Happy Merry Christmas

Nothing is more wearying than being reminded regularly that we are living in a volitile, dangerous part of the world, where holy soldiers lurk around hidden corners, conspiring to off us at the drop of a hat. It is not the American embassy that is giving us dire warnings, but folks back home. Most exhausting of all is to have well-meaning individuals who have no experience in this part of the world tell us what danger we are in by staying here.

Christmas has brought out more words of caution than usual, as if the birth of the Little Lord Baby Jesus evokes not only joy for the season, but paranoia as well. Friends back home warn us to watch our backs, keep the children close, take different routes in getting to and from work, and to NEVER give out our phone numbers or addresses to strangers. Duh.

Just to put inquiring minds at ease, here is what Christmas looked like here in Al Mawaleh, Muscat, this year. Christmas Eve saw lots of action in the neighborhood with well-wishes from the neighbors who wanted to know what we were doing for the holiday. We received cheery "Happy Christmas"es from many people whom we knew only by face.

The real fun began with the arrival from Sohar of our friends K and G, and Baby H. They arrived bearing dates (because what would a holiday celebration be here without dates?), gifts, and goodwill toward man. In the evening, more friends arrived for an early dinner in order that everyone could make it to church in time for the Christmas Eve service. However, lamb, drinks, and laughs prevailed, and no one made it to church. Ah, well.

We were fortunate that my parents sent "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in order that we would be able to enjoy the annual reading of the tome. We opened the book and were delighted to hear Poppop's voice recorded, reading the story to us as we turned the pages. What's more, he included the usual disgusting deviations from Clement Moore's version, much to the delight of all the children who listened to it.

Christmas morning arrived with the consumption of the traditional saffron rolls (slightly burned of course as tradition dictates), the opening of stockings, and the annual Santa search. Santa DID come, as evidenced by the runner marks and reindeer prints left in the dust of the roof. The prints were deemed authentic by our panel of experts as there were absolutely NO shoeprints or footprints around the Santa marks, which means that the Santa marks could not have been fabricated by parents or other interested parties.

Breakfast was a disappointment as one cannot find chipped beef here, and everyone knows that a Christmas breakfast without chipped beef is not really Christmas at all. Instead we ate beef sausages, eggs with toast, and fruit salad, with a hefty scoop of of moaning and groaning throughout. I know, I know, we all must make sacrifices sometimes, and this was one of those times.

The gift opening segment of the morning was the usual excitement. No one received a pony this year, even though there is plenty of space for one in this house. Nor did we have any camels pop out of boxes. We did end the morning with the traditional scavenger hunts, with everyone finding some big loot at the end. Santa brought us a flat screen TV so now we are almost cool--it's not a very big flat screen, so that's why we are just "almost cool" instead of "totally cool".

As an added bonus, we got to celebrate Boxing Day this year, since we are surrounded by English speakers who go in for such things. Boxing Day involved shopping, beach time, drinking, napping, consumption of leftovers, and movie watching. Apparently, if we had employed a domestic we would have had to give her the day off, along with a Boxing Day bonus.

See, no holy wars, acts of unspeakable violence, or volatility here. We all survived the day and are fatter and happier for that. Merry Christmas to all. Sorry, we have been told that we should be saying, "Happy Christmas to all" from now on as that is the proper way to do things. And well wishes for the New Year, too!

Parent Failure

Everyone in Muscat knows The Clock Roundabout. It stands like a sentinel at a cross roads--go one way and you are on the road that heads toward the ocean, toward what is known as As Seeb. Go another and you will find yourself at the airport, or heading toward Nizwa or Sohar. And likewise, because everyone knows The Clock Roundabout, everyone knows exactly where we live, because we live so close to the The Clock that we can hear it chime the hour during the school day if we keep our window open.

At the base of The Clock, there is the lush, green Sahwah Park, well within walking distance of our house. It is built in a sort of triangle shape, with rounded corners. In one corner there are stables where the horses live that pull the carriage through the park each evening. In another corner there are a series of fountains that shoot color-tinged water high into the air, and another series of more gentle fountains that randomly bubble out of the ground. Within the borders of the park there are mazes carved from hedges, stairs bordered by thick beds of petunias, and acres of green grass. And in that third corner of the triangle there is a playground.

During the day, the park and playground are not open (unless you know where the fence has been cut and bent in order to allow admission...not that I would know something like that). But at 4 p.m., as the sun is going down, the park begins to burble with energy. The people come in hordes...women wrapped in black abayas, pushing a baby in a stroller; men in their cool white dishdashas, holding a child by the hand; the nanny toting along another, older child; another domestic carrying a picnic basket; a boy with a soccer ball and a giant woven mat. These groups enter the park and set up a camp for the evening and, once their space is set, the children run to the playground.

The playground is not just a set of swings and a jungle gym. This is a pair of play structures--the grand-daddy of all playgrounds, with slides so high that there is no way they meet any sort of safety code. The sides of the play structures are riddled with climbing hitches and half a dozen towers are connected by rope bridges. In the chalky darkness, children skip through the cool sand, playing soccer, running through the towers, screaming in the dark.

The park has recently loomed large in my children's realization that I am a less-than-perfect parent. I do not carry snacks. I do not carry anything to treat impromptu wounds. I do not haul entertainment, spare change, or water. In short, I am the anti-mother, and this situation has become unacceptable to Silas. When we go to the park, Silas expects that, when he is thirsty, I will have a bottle of water for him because he sees all these other well-prepared families with their overflowing picnic baskets doling out goodies to their own children. When Silas is hungry, he wants a snack to magically appear from somewhere within my proximity. In short, I am a disappointment to my chronically starving son.

Last night, we visited the park; after two hours we were ready to head home. Tehva and Silas were thirsty and I had nothing for them except for the promise of water when we arrived home. In her anger at my lack of vital supplies, Tehva attempted to step on the hems of passing women's abayas and Silas collapsed into a dehydrated heap every three steps. "But I am THIRSTY!" **collapse** **stomp** "Mom, I need WATER!" **collapse** **stomp**

In the confusion of the masses around us, the whining messes next to me, and the Arabic language program being blasted from the speakers in the trees (Am I in China?), a blanket of self-doubt wrapped itself about my brain. "What am I doing?" I thought..."I am frickin' in the Middle East with three kids who are not in school. I am surrounded by people whose calves I have never seen and probably will never see. It is nearly Christmas and we are still running around in short sleeves. The people around me have their children dressed in scarves, hats, and down jackets even though the temp is in the 70s. This is ridiculous. What are we thinking being here?"

This self-doubt that comes and goes when adjusting to a new place has finally come to me. It will evaporate as quickly as it has come and I will emerge a person with a new attitude and understanding. And maybe then I will also know how to carry a bottle of water for poor Silas. Whatever.

Rolling Rolling Rolling

Tehva's teacher approaches me with her face drawn in concern. Her skin shines like chocolate pudding, although there is nothing yielding or soft about her demeanor. She is a force to be reckoned with and Tehva's stubborness is no match for her. Deep in my heart, I think Tehva should go live with her until she turns 16 and then, when she is more manageable, I might consider taking her back. "Tehva cannot roll her Rs," Teacher announces.

"Do you mean in Arabic?" I ask. Arabic has more than its fair share of sounds that English speakers normally never would consider legitimate noises to be made in polite company. There is even one letter that we refer to in our household as "Spit". It's the H-sound that you make way down in the base of your throat. See, now doesn't "The Letter Spit" explain it so much more succinctly?

"No, not in Arabic. In English. She cannot roll her Rs." I consider this statement and quickly cycle through the catalogue of sounds that we use each day in English. Rolling Rs is not one that pops into my mind. Have I ever rolled an R in English? Nope, don't think so. Should I let Teacher know that? She is not a native English speaker, although she a is a fluent speaker...maybe she is not aware?

And so I blurt out, "Well, in American English we do not roll our Rs. This is a new sound for her."

Teacher does not respond but instead glares and then turns her back to me. She returns to redirecting four-year-old Mohammed, who is holding his pencil like a switch blade, trying to write his name in English. Even if he cannot hold a writing implement without looking like he is about to commit a major crime, I'll bet he can roll his Rs.

"Mohammed, what are you doing? This is not how we hold our pencil. Look, Mohammed." Teacher points to a giant poster of a hand gripping a pencil in the approved manner. Mohammed looks at the THE HAND solemnly and then goes back to his labored name writing.

"Perhaps you could work with her on rolling her Rs at home." I want to snort at this obvious attempt at humor and then see that Teacher is not trying to be funny at all. So instead of making rude noises I try to picture myself skipping about the school room between math lessons and writing assignments, rolling my Rs in English words that should not roll at all--Rrrrrrrobot, Rrrrrurrritan, Rrrrreverrrrie. "Yes, we will do that," I resond and then pack Tehva up to head back to the Marble Mansion.

I spend the next week very puropsefully never rolling my Rs and, in my deception, I feel a tinge of guilty before the feeling slips away.

A week later Tehva will not stop rolling her Rs. She began rolling them spontaneously and constantly repeats, "Amerrrrican, Amerrrrrican, Amerrrrica. Arrrrrba, Arrrrrba, Arrrrrba," as she skips through the bedrooms on the second floor. She pats her shoulders and says, "Butt, butt, butt." She pats other body parts and pronounces their names in Arabic, too. All of the words she has chosen to practice (with the exception of "butt") have rolly Rs in them, but the only word I have retained is "Butt". I know, grow up.

Teacher smiled at me this morning when I dropped Tehva off for her 8 a.m. Arabic class. Tehva is the token Whitie in the class, studying her body parts, chanting snippets of the Quran, and rolling her Rs with the other little Omani kids who surround her. Teacher was pleased today that we worked so hard on rolling the Rs as Tehva can now keep up with everyone else when it comes to Rrrrrrrrrrrr. Whew. She can finally speak English properly.

Go Churrrrrrrrtle Go.