Jacob Street’s Blog

Mom, when is dinner? (this should be classified under the 27 most pressing questions)

Mom, can we stay up all night?

Mom, when do I get to see Sam and Joshua again?

Insert long exasperated sigh right here.

I can’t make the spaghetti cook any faster.

No. Well, you can stay up all night, but I am going to bed. (especially since it seems school will never be in session again)

I don’t know. (this answer times 10, J-Co help)

Nicholas, let me introduce you to Mr. Plunger.

Today would have been my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary. Ten years ago when no one in my family had died yet and all were still talking and getting along and there were only new babies and no divorces, my two brothers, their wives and I threw my parents an excellent and memorable 50th anniversary party.

We held it at the toy and train museum where my dad worked as a tour guide- the owners even put Happy Anniversary Bill and Jean on the marquis outside. I have a bounty of wonderful memories from that night:

Having just given birth to Nicholas, I felt schlumpy and gross and had nothing new to wear. My mom took me shopping and bought me a gorgeous gray suit complete with pearls and high heels. She even threw in an extra dress just in case.

My little baby boy was the star of the show and was passed around to all the ancient cousins who couldn’t wait to kiss him.

Kathy got to tell everyone she was pregnant.

One of my favorite pictures of me and the Kathys was taken that night. We were so happy.

When it was time for my parents to speak my mom in typical shyness mode said nothing and let my dad do all the talking- which  he did  in typical Bill Rose center of attention, life of the party mode.  He said one of the secrets to a good marriage was to “don’t go to bed mad, go to bed glad.”

I would never pretend to emulate or strive for the kind of marriage my parents had. My dad ran the show and my mom went along with everything. I know that would never work for me.  But they did love each other tremendously and said so to each other every day.  When my father was dying  the break in my heart was was further pained when he looked around for my mom and said he couldn’t live without her. Her care and devotion was unwavering during his last years and his last days.

When I was still idealistic about love and the future it would hold for me I used to dream about the day we would celebrate a silver anniversary, a golden anniversary. But my life turned out much differently than I planned. I’ll never have those days myself, but I am truly blessed and honored that I was there to celebrate those days with my mom and dad. Thanks for hooking up and getting married Mommy and Daddy. You did good.

Nicholas lost ANOTHER molar this morning. I started to get worried until I googled children’s teeth and this torrent of tooth loss seems normal for his age. This is when I know I am at a disadvantage having the oldest kid among all my friends- no one has been here yet. But the real problem is this is killing my wallet! I am on the fence about whether Nick still actually believes in the tooth fairy- I mean let’s face it- he’s a smart kid. He tried to double dip the tooth fairy a few weeks ago. He’s not going to give up an obvious moneymaker by saying he doesn’t think the tooth fairy is real. I have perpetuated this fairy tale and now tooth fairy is sinking her teeth into my bank account once again. I wish there was a gray hair fairy- you know, the one who would leave a martini by my bed everytime I pluck yet another gray hair. The world is not fair. Just fairy. And only for the kids who are still believers (or manipulators).

Mom, I am really glad you found your writers’ group.

Yeah, it’s working out pretty well for you, isn’t it?

Yeah, it is.

Me too.

Cook more fabulous food including more vegetables

Read more books if that is even possible

Learn how to purl

Spend more time reading to Nicholas

Floss more

Devote time each day to write

Send birthday cards on time

I think that’s enough for now. Let’s not get too carried away here.

Refugees have been a daily part of my life for years now and I talk about them and tell stories and ask for donations from all of my family and friends- I am sure ad nauseum-but with them being such a huge, important part of my existence, well I guess you get it- you are going to hear a lot about them.

Almost all of the refugees I am in contact with are basically just clients. We provide our services for them and then move on. But there are exceptions. There are the folks that enter your heart and never leave. For me, it’s Tiko’s family. Tiko was an Ethiopian man who taught me more about life in the few short months I had him in my life than most of the people I have come across in my forty four years. He wept in my office as he told me about the three sons he missed, the boys left behind in Kenya. He and his entire family, dressed in their very best, visited me at work to offer their condolences for my father. Tiko took my hands and said to me, “He is with Jesus now.” I once asked Tiko what was his favorite American food and his eyes lit up and he said “hamburger.”  He taught me that being a good parent means letting your children be free so they can learn. I cried at his funeral like I had lost my father all over again.

Nicholas and I have spent many hours with the remaining family members and we are always included for holidays, which I find particularly sweet because holidays are for family.  There is my Ethiopian mama- Tsehay, Tsigereda, the stalwart, oldest daughter, Konjit, the middle daughter whose beauty and utter hipness stop me in my tracks every time I am with her, Hanna, the sweet, yet sometimes heartbreaking youngest daughter and Ashenafi, the only son here.  They dote on Nicholas like a little Ethiopian prince and fill his hands with popcorn, cookies, juice and tea. They offer him pillows and make special dishes for him because they know he can’t eat eggs. They pet him and love on him and he bats his big brown eyes at all of these women. I offer him a stark reality check when we leave.

Christmas dinner with them was beautiful. They made all my favorites dishes including doro wat and kitfo which is very spicy raw meat that I can’t resist. We sat around the table and Konjit offered a prayer for our good fortune and she called me her sister. Pleasure soon became pain because I ate normal-sized portions of the cuisine I love, but that is never even close to satisfactory for Ethiopians. I could see Mama Tsehay giving sideways glances at my plate, still piled with food. She forced more rolls of injera into my hands and spooned massive amounts of doro wat on my plate. I always know when I overeat because my clavicle begins to ache- it was throbbing. After all these years I still haven’t found the strength to stop the food deluge and still maintain cultural sensitivity to their intense need to feed. At least they don’t physically place food in my mouth as I have had other Ethiopians do. Konjit said, “GiGi, finish what’s on your plate and then we will have coffee.” A chicken leg, an entire boiled egg, Ethiopian cheese, more wat, greens, potatoes, carrots, two rolls of injera…ok do you get it? Nicholas, who seems to eat his own weight in food everyday,  looked pleadingly at me and said he couldn’t eat another bite of food. And then they put more on his plate too. Like a little kid trying to fool mom about how much I ate for dinner, I took a few more bites and then scooted food around my plate to make it look like there was less food on my plate.

Thank goodness for the coffee ceremony! Konjit spread a bright green grass mat on the floor, plugged in the the  little burner and began roasting coffee beans. The small flat green beans slowly turned a  dark brown and the smell was heavenly. While the beans were roasting Konjit made popcorn- an Ethiopian treat with coffee. Finally, the coffee was ready and Konjit poured it into delicate little cups bearing an image of the Ethiopian flag- a treasure they managed to escape with. I drank cup after cup- I now had more room because this entire process took two hours.

While Nicholas played with Tsehay and Hanna, Konjit and I talked in quiet voices over more coffee. We talked about Petros, Tedla and Yeshitla, the sons still left in Nairobi.  I wanted so badly to tell her I could wave the magic wand of immigration and bring them here. There is nothing anyone can do and that is the hardest part. She told me that they talk all the time and can email. She said they know all about Nicholas and me and Tsehay even sent them a picture of us. I was touched beyond belief.

My wish for them in the new year is that they will receive the long-awaited news that the three boys will be reunited with their family. They are all lovely and sweet and charming and generous and I feel like one of the family whenever I am with them. And I feel like the most blessed person having them in my life.

Hey dude!

Are you all geared up for the trip tonight? I recommend you carry a flask of hot-buttered rum…just saying…

I don’t really ever want anything material, well, except maybe books. I always want books.

But I would like the following things. You can’t wrap them, but I am sure your magic can create them because you are that cool and wonderful and real.

So world peace is a given, but I have my doubts even if you are in charge.

Please give Asfaw, Zewudnesh and Tsehay their sons. Please let them all be reunited.

Please let life be a just a little easier for the refugees here. They’ve already had hard lives. They could use a little break.

Please give those people who say mean things and do mean things a little nudge that it just might not be the right thing to do. Maybe whenever they do it you could give them an invisible kick in the ass and it will make them think. Just a thought.

Please let Shab have a better fantasy football season next year. Please let Brigid swim in a sea of peppermint bark and have the energy to climb out of it. Please let Anne have an easy pregnancy and give birth to a little girl as sweet as Cora. Please let Suzanne have a little boy who bypasses the terrible twos and moves on to the terrific threes. Please let Leanne’s neighbors, colleagues and general people she runs into know that she is totally fab and should be best friends with her. Please let Jess settle into a beautiful new year in her lovely new house and give her the energy to get the mama cottage done so we can all write (aka nap). Please give Erin two feet that feel wonderful so she can run circles around us all again. Please give Jen, ok please give Jen…why is this one hard?? Just do the same thing for Jen, but maybe add a little better sense of humor about fart jokes and please don’t give her any denim jumpers.

And Santa- really I don’t need anything. I already have the sweetest little boy and the best friends in the whole world.  I have a roof over my head and plenty of food. I have a job I love and a down comforter. But back to that books thing….

Love,

GiGi

I was going over all of the contents of Nick’s folder from school when I discovered something. I looked at his social studies test that had a big fat 100 on it and was very proud, but then I saw an answer he got wrong. It was blatantly wrong. It was not really a 100. What was I to do? Leave it and he keeps the 100? No, that would be dishonest and that would be wrong. I showed it to Nick and he got tears in his eyes.

I really tried hard. I wanted that 100 Mom.

I know, but it’s not really a 100. How do you feel about keeping this grade?

He looked at me sadly.

I would feel like I lied.

Ok, how about going to your teacher and see what she says. I think that would be the honest thing to do.

He agreed.

I asked Nick about it after school yesterday and he aid his teacher made the mistake, it was not his fault so he was going to keep his 100.

She said she was proud of me for being honest Mom.

And he smiled at me.

I was proud too.

In a previous post I vehemently stated that I don’t find infidelity funny. Having been the recipient of immorality so heinous one would think I would continue to stand on my oft-teetering soapbox and once again state that I find infidelity quite abhorrent. And I still do think that. But I may have grown a little bit of a sense of humor, well let’s say a touch of bemused incredulity.

Am I surprised about the story of Tiger Woods?

No, not a bit.

Do I care at all?

Well, only enough to post this blog because…

My former spouse actually thought it was copacetic to joke around with me about Tiger Woods being an adulterous pig.  He even told me a couple of the virally circulating Tiger jokes. I am more surprised that FH thought that this subject matter was in bounds for the two of us to discuss than the fact that Tiger Woods actually is an adulterous pig.  Since I was on my office phone with FH I refrained from mentioning that they now have something in common other than gender. Now, I feel quite certain he thought this was  personal growth on his part or maybe I was just that good of a sport. I’m not that good of a sport. I still think and always will think adultery is just base and low and gross.

I didn’t use a golf club and I didn’t have a whopper of pre-nup, but I hope she leaves his sorry ass because he is only remorseful because  he got caught. And once a cheater always a cheater.  And sadly, other than gender, I have something in common with a beautiful Swedish supermodel.