and the network’s incredibly popular home improvement show, Trading Spaces, I was a high school student who wanted to become an interior designer. My mother had other aspirations. With no interest in writing, no understanding of history, a love of math and a hatred of science, I enrolled in pharmacy school. In my second year when I could take no more, I changed my major and, on a whim, fell into communications. I knew nothing about public relations except that a friend of mine seemed to be enjoying the curricula and that I would be required to take an intriguing art class. That was enough.

I considered changing my major again before graduating but I did not want to seem like a complete unfocused failure, so I completed my coursework and entered the working world with my communications degree. Since I had the degree and the university-level knowledge, I began working in the field. From there I excelled and progressed within the field. Had I remained in the U.S. I would likely still be in the field.

However, we left. And I broke.

You see, when I was 17, I had a life plan. I knew what I wanted to be (did you catch that – what I wanted to be, not who I wanted to be or what I wanted to do) and I had planned to pursue that avenue. But life happened and I changed directions. I eventually found a new career path – one that worked well, actually. And then my career stopped and I crashed into the absence – the absence of a career, the absence of an identity, the absence of a plan or a clear future, the nothing I have to show for myself, the nothing I have to do in PNG, the nothing my career amounts to…I suddenly realized that I had been bouncing around in a thousand different directions, searching for something, anything on which to grasp, something productive, something that holds value.

And then God told me to write. And Nicola told me that I matter. Since I was crying gallons of tears on her guest bed, I unloaded on her after speaking with Paul. The next day I received a call. “Hey dude. I was just at work thinking about you and I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry about your career path or your life path. You are doing exactly what you are supposed to be doing – helping people and being a blessing to everyone you know. I just thought you should know that because I don’t think you do.”

WHAT WE’VE BEEN UP TO

We have been moving around so much in the last few weeks, I have literally lost track. I think I left Papua New Guinea four weeks ago…..[this is me checking my calendar]….still looking….Google says….November 18. Wait, no, Google is wrong. Checking TripIt. Ok, according to TripIt, I flew the following trips:

• Nov. 5: Port Moresby, PNG to Singapore
• Nov. 9: Beijing
• Nov. 13: Singapore
• Nov. 28: Dubai
• Dec. 5: Singapore

So I haven’t been home in more than a month. I thought that was the case.

Traveling the world was definitely a dream of mine several years ago when I lacked a passport, and every day not in PNG is a good day, but there are times when I just want to go home, unpack my suitcase and sleep in my own bed. 

In the coming week, I will definitely provide updates and photos of our travels. Just to give you taste, here is a bit of what we have been up to:

• We got to travel to Beijing during APEC. Since many of the world’s leaders were coming into town and the environment is a huge discussion point these days, the Chinese government shut down factories three weeks prior and limited the number of vehicles allowed on the road leading up to the convention. Because of these regulations, Paul and I were able to walk outside without using the masks we brought in our suitcases. We were able to breathe the natural air and take some fabulous photos.
• Singapore has brought more work than fun these days. Well, of course we work in some fun. When we left Singapore in early 2013, we thought Paul’s current employer would be basing us in Singapore, allowing Paul to commute to PNG whenever necessary. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Nearly two years later, we are tired of paying storage fees for items that we no longer need or want. The last two trips to Singapore have consisted of arranging to move our items, sort through them, sell them and work on getting whatever is left shipped somewhere else.
• Dubai was a great experience. Paul and I each had 24 hours in the city two years ago while attempting to fly home for the holidays. Last week Paul spent five days in aircraft training, giving me an entire week to explore the culture, the food scene and some fabulous treasures.
• Holidays, holidays! We celebrated two Thanksgivings in Singapore, witnessed the United Arab Emirates National Day in Dubai and my mom’s birthday was Saturday, so we have had a lot to celebrate.
• Annual goals were required in the corporate world and it got to the point where I kind of hated them. Last year, however, I decided to set some goals of my own. I am glad I started in December so that my life goals would not be roped in with New Year’s resolutions. I am excited about what I have learned over the last year and I am ready to share some goals for 2015. Get ready!

THE GREAT COOKIE DEBATE

Paul received two washcloths from housekeeping today. This is a monumental occasion – one that commenced with a gasping yell that I thought indicated something was very, frighteningly wrong, and concluded with a this, a blog post with words dedicated to remembering this feat. “You should write a blog post so that we can remember this!” O.K., Paul. Washcloths documented.

My husband worked yesterday. Paul, a corporate pilot, doesn’t often fly. He works an average of four days a month, which sounds great and, for the most part, it is. He spends most of his time on the internet, naps daily and we get to travel the world. The only real downside is that we live in a third-world country.

He yesterday had a day trip to a domestic location and arrived home late afternoon. While he was out I left the apartment to do some reading required for one of my online courses. I could have stayed in my 700-square-foot, flying termite-infested apartment in the highest temperatures of the day, but my coffee press broke sometime in September. The hotel has not provided a new one and I refuse to pay the equivalent of 71 USD to buy one, so I am unable to make my own.

I drove to the neighboring compound and visited the open-air café with the gauche, low-level, rattan couches that have the potential to provide more comfort than hardback chairs offered at the upstairs restaurants. To my dismay the dessert selection was lacking so I left after completing my required reading and consuming my mug of iced coffee.

A thought popped into my mind as I began to back out of my parking space: why don’t I make cookies? Oh yes, because I live with the cookie monster.

I really wanted something sweet and I had a hankering for some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, so I stopped by the convenience store and grabbed a large bar of the good stuff while plotting a plan to prevent my husband from consuming all the cookies within 24 hours.

When I arrived home I researched my options. I consulted the queen, Ina Garten, and found the perfect recipe in her new cookbook that had just days before appeared in my Nook (I had been waiting a month after pre-purchasing the ebook for that sucker to become available).

The focus of Ina's newest cookbook is make-ahead meals. She reminded me that I could prepare cookie dough, bake what I wanted and then store the rest in the fridge or freezer, baking fresh cookies later. Knowing that my mother’s recipes yield six dozen, I thought this was genius. We no longer will be forced to feel the pressure to eat dozens and dozens of cookies before they lose their value. Plus, fresh, warm, ooey gooey cookies are always better.

I also consulted my favorite healthy Skinnytaste recipes, but they all called for applesauce and I have no such thing. Ina won but, let’s be honest, Ina usually wins.

As I prepared the batter, I laughed at my third-world techniques that made me compare my circumstances to the women who cooked and baked their whole lives before the Kitchen-Aid product line became available. My mixer was a potato masher. Instead of whipping the butter together with the sugars, I smashed them together with my masher until they were not light and fluffy – they were mushy but well blended.

I did not separately mix the dry ingredients and carefully add them in because I only own one bowl. I plopped the flour right on top of the buttery, sugary, eggy, vanilla-y dough, added the baking soda to the top of the flour heap and gently mixed it with the English tea spoon in my possession (yeah, I don’t have a set of measuring spoons either). When the dry ingredients were added, I gently mashed them with the wet to form a really decent dough.

By the time the oats and the chocolate were added, it was about time to pick up Paul. The dough was soppy due to the humidity, so I thought I would cover the bowl and let it rest in the refrigerator until after dinner (another cool trick I learned by reading various master baking articles).

When I was ready to bake the cookies later that evening, the monster lurked. I told him that I had dessert planned, but I guess he was under the impression that I had already prepared the dessert to its end state. Fair dos.

“Why is the oven on again?” he mused.

“Dessert,” I nonchalantly replied.

“Cookies with peanut butter in the middle?”

“If that’s what you want…”

I had scooped one dough blob onto the baking paper when the child appeared behind me, his arms reaching and his fingers grabbing the air on their journey to the treasure hiding inside the metal bowl.

“BACK!” I yelled, swatting at my husband.

A look of confusion and deviance morphed on his face and he inquired as to why he had to back away as he again reached for the bowl.

“You know,” I said, “I had actually planned to get a spoon, fill it with some dough and walk it over to you as a positive gesture, saying this was your only spoonful.”

“What? My only spoonful? No, this is not how this works.” He kept fighting, so I conceded and let him grab a blob with his fingers as I went to the drawer for a spoon.

When I handed him the spoonful of dough, shoving it toward his face, telling him to get out of the kitchen, he scuffed off toward the couch.

I only planned to make six or eight of the cookies – just a single tray – so that we could ration the volume, so I regained composure and again started scooping dough balls onto the tray. He was so quiet that I did not hear him approach, but I felt my husband’s presence behind me. When I turned, he was in full-on I am going to eat all the cookie dough mood.

“Oh my gosh, GO AWAY!!”

“WHYYYY? What is the problem with eating the cookie dough?”

I wanted to tell him that he is going to eat so much cookie dough that a) he won’t want to eat the cookies that are going into the oven, and b) because the more dough he eats, the fewer cookies I am able to produce, but all I could muster was, “Just go!”

Once the tray was in the oven, I felt slightly guilty for my outburst, so I walked over another spoonful of dough. “Peace offering,” I said. Then the sad, pouty face appeared. “I can’t eat anymore.” Yeah, I knew it.

When the cookies were done, I made Paul his desired cookie sandwich with chunky peanut butter between two oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I walked the sandwich to him, carrying a cup of milk because I am a sappy, weak wife who apparently waits on my husband hand and foot – and cookie and milk.

He ate the cookie sandwich and went back for another cookie. I had a cookie and then ate half a cookie with a bit of peanut butter on it just to see whether the extra fat was worth the effort. Yes, it was.

When we had finished the evening, there were three cookies left on the tray. I placed the remaining dough into three freezer bags and Paul yet again fought me for the dough, sticking his hands into the bags and taking out as much as he wanted, laughing the whole time. I had been divvying up the bags to ensure that each had roughly the same amount of dough inside, weighing them to ensure they were relatively close, but he didn’t care. He was blinded by cookie dough. This is what happens to an alcoholic.

Finished with my task, I gave him the scraped bowl and the spoon I had used and then hid the dough bags in the freezer. I didn’t expect him to go through the freezer, but I knew that he would survey the refrigerator, so I opted to freeze them. When we went to bed, the three cookies had gone down to two, so I took the remaining two and hid them in the microwave. I knew that if I didn’t, he would consume them both before I woke the next morning.

This morning he was awake before I. By the time I showered and made my way into the living room, he was going through his everyday motions. I was on the phone with my mom when he began hunting, looking through the fridge, scanning the counters and cupboards.

“They’re in the microwave,” I offered, “but I want one of the two.” This is called compromise.

That didn’t stop him, however. As any addict would, he had had a taste and craved more. He went through the fridge and opened the freezer in search of the stash. This, by the way, is why I did not bake all of the cookies. I know he is so addicted to cookies that he will eat all of the cookies in the house before he ate anything else in his entire lifetime.

***Interjection: Paul just popped into the bedroom, took a glance at this point in the story and said with a smile, “Are you writing about my washcloth?”***

Later in the day, I needed some chocolate, so I grabbed a bag of Chips-Ahoy- type-but-way-better cookies from the cupboard. I just wanted a little snack and didn’t want the good stuff. I grabbed two glass of milk along with the bag of cookies and sat down next to my husband while we watched last week’s Ohio State game.

I don’t remember what started the great cookie debate, but whatever it was got Paul rolling.

“I don’t get it,” I remember Paul saying. “I can have these cookies, but I can’t have the baked cookies. I can have cooked cookies, but I can’t have the dough. I should be allowed to eat all the dough that I want!” He was fake fighting, raising his voice, flailing his arms, moving from one room to the other.

We don’t often yell at each other so we recently decided that fake fighting would be entertaining. It’s happened a few times.

“You know,” I interrupted, “I was just thinking that from now on, whenever I make cookies for just us and not for anyone else, I will set aside a separate bowl of dough, and you can eat whatever is in that dough.”

“NO! “

“What if I need to bake six dozen cookies and you eat dough that leaves me a half dozen short?”

“Wait, who’s paying for the ingredients?”

I was slightly offended since I haven’t actually earned a paycheck in about two years and said, “Fine.”

“No,” he corrected, “I’m not talking about you and me – who’s getting paid and who’s not – that’s irrelevant. If the cookies are for someone else and they pay for the cookies, then they’re not mine and I won’t eat any.” I don’t believe him for a second. “If you have a job and I don’t have a job, or if I have a job and you don’t have a job…Basically, as long as a McKee buys the cookies, I have free reign!”

Enough said.

It’s now 7:30 p.m. We finished dinner and I cleaned up a bit. I am doing my own thing in the bedroom and in walks Paul.

“Why isn’t the oven on?” he wants to know.

“Uh, because I didn’t know you were ready. I was waiting for you to tell me when you were ready.”

“Uh, is there ever a time to NOT have cookies? GO!”

When I enter the kitchen he has his head in the freezer. “How do you defrost one of these things?” he asks as he tries desperately to find the dough bags.

“Ta-da!” I say as I pull an already-defrosted bag from the sink.

“Oh.” He launches for the bag as I instinctively pull it away and turn myself toward the counter acting as a shield against my husband. “Here we go again,” he says.

I pulled apart the dough and helped Paul place the bag, inside out, upon his hand. This is sad. When I finished placing the cookies on the baking sheet, I left the tray near the heating oven. As I was about to walk back into the bedroom, I look at the tray and a cookie is missing. Paul is doing this for attention. “Go ahead,” I say. “Do what you want.” And I walk out of the room.

A few minutes later I hear: “THE LIGHT JUST WENT OUT!! THE LIGHT JUST WENT OUT!! OVEN’S READY!!”

“O.K?”

“O.K.? Let’s GO!”

Clang, clang. I hear the baking sheet sliding into the oven, Paul banging it everywhere in his excitement.

“START THE TIMER! START THE TIMER!”

You all know that he’s 32, right?

HOME AND AWAY

Nuts. I am back in PNG. Four weeks went pretty quickly, I must say. I left the country on September 30 under the impression that Paul and I would be taking two weeks to explore Hong Kong and Fiji – a holiday away that we have not had in almost a year. Yes, we have traveled, but not on our own time, away from work and the on-call pilot schedule.

I was looking forward to time away with the hubby, exploring new lands, lying on fabulous beaches in a place people on my side of the world only dream of seeing. One day…one day I will get there.

If you are not aware by now, plans change. Plans change daily, and that was the story of the last four weeks.

I landed in Singapore on a Tuesday evening, in time for the first of three doctor’s appointments booked the latter half of the week. The original plan, already altered by that point, included me spending a few days with friends before Paul joined me after his round-the-world trip to New York City and back. When Paul’s New York trip cancelled, we decided to move forward with our holiday plans, adjusting the dates to fit around his ever-changing schedule.

I was in Singapore. We were planning to fly to Hong Kong. And then the peaceful protests became not so peaceful. Roads were blocked. People were hurt. We decided, on the advice from friends in Hong Kong, that we would be better off visiting the country when we could more freely roam the city. Hong Kong was cancelled.

While enjoying our time with friends in Singapore (Paul arrived a week after I landed), we began plotting vacation destinations. We considered Fiji but determined we would rather spend the money elsewhere. We considered a short trip to a nearby island. Paul, who had really just arrived in Singapore, wanted to spend more time in the city, so we stayed. And we stayed. And we stayed. We would plan to leave and then just stay longer, for many, many varying reasons. Thank God for accommodating friends who are actually OK with us taking up residence.

We celebrated my birthday in Singapore – a whole weekend of joy that began with a peaceful, solitary outing. Singapore is not known for its beaches but Sentosa Island has a couple beach clubs so I made my way to the small island south of Singapore’s main island early Friday afternoon.

I arrived at VivoCity, a grand shopping mall overlooking the harbor, and decided to grab a light lunch and a coffee before traveling the short distance to Sentosa’s resorts. The weather was beautiful. The sun glittered off the water and kissed my shoulders as I walked the back deck toward the bridge connecting the two islands. I had originally intended to take the monorail across but, when I saw a sign indicating a foot bridge, I could not imagine a better way to traverse.

A light breeze blew my hair and my skirt on what I had deemed No-Makeup Friday. I was adorned head to toe in beach attire: sunglasses on my clean face, sun block already applied to my upper body, a cotton skirt and a breezy tank top over my swimsuit, a Starbucks iced latte in hand, flip flops under my feet.

I could not help but smile as I looked across the harbor, gazed up to the white, cotton clouds dotting the bright blue sky that welcomed me into the outdoors. With each step I felt more joy as I experienced the perfect plan-free afternoon, not limited to anyone’s schedule or demands.

When I approached the gates to Resorts World Sentosa, I considered my options. I could take the monorail to the farthest of the three stations where some of the beaches were located or I could continue my journey on foot. In my opinion, there was no other option than to walk, so I continued exploring the island from northeast to southwest.

Not always acting as a tourist while living in Singapore, I decided to be a bit touristy, taking photos whenever I felt like it. I am not a selfie person so don’t expect any of those.

Singapore's famous merlion

I had my lunch on the beach, enjoyed a margarita while scribing post cards and then met my husband for some evening laser shows.

Saturday evening Nic and Duncan took Paul and me to a seafood boil on the marina. I have not had that much fun at dinner in a long time. We sat at a table lined with white paper, ordered an actual bucket filled with lobster, crab, mussels, clams, prawns, boiled potatoes and miniscule corn cobs. We ate with our fingers and drank pints of beer while laughing the whole evening.

The Pelican Boil with the Browns

Seconds after dessert was ordered – I don’t even think the wait staff had entered our order into the computer – a handful of staff members approached the table with chocolate-covered heaven topped with a sparkler of a candle, everyone singing happy birthday. I love surprises. And cake. And the sparkler candles.

Surprise!

Now THAT is a candle!

As if one chocolate, gold-leaf dessert was not enough, we had a slice of the biggest red velvet cake we had ever seen and a jar filled with meringues and berries. One of us whose name rhymes with Nicola would up in a sugar coma the next day.

Yep, cake as big as my head

Sugar Queen!!!

Sunday, my actual birthday, Paul and I woke to attend the best church in the world before meeting our friends for a birthday brunch overlooking the city from atop one of the city’s many skyscrapers.

When I thought that Paul and I had had enough of Singapore and might make our way back to PNG, we found more excuses to stay. Paul confirmed that he would definitely return to PNG on the 20^th, and I advised that I would be on the plane with him…until Duncan the evening before casually mentioned that Maria Sharapova was in town for a major tennis event.

I said good-bye to my husband and boarded a train bound for Singapore’s Indoor Stadium. I stayed three additional days so that I could watch the top eight women in the world compete for the Billie Jean King trophy. The WTA event was my first live tennis match, and I immediately became enthralled with the atmosphere.

Serena Williams and Ana Ivanovic warming up

My fellow Serbian, Ana Ivanovic

Caroline Wozniacki and Maria Sharapova ready for the coin toss

Sharapova finishing a serve to Wozniacki

Only recognizing a few names by the first match, I found myself researching more about each competitor, watching their playing styles and selecting a new favorite – Simona Halep. Until I watched the Romanian play Canada’s Eugenie Bourchard, I had never heard of her. That day, I became a fan. I picked her to give Serena Williams a run for her money in the next matchup and Simona came through, winning in straight sets.

Serena serving to Simona Halep

As each day progressed, I found myself becoming more obsessed with the game. Duncan joined me on day two and we even convinced Nic to join us on day three, though she found better things to do. 

Nic reading a book while Serena Williams experiences the worst loss of her career

I really was ready to leave Wednesday evening and then too late learned that my flight was leaving two hours earlier than I expected, so I stayed yet another day.

I finally made it back to PNG at 5:30 a.m. Friday. I was in the country eight hours before I again flew off to elsewhere, this time known as Sydney.

Paul had a trip pop up the day before I was to arrive, so I said, yes, I will fly home and leave again. I did not even unpack my suitcase – I just dumped the dirty clothes into the laundry, took a nap while Paul finished what I had started, and then packed a smaller suitcase for our weekend away.

While I never before imagined myself living in Sydney – at least once I had already visited – I this weekend started to feel sentimental toward our Mascot neighborhood. We have stayed in the suburb enough times now to nail down our favorite eateries, walk to the Hillsong church without getting lost, find the train station and navigate around the city with ease. We know the good spots downtown, the great places for walks. We recognize when elements of the city are no longer in their place.

Sydney is starting to feel like a home away from home.

And speaking of home. I am here. Paul is in bed. We are on contrasting schedules thanks to the three time zones I have experienced in the last four days. It is actually good to be home, back on the usual schedule. I know what I can expect each day, know what I need to accomplish each day.

If all goes as planned (and who is actually counting on that?), we should be adventuring again in 10 days. Where do you think we will be going this time?

MR. WHAT HAPPENED?

Guys, something happened to my husband while we were apart. It’s weird. I almost don’t know how to describe it. But I will try.

Paul, as you know, loves his wife very much. A Greek husband, he has become very dependent upon women. He screams out for Azizah, our Singaporean housekeeper. He called Susie, our former PNG housekeeper, by Azizah’s name because, obviously, he is still pining for the older Singaporean married mother of two university kids. At least he calls our current housekeeper, Norah, by her actual name. At least he did until this week. Now he’s talking about Azizah again. On any given day, he can’t make himself a sandwich, whether grilled cheese or stacked with deli meat, because mine “taste better.” And because he’s lazy.

To prove his laziness, last week he decided to lecture me on the proper way to do the dishes:

                Step 1: Leave them for Norah to do.

                Step 2: Sort out the clean dishes and put them away.

                Step 3: Put the dishes that are still dirty back on the counter.

                Step 4: Consider washing the dishes that are not clean.

                Step 5: Leave the dirty dishes on the counter and wait for Norah to do them again the next day.

He also started paying Norah to bring him a newspaper every morning and to do his laundry every week. What. The. Really?

Now, that sounds like Paul.

HOWEVER,

He has actually started doing some things for himself and I don’t quite know how to handle it.

We got back from Sydney on a Monday. Tuesday morning I made breakfast. I planned the week’s meals, we went to the store and then I made lunch when we returned. Around dinnertime Wednesday, I was starving, so I grabbed some leftover lunch – something Paul wouldn’t eat – and heated the container in the microwave. Then, out of nowhere…

Paul started cooking.

I’m not kidding. I was sitting at the peninsula (our kitchen island that is affixed to a wall), eating forkful after forkful of tomato risotto and Paul went for a pot. He washed and cut broccoli. He turned on the oven and made himself a piece of tuna. I didn’t know what was happening. I may have commented.

Then, last week, not long after his lecture on the proper way to wash the dishes….

HE WASHED THE DISHES. Not Norah-style, either.

My husband has been washing the dishes almost daily for over a week now!! I cannot express my gratitude any way other than constantly thanking him and maybe sometimes hugging him while he is doing the dishes.

But I don’t really know how to react when he’s doing them….Do I sit and continue doing whatever I am doing and act like I don't notice? Do I barge in halfway through and try to take over? Should I be appreciative? Should I just say thanks? Omg so much anxiety about something so little…except it’s really big. Maybe I just won’t say anything.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my husband?

CHANGING TIMES

Getting back to Papua New Guinea takes a lot of time and a lot of airplane rides. If everything goes smoothly, I can take a direct flight from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Los Angeles California, board another plane to Brisbane, Queensland, and a third plane to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. However, Paul’s job is tied to an airline, so we fly standby. 

If you are not familiar with standby tickets, let me provide a brief overview. People who want to fly places usually get online or arrange for a travel agent to get online and purchase some tickets. Those people have full-fare tickets. Then there are some other people who take a chance and purchase something called a standby ticket, which is a paid fare that allows someone to ride on an airplane if there are seats available, meaning non-purchased seats. The standby fares are cheaper than full-priced airfare but the people who purchase the standby tickets are not guaranteed a seat on the airplane, so there is a bit of risk involved.

When a gate agent calls for everyone to begin boarding, the full-fare ticketholders get to board first. When all of the full-fare ticketholders are on board, gate agents will give any additional seats to passengers who purchased standby tickets. Once all of the revenue passengers are on board – the people who at least paid something – the non-revenue passengers get a shot at the standby game.

First there are the people who work for the airline – the employees, the crew members. If any employees are unionized (at least in America) those with higher seniority numbers take preference over those with lower seniority numbers. After the employees, family members of employees have rank. Employees of company subsidiaries follow, and then their designated family members will be called. As you can see, there are a lot of people who can be considered for standby tickets. Paul and I rank at the bottom of the list because his airline is local, so it is not tied to a major international airline.

Our trip to America was an eventful one that took three days, and a 14-hour sleep by one of us, before we arrived home. My trip back to PNG, thankfully, was eventful in a different way.

I will be completely honest and say that I was not looking forward to returning to Papua New Guinea. If it were not for the husband who I had not seen since July 9, I may not have come back. But the end of August was nearing, so I needed to suck it up.

Living in Papua New Guinea is not awful, but it is also not enviable. There are a lot of other places in which I would rather live. A lot.

But returning to PNG affords me the opportunity to get back into my normal routine. I am able to cook for myself, eat healthy items, eat out less, work out more and find ways to fill my day instead of running from one place to the next trying to see everyone in the entire country since, you know, I was in the country. And then there is that husband of mine who I get to see every day.

I left town on a Monday nearly two weeks ago. When I arrived at the airport, I checked my giant suitcase and headed to the gate, my carryon bags stocked with a change of clothes for the long-haul flight, a laptop, an e-reader and plenty of healthy snacks that taste so much better than airplane food.

I felt confident that I would make the direct flight to Los Angeles that only occurs a few times a week; Paul and I had pretended to book tickets online and saw that there were approximately 20 seats available just days before my intended departure. But, as the boarding process began, the gate agent said the words, “full flight.” I don’t know why people suddenly needed to be in LA but they all felt they needed to be on the flight I had already selected. The last person on the standby list, I was the only person left sitting in the waiting area when the gate door closed.

Thankfully the ticket agent asked whether I wanted my checked bag to go ahead to LA or have it be tagged to only be loaded onto the airplane if I was also on board. After 30 minutes and two pages to the baggage handlers, I was reunited with my checked bag and happy to check myself into a nearby hotel. We did have an idea to purchase a full-fare ticket on another airline but I had a one-hour window to arrange for a new ticket and baggage switch and that just didn’t happen. With no more LA flights that evening, I left the airport in search of a large hotel room, some delivery food and a new game plan.

Tuesday I woke ridiculously early. I didn’t actually sleep the night before – I took a nap. I slept for 3.5 hours and then caught a 4:30 a.m. cab for a nowhere-near-full, 6 a.m. flight to San Francisco. Because I had not slept the night before, I knew I wanted to sleep on the five- to six-hour flight to the West Coast. Though the gate agent had awarded me an exit row seat that provided more legroom, I was smart enough to know that exit row seats do not recline, and I definitely wanted to recline.

When everyone had boarded, I grabbed my bags and headed to the back of the plane, asking one of the flight attendants if it would be OK if I camped out in the back. The blessed, blessed man not only allowed me to take an entire empty row to myself, but he also tossed me a blanket that he said was “rare back here.” That man was a God send! I slept the entire flight, my ear plugs in, my eye mask on, my pillow propped by the window, my seatbelt around my torso and my legs stretched out three seats. Best cross-country flight in history.

In San Francisco, I made my way to breakfast and sat at the gate with a piping cup of coffee, careful not to drink it until I was on board. I don’t know why…maybe for luck? Maybe so I wouldn’t make a mess before I got on the plane? Maybe so the coffee would cool a little before I scalded my mouth and resented the coffee that I chose to love forever in that moment?

There was a flight to LA that departed shortly after I arrived in San Francisco but it wasn’t showing on the board when I arrived so I assumed I would not be taking that flight. Too easy. I was number 14 on the standby list for the flight I already knew was full. I was not counting myself on the plane but I did not have a gut feeling that I would miss it either, so I patiently sat and watched no fewer than five crewmembers in uniform beg, plead and kill with kindness to obtain an open seat on that flight to LA.

I was number 9 on the second flight to LA. Confident that I would not make it onto that flight, I opened my laptop and began working while finally drinking that coffee. When I realized that my name would be called, I frantically ran back to my seat to stow my laptop, grab my bags, throw back the last few sips of coffee, toss the cup into the recycling bin and grab my ticket. I was officially on my way to LA.

Before I left Pittsburgh, I prayed for divine intervention. I did not want to be in PNG but I knew that I needed to be, so I prayed for a smooth trip – I prayed that God would pave the way. I was thankful that I got an extra night in a hotel that allowed me to plan a successful trip west. I was ecstatic to sleep in an entire row on the way to San Francisco. I was pleased to be able to drink my coffee in an airport and not on a plane. I was pleased to make a flight before sitting in the same airport gate area for six hours like I may have done in the past.

When I did board the flight to LA, I was given an aisle seat and, at the last minute, my ticket had been upgraded from the very last row to a seat toward the middle of the plane. Another bonus. People, God knows what he is doing.

When I landed in LA, I had 12 hours of freedom before hopefully boarding my flight to Brisbane, so I checked into a hotel not far from the airport and called a college friend who just happened to have recently moved to the area. I had a lovely day in LA, I had a great time with a friend I had not seen in 10 years and I had a chance to shower and repack now that the international airline would allow me to check a heavier bag. My friend took me to dinner, took me to see her apartment and even walked on the beach so that I could be cheesy and put my feet in the Pacific Ocean before leaving the country once more.

The Qantas Airlines ticket agent was lovely and told me that she selected for me a seat in a row of four that was at the time completely vacant. She told me there was a slight chance someone could end up with a seat in my row, but that my chances were looking good.

People: I had a whole row of four seats available to only me on a 14-hour international flight. It. Was. Amazing. By the time we were ready for takeoff, I had been awake 28 hours or so, so all I really wanted to do was sleep. I had five pillows (one was my own), four blankets and four empty seats. Now, I am not a hoarder like the rest of my family members, so I did not take or use all of them, but I did use two blankets because I usually freeze on the long flights.

People: I slept all but three hours of that flight! That NEVER happens! I was only awake long enough to watch two movies and I paused one to take a nap before finishing the movie a couple hours later. That was the best international flight I have ever experienced. I think lying across 3.25 seats underneath two blankets was, in my opinion, probably better than business class sleeping, though I have never slept in a flat business class seat before. I think I tried once but the nap didn’t actually work as planned.

Landing in Brisbane Thursday morning, I was bright eyed and surprisingly still looking good for a 14-hour flight, though I was thoroughly confused because I left LA on Tuesday and arrived in Australia on Thursday, so Wednesday had somehow vanished, and I had no idea what time it was anywhere. What I did know was that I only had a two-hour flight ahead.

While I waited for the ticket counter to open for my last flight that would see me back in the third world, I got a message from Paul:

                We have a flight to Sydney tomorrow, staying through Monday. If you want to go, I need to know right now.

Well, OK then!

God is so good. He knew I didn’t want to be in PNG so he decided to sweeten my already great trip with five more days in Australia. He’s so amazing.

So I avoided PNG for another five days. I spent an evening in Brisbane before heading to Sydney for four days, where my husband and I finally saw each other for the first time in about seven weeks. My flight landed at the time Paul was taking off, so I had a four-hour head start. I can imagine that he was so excited to be in Sydney, thrilled to see his wife after so long, in the dark, under the covers, sound asleep when he walked through the door at 6 p.m.

THE PIECE THAT IS QUIET

I had a great experience working as a nanny, but as the end of my term neared, I found myself craving some alone time. I loved having so much time with great friends, hanging out, shopping in amazing stores like Whole Foods and the Gap, but most of my days were quite busy, and nearly every day had an agenda. After seven solid weeks of bouncing from one responsibility to another, I desired a bit of time to do nothing.

While a cozy cabin in the woods or an airy beach house would have been ideal, tranquil and idyllic as I would imagine myself sitting on a porch/deck/balcony with a mug of coffee in hand as the breeze blew through my tresses and the trees, I have limited resources. I am not currently earning my keep as far as our bank accounts are concerned, and we sold our car more than three years ago, so I was looking for a deal in an easy-to-get-to and absolutely walkable location. My only other requirement: an amazing coffee shop needed to be nearby. This mission proved to be difficult, so I would gladly appreciate suggestions for future retreats.

“Who has a house in the middle of nowhere?” I asked my friends and family, disappointed when they confirmed my thoughts of “no one.”

My sister offered her apartment which was free, in a quiet location and absolutely walkable, though it was in the middle of a large city. Within a one-mile radius was a Whole Foods, two famous ice cream shops, many restaurants and a top-notch local coffee shop. Though not my ideal, serene, natural location, I was sold. I accepted the offer and booked myself for a week in a basement apartment.

I told only family members and one long-lost friend that I would be in town so that I could focus on the one piece that was missing from my life those seven amazing weeks: the quiet.

I needed quiet like my mom needs coffee. I needed quiet like Paul’s mom needs a vacation. I needed quiet like a tree needs sunlight and water – quiet allows me to breathe, to sleep, to relax, to live a day on my own schedule and on my own terms. And, above all, I wanted to write.

Last week I devoted a week to accomplishing a goal three years in the making. I planned and began writing a book about my adventures in Singapore. By the end of this year, I will have a book available for purchase, and I am unbelievably relieved and motivated and whelmed – not overwhelmed, not underwhelmed, just whelmed…content. At peace. I promise the writing for the book is better than the writing in this post. And I can’t wait to share it with you. Stay tuned!

THE GAME CHANGER

Four weeks into my Mommy-In-Training program, I was feeling great. I had figured out the balance of caring for a 6-month-old, completing personal errands or tasks, working out and maintaining sanity. I found solace in the weekends; Sundays were my days. The vibe was good, and then the little man decided to change the game.

Yesterday I turned on my computer, aghast to find the time to be 2:03 p.m. I lost out on yet another cup of warm coffee, the breakfast I was planning to prepare became my lunch and I cannot even tell you the last time I had had a moment to myself in the bathroom. I felt like it was 10 a.m., mostly because the little one had only been up for two hours, but I finally had a handle on the day.

It felt great to have a handle on the day – and to realize that my friend would be arriving home from work in just a few hours – but I also felt a bit like my day was ending before I was ready. The little man has apparently inherited, along with his father’s facial expressions, his non-traditional sleeping habits. A fan of sleeping for a few hours at night and then crying every hour thereafter, he was wide awake before I was (my alarm is set for 6:45).

This was the day that I thought the words, “I need more sleep before I can handle you. How about 30 minutes? Can I nap for 30 minutes and then we can try this again?” I actually tried negotiating with a 6-month-old. I thought to myself that if I was not responsible for a child, I could have gone back to sleep…unless I had another job that also required me to be awake early on a Monday. So I grabbed the little man and whisked him into my room.

Sitting on my bed with a giggling, raspberry-making 6-month-old before 7 a.m., I began to think of how life changes when children enter the scene – for good. Paul and I quite often say things like, “I’m tired. I am going to nap.” And then we joke about how we would not be able to nap if we had a kid in the picture. I now know that I can only sleep when the kids sleeps and if he’s awake, I am not sleeping no matter how tired I may be.

All the jokes relating to people without kids vs. people with kids began to fill my head as I thought about the simplicities we enjoy, like doing whatever we want to do whenever we want to do something. Michael McIntyre has a hilarious bit about leaving the house. “People without kids say, ‘Let’s leave the house’…and then they do!” It takes me three trips to get out of the house for a walk with a stroller and I am not chasing around a toddler who needs shoes and a coat that no one can actually zip.

My friend who birthed the little man said more than once, “You just do, because you have to.” I had told her that I don’t know how she does it and, Saturday, while noticing that it took two of us to leave the house with a baby, I couldn’t help but exclaim, “I have no idea how single parents do this!” Yes, I am the stupid, outspoken, annoying person without kids who says all those things that actual moms never, ever want to hear.

We had play time until 8 a.m., when he decided he was ready for a nap. He slept in his crib the majority of the morning but the last hour and a half or so he spent in my arms because I just wanted to hold him a little while longer. And, for the record, I never expected him to sleep as long as he actually slept. I tried waking him around 11:15; I tried again around 11:30 and 11:45 but he just wouldn’t open his eyes. I finally succeeded in witnessing the awakening at noon when I told him that he just had to get up.

This week I was feeling like I had it all figured out. I know my general routine, accepting that the schedule will never be the same. I know the difference between his hungry cry and his sleepy cry. I know when his grunts are just grunts and when his grunts mean he is doing something in his pants. I know how to play the binky/bottle game and win. I know how to make him stop crying. I know how to manage caring for him while taking care of business and accomplishing tasks like completing two – yes, two – loads of laundry and the dishes all within a couple hours. Yesterday I cared for a child and still had time to read a book (well, at least a few chapters) and enjoy an evening run. Minus a minor rolled ankle injury, I was successful. I realized that I can handle this.

Then the game changed.

Last week was the first week that the little man slept in his crib all evening. This week we are sleep training. There are new rules and new sleep schedules. Last week, the little guy would be up around 8, we’d eat, go for a walk at which time he would have a 30-minute nap, we would get back inside, eat some more, have some play time and then he would nap again, anywhere between an hour and three hours, depending on his state. More play time in the afternoon, another bottle and then mom would be home.

This week, he is awake before I am, two days running. He is ready for playtime by 7 and then he crashes before 8:30. He sleeps for three hours in the morning and then we start the day again. We are no longer using feedings as sleep enticers so the binky/bottle game is over. No more bottles in the crib. Game changer.

I thought I had my schedule down but now it seems my schedule needs adjusting. Tomorrow I will set my alarm for an earlier time. I will be ready for immediate play time and a bottle and then prepare to do a workout and eat breakfast before noon. Bring on tomorrow!

THE NANNY CHRONICLES

A week before I began my duties as a summer live-in nanny, I found myself in a small church I attended when I was younger. Small town churches have prayer time and, in the case of this church, a microphone was passed around the congregation of 100 or so people so that anyone who had a request worth mentioning would have the opportunity. After a few people had spoken, I raised my hand and took a turn at the mic.

“Next weekend I will begin a great opportunity to be a nanny for a dear friend of mine for the summer. Since I do not have any children of my own, I ask for wisdom…” I paused only because I was interrupted by laughter that filled the entire sanctuary. Why are you all laughing at me?! I wanted to shout. I had plenty of experience caring for children of all ages, including many who grew up in that church as I did. I was a nanny to a child of 7 and cared for infants from the time I was a teenager. I was trustworthy and confident and fun. Kids loved me. Why did they think I was about to endure a challenge unlike any I had ever known?

I went into my nanny gig with an open mind and a prayerful heart. I asked God for patience and the ability to do whatever my friends wanted for their child, whether or not I agreed with their tactics or reasoning. I can confidently tell you that I have learned more about life and little ones in 2.5 weeks than I have learned in any classroom or coffee shop chat.

I have learned that everyone’s parenting styles are vastly different but that each style has goals directed toward the betterment of the child. My friends and I have contrasting parenting philosophies, the greatest variance being that my friends actually have a child and my philosophies are all in my head. I may have childrearing experience, but only from a part-time perspective.

After three weeks, my mind still cannot comprehend being on call and responsible for every single aspect of a little person’s life every single day for the rest of my life. I know what I do each day: feed, educate, love on, play with, change, put to sleep. But when my friend comes home, I am more than willing to hand over the child, whether he is in a good mood or poor.

My first two weeks went like this:

Day 1: Realization – nothing I want to personally accomplish will get done. Ever.

Day 2: Praying to do what my friends say without questioning the methodology.

Day 3: I am caring for Mr. Crankypants today. I accept the fact that nothing I do will make him happy.

Day 4: Today I learned to feed myself with my left hand while feeding a sleepy baby a bottle with the right hand. OMG he fell asleep. Now, what can I do? I need to throw in a load of laundry, I want to clean the bathroom; it would be nice if I would sit and do the coursework I haven’t touched in more than two weeks, and I am really tired so, actually, I could use a nap. But naptime is inconsistent. It could be 30, 45 minutes…2 hours? How do I know how much time I have? What do I do?

Day 5: I will actually let a baby fall asleep in my arms if I know that is the only way to get him to fall asleep.

Day 6: Baby vomit looks exactly like dropping Mentos into Diet Coke. Also, slipcovers might actually be a good thing.

Day 7: I found my zen – a 6:45 a.m. run. Two 10-minute miles with only myself. No one else around. No crying baby. No time limit. Just the sidewalk and me and all of the morning commuters.

Day 8: Letting a baby cry for five minutes in order to teach him to try to sleep without being held is the longest five minutes I have experienced in a really long time, and this isn’t even my kid.

That was the day that I sent a text message to the baby’s mother. “Mom advice – he falls asleep everywhere except his crib…he drifts to sleep but fails to go all the way. If I pick him up, he zonks. Do you want him to sleep in the crib (which will require crying it out), or should I let him fall asleep in my arms?” By the time she texted back, “Let him sleep in your arms,” I had already grabbed him from his place of unrest.  

Nearing the end of week three, I have lost all self-worth. I have been peed on, vomited on, raspberried on, have picked nose boogies, have had my hands in poo and sat by and watched as pureed peas were spat upon half my body, including my slippers. I didn’t care much about my appearance after living in PNG but I now care even less. I shower at night because why would I put effort into making myself look and smell just a little bit decent when an entire day of mucus, slobber, bodily waste and general filth await?

And yet, something somewhere deep inside me still sees images of Paul and myself with a little somebody of our own someday. 

THE NANNY GIG

Growing up, I had heard people, mostly women, talking about biological clocks and how those clocks tick, typically at older ages. No one to my knowledge has ever spoken of a biological clock ticking at the age of 7. The most popular ticking biological clock discussions in my listening and learning experiences have been related to adult women in their late 20s to late 30s, some in their early 40s, wanting children.

In my experience, I did not want children – I craved my own little people. It happened just after I turned 30. I wasn’t expecting it. Paul and I had discussed the likelihood of having children in late 2010. We began to plan for the child-bearing years in our late 20s after we were both established in our careers. We decided to wait another year and then we would see what may happen. What happened? We moved to Singapore.

We turned 30 when we were in Singapore. And then the cravings started.

I can crave chocolate; I can crave burgers. I never in my life expected to crave children – the having of them and them being around, not the eating of them. Just clarifying.

When I was 30 and one month, my whole inner being started craving a little person. I did not desire to be pregnant; I did not want to hold, smell or kiss an infant – I had an urge for a full-on toddler. I started to imagine a little version of Paul or his sister, Alexis. I didn’t really envision a little me person, but I did like the thought of a little Paul or Alexis.

I hid the craving from my husband for a whole month before my women friends made me spill the beans. Nic told me the same thing I told her when she was freaking out about not living in England anymore: “Grow a pair.” I had to tell him.

When I approached Paul one evening, I didn’t just throw out there that I suddenly desired to have his babies like a crazy woman. No, I was beyond crazy. I made the situation as awkward as possible, drawing out the “I have something to tell you” silence well beyond it’s needed, awkward and then unbelievably-awkward length before blurting out something like, “I know you don’t want to hear this and I really can’t help it but something inside me is craving a kid and I’m not saying that I want to actually have one right now but my body is going through something and I just thought you should know.”

I think he laughed at me.

Then he told me something I never expected to hear: that being in Singapore actually worked as an advantage because the hired help was so cheap, so it would make sense to have a baby while we were living in Singapore. Thanks. That was exactly what I wanted to hear in that moment.

Then he explained that he would never feel the same way that I did in that moment – that he would never come to me and say, “Hey there! I want to have your babies. Let’s get started!” Instead, he threw out an analogy.

“When I was a kid,” he began, “my mom wanted me to play baseball. I didn’t know if I wanted to, so she told me to just go to one practice and see what I thought. I went, and I liked it. I played baseball for years.”

I launched at him with arms spread wide.

I threw my right arm in his direction, palm up to the sky. “Baseball…” I said as I then moved forward my left arm, palm shooting to the sky. “Baby.” I replied and began to move the opposing scales up and down. “NOT THE SAME THING, PAUL!” Then I explained that we could not just have a trial run at parenthood, give the baby back and see what we thought of the experience.

Little did I know, we actually could. Isn't God good? He gives us exactly what we ask.

Once upon a time when I was living in Papua New Guinea, my best friend in the whole world called me, semi freaking out about her situation. She had had a baby in January, went back to work in March and in mid-April, she was still without a nanny. Her mother – we all love her – had been staying with my friend for four months after only planning to be away from her home and her husband for one month while my friend and her husband got settled into their new life. While the mother loved her daughter and her first grandchild so, so much, she also loved her husband who was three states away.

After several attempts to find a nanny through local agencies, my friend’s parents decided to relieve her of her stress. They decided to pack up their things and move closer to the grandchild so that they could provide the care that was so desperately needed. The only hitch? They actually needed time to move.

“Their lease ends in June,” I was told, “so now I just need to find someone to fill in for the seven or eight weeks over the summer while they move,” she said more confidently. 

My brain took over my body, and I began speaking my thoughts: spend the summer in America with my friend, take care of a baby, any day outside PNG is a good day….”I will be your nanny! My husband wants to spend a chunk of time in the U.S. and if he does come back here after training, I won’t have to. I should be around for a couple weddings, so if you can work around two family conflicts, count me in. Of course, I need to discuss this with my husband before I commit, and you should definitely take some time to think about my offer, but I am game if you are.”

Paul agreed, not-so-secretly hoping that I would get my baby fix and be done.

For approximately six weeks this summer, I am booked on what I am now calling my trial run. In the next six weeks I will determine whether or not I am cut out to be a mom, whether or not I can care for a child all day every day (well, at least five days a week) and figure out if this kid thing is something that I really want to do for the rest of my life.

I admit that there are times when I do want a child for a million different reasons: producing a product of my husband and myself; seeing a little version of the two of us; learning about the actual meaning of life, not just the perceived meaning; learning how to be a little less selfish. And then I think about the financial requirements, the amount of time and effort it will take to get a child out the door, the teenage years, all adding up to the life-long commitment and suddenly I find myself thinking “maybe not.”

Saturday morning, in old-timey style, I boarded a train with my suitcase, a carry-on and a giant bag of pastries from the famous Carlo’s Bakery and found myself in Nannyland by lunchtime.

Today is day three of my Six-Week Mommy Boot Camp. Day two went better than day one, not that day one went badly at all. I went to bed last night grateful to be back on my own personal schedule (exercising, eating healthy, getting a little bit of personal items accomplished) and having every muscle in my body ache. I was exhausted.

I last night confessed to my friend that I was having a great time and that I was learning a lot, but in that moment, I could not see myself wanting to do this every day for years to come. I also told her that I am curious to see if that mentality changes in the next 44 days.