Death By a Thousand Boxes... and a Toddler

This was our fifth move overseas, so if anyone should be getting the hang of it, it should be me, right? However, there was one new factor for this latest move that raised the frustration, complication and tear-enducing levels to staggering new heights and it had nothing to do with my husband's astounding procrastination abilities; it was simply, the toddler factor.

When we did our pack-out from Kuwait, I wisely hired our housekeeper to take Bean out of the house for the majority of the chaos. And that made a huge difference in my ability to scurry around and oversee the packing. Fast forward four months and we are happily seeing all those carefully wrapped boxes being unloaded into our garden in Jordan like long-lost friends (yeah, you get a little over-emotional at the prospect of seeing your sheets and dish drainer when you've been living out of suitcases for four months). As the 130 boxes were coming through the front door, I'd quickly glance at the label on the box and direct it's placement - master bedroom, nursery, kitchen, dining-dump-room, etc. - and in doing so I caught a few amusing notations; "lady kits," "flash's light," "baby drops" and "rattan decor". (Upon unpacking, I discovered "lady kits" was toiletries and our "rattan decor" were two straw seat things from Ikea. I never did discover what the "baby drops" were, but the box was big.)

One of the benefits of having to wait for your stuff, in theory, is that you have a few weeks or months in your new home to decide how you want things set up. So once all the filling arrives, you would think it would be relatively easy to unpack and put things where they were going to live for the next three years. And in the past this process was arduous and exhausting, but I never felt like I was losing my mind; until this time.

Unpacking with the "aid" of an eager toddler presented a whole new level of challenges I had not anticipated (though I probably should have). Being fully enmeshed in the "helpful" stage, meant Bean would follow me around and unpack, or re-pack, depending on her whim, whatever box was open and in front of her. Often she'd toddle off with whatever gem she'd discovered and I'd have to go searching throughout the rooms of chaos to find my other boot or camera bag or shower gel bottle (unearthed from the "lady kits" box). If she came upon a box that was still sealed, she'd quickly switch modes and slap on her crampons, grab her carabiners and start climbing, causing lots of Mommy exclamations like "Oh, be careful!" and "Oh, no, let's not do that," and other such insightful statements. Never-ending fun abounded, but the unpacking progress was painfully stagnant and my needs for a tidy nest were going unheeded.

So by day eight of this frivolity I was crankier than a toddler with an unfulfilled demand and felt like it was never going to end. There wasn't one room where I could happily sit and gaze at my little organized oasis. I couldn't even hide in the bathroom because there were "lady kits" that needed organizing that I was constantly telling Bean to "put it back, put it back", wishing I'd get around to just putting it away.

On top of all the fun-with-toddlers I was having, I was also faced with the realization that we own a huge amount of breakable, non-toddler-friendly items, lovingly collected from all our worldly travels. We have piles of glassware and surprisingly sharp metal lamps from Egypt, ceramics from Italy, Portugal and Turkey, framed photos and wooden masks from Tanzania. Why did it never occur to us to just collect pillows from around the world, or country-inspired teaspoons?

The winds finally started to shift the day I got my closet organized. I found myself returning to it repeatedly just to remind myself that it was possible; there was an organizational light at the end of the closet.

So by day ten we were about 90% unpacked and organized and my breathing was far more regular and hardly cried at all. However, now each room had a little pile of what I refer to as the niggly bits; those weird little items that don't really fit anywhere that just end up end up cluttering drawers or baskets. Part of me felt like they should be properly sorted and put away and not just stashed, but that part of me was quickly quashed as my energy, interest and decision-making capabilities had been thoroughly drained dry, and frankly I couldn't give a damn where the candlewick scissors went or my high school calculus calculator, that should never have come overseas, should go.

So in the end, Bean and I survived the unpacking-with-toddlers process, and we now have a house full of lovingly stashed hard-to-reach breakables. And with her helpful packing, unpacking and stashing abilities, we only managed to lose one remote control that we thought has been accidentally "packed" back into a box that went out to trash. Of course, we found it nestled safely in her toy bin the day after the replacement arrived in the mail, but it's probably best to have two, anyway; I have a feeling "fun with toddlers" won't end with just the final moving box.

Intrigue, Cabinetry, and Cat Poop; Just Another Day as an Expat

Life as an expat can be full of adventure and intrigue. You can find yourself watching the sun rise over the Serengeti or set over the Sahara; yacht racing off Gibraltar or sidewall skiing in Riyadh; hiking Machu Picchu or riding a dhow through the Strait of Hormuz. Then again, there are also the days that are chock full of more intrigue than one girl can bear, especially when they start off with the discovery that you have no water. In spite of living in yet another desert country, you were assured when you did the "welcome to your new home" walk-through with the building manager last week, that the two cisterns in the basement allegedly held two cubic meters of water each and that there were multiple top-off deliveries weekly. Of course, then you remembered that you also discovered that the gauge on the water tank was broken but you'd forgotten to follow up with that. So, with "water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink," running through your head, you make the emergency water calls, stack the dirty breakfast dishes off to the side and mentally calculate a rotation schedule for the five toilets in the house.

A few hours later, after a brisk two-mile walk with fellow ex-pat moms and strollers, and an hour on the playground tiring out the toddlers, you put the baby down for her nap and you happily collapse for your blessed two-hour mid-day break. But 45 minutes into the two-hour nap, the doorbell clangs and there's a guy delivering hangers and a TV that your husband had requested to borrow. You're grateful for the hangers and the TV, since you're still awaiting the arrival of all your household stuff, however now the baby's awake and there's no convincing her to return to sleep.

An hour later the kitchen contractors arrive, as scheduled, and for the next hour-and-a-half you spin between the front door and the garden door letting men in and out as they gather and retrieve tools and supplies and all things needed to install cabinet doors, drawer fronts, shelves and hardware that hadn't been completed before your arrival two weeks prior.

During all this fun, you add to the mix another gentleman who arrives to install a doorbell at the garden gate. You had no idea this was needed, but sure, go ahead, the more clanging bells to wake up the baby the better. Then you get to shove the furniture around with him looking for an empty plug that the remote bell can use. You try all four in the front two rooms, but as soon as he walks outside, the sensor goes dead. He blames it on the battery, though you point out the thick cement walls may be a factor as well. Failing at his intended mission, he then joins the men in the kitchen because you just can't have too many men named Khalid with electric screwdrivers and hinges.

However, despite the never-ending amusement of trying to pick up Arabic contracting terms and watching men with screwdrivers and flying sawdust, the effects of the baby's mini-nap start to set in with the crankies and the eye-rubbing, so you opt to give another nap a try, even though your instincts tell you she's not going to sleep for nothing.

You put her down and before you've taken ten steps the bellowing begins. And as a parent, you know the different cries. This is not the "I'm going to fuss a bit, but then I'll calm down and go to sleep" cry, this is the "I'm going to cry until I'm purple or blowing chunks" cry. But still you tell yourself you're going to give it five minutes. Sixty seconds later, you hear coughing and by the time you've raced back to the bedroom, your darling little cherub is a volcano spewing partially digested tofu and broccoli everywhere.

So you leave the Khalids to their business, hoping they don't let the cat out during their forays in and out, and you address the dripping child, the dripping sheet, blanket, stuffed owl, and even the slats of the crib. Amazing talents this child has given a mere sixty seconds.

After the cleanup, you return to the kitchen (verifying the cat hasn't left the recliner, but why would he?) to find that the cabinet doors, shelves and drawer fronts are installed, but only half have handles. Apparently there was a miscalculation during a previous assessment as to just how many handles were needed. No worries, we have three years.

So, with Ahmad, Mohammed, and the two Khalids gone, you finally escape to the garden and begin to count down the minutes until Daddy gets home to relieve you (94, 93, 92...). Under the blue skies and gentle breeze, with the baby toddling around picking up sticks and rocks, you breathe a deep sigh of contentment and give yourself a little pat on the back for surviving yet another intrigue-filled day as an expat. Then your daughter runs up with a big smile and hands you the latest rock she's found. As you bend over to proclaim the requisite admirations, you see that it's not actually a new rock in your hand, it's desiccated cat poop. Yup, definitely more intrigue than one girl can handle. I think it's time to drain out those cisterns with a good scalding four-hour shower. Oh Calgon, do you come with anti-bacterial?

Letting the Dust Settle and the Ants Come Marching In

By our second week in Jordan, I think the dust motes were finally starting to settle from our arrival. The first week was completely blanketed in a jet lag haze. The baby seemed to have it worse this time than we did. But of course that means we were all affected by it. It's not like you can tell an 18-month-old to just play quietly while mommy and daddy sleep at four in the morning. So our hours were a bit topsy-turvy that first week. But by the second week, our sleep schedules were more on track, which meant there was a bit more normalcy to our days. Which also meant I could finally focus on the house a little and address my long-dormant nesting needs.

To do this, I started by unpacking our six suitcases; keeping in mind that we'd been living out of these for the previous three-plus months and had also acquired some miscellaneous items along the way. Meaning, it was just as likely that I'd be unpacking socks or t-shirts as it was cans of pumpkin (holidays were coming and I had no idea if I could readily get it in Amman), or six bottles of face cream (hey, they were on sale!), or four packs of frozen-solid veggie sausages (these are becoming a mainstay for my suitcases), or even a one-armed zombie cupcake topper that got left behind during the pack-out from Kuwait, so we've been carrying him around all summer.

So with lots of help from Bean (she loves to unpack, everything, always) I'd unpack and pile up similar items, making a baby's room pile, or a toiletry pile, or a cat-stuff pile, or a kitchen pile. Then I'd deliver said piles and put things away as best I could. At one point, as I was bustling around the house with my piles, I came around the corner to find Bean chewing on one of Daddy's stick deodorants like it was a push pop. I performed a quick wash-out-the-mouth-with-water routine and think we got most of it. But for a while her breath did smell a bit like a spicy leprechaun.

Throughout our house explorations, we did come across some previous inhabitants that we're just going to have to work out a cohabitation agreement with. I think the rules will state that anyone bigger than a dime (legs included, you spiders) will get a little lift outside. But those smaller (ants, that's you) will just have to brave life in a house with four adult feet, two toddler feet, and eight feline feet (six, if you don't count Louie's semi-immobile ones). So sorry ants, you're on your own. Living in a ground-floor garden apartment has it's plusses and minuses, as well as its roommates.

Another part of the settling in process is also getting to know your neighborhood and your neighbors. In Cairo, we had the junkyard dealers who lived in the crumbling mansion behind us and it was always entertaining to see the latest finds they'd drag in (sometimes refrigerators or mannequins or piles of 2x4s). In Kuwait, we never really saw any neighbors, but during the day I'd see the battalions of nannys, housekeepers, and drivers going about their day, and I just assumed there were unseen folks who employed them. Here in Jordan our neighborhood is mostly four to six-story apartment houses, but there are little strips of grocery stores and bakeries, jewelry stores and florists, and the requisite coffee shops and nail salons strewn about.

It's quiet during the day, with the occasional car driving by or a small school bus picking up or dropping off kids. In our first few days here I heard what sounded like an ice cream truck going by. It was this tinny slightly out of tune music playing over and over. You could hear it coming a few blocks away and when I first looked out I saw the school bus but at the same time I also saw an old rusty truck driving by with propane tanks in the back. So now I had to determine whether the tinny music came from the school bus or the propane delivery truck; my bet was on the school bus. A few days later I heard the tinny music again and rushed to the window to see the rusty propane truck slowly pass by. So now I hear it all the time, sometimes several times a day. We get our propane delivered regularly, so I won't have any reason to go running out excitedly when I hear the music, waving my money in the air, and for that I can't deny a little disappointment.

In addition to all the physical settling in, there are some emotional stages that you have to endure as well. First there's the exhausted-but-excited stage of arriving at any new place and exploring everything from the kitchen cabinets to the grocery store to the city itself. This is often coupled with the exhausted-from-traveling stage and they've been known to swap places randomly and at inopportune moments (like when meeting your husband's new co-workers and all you can think about is how thick and heavy your eyelids are but you're trying to pretend that you are a clever engaging worldly woman with deep thoughts beyond "sleep good.").

Nearing the end of the second week your excitement begins to wane a bit, not in the sense of the new city, but rather in the sense that you're really tired of living out of the same suitcases for four months and you find yourself craving strange things like your kitchen trashcan or a laundry hamper or the baby's proper highchair or even just a different t-shirt from the six you've been rotating all summer. You start to get a bit crabby and you find yourself muttering things about "my" fruit bowl or "our" sheets or "my" shower cap. Things that ordinarily you don't fixate on, but because you haven't seen them for a few months, they suddenly take on a whole new (crazy) level of importance. But, having been through this before I don't fret. I know that, like the jet lag, this crazy phase will end and soon enough I'll have that heirloom-quality shower cap that will make everything better.

So in the meantime, I will continue to nest in our new home, I'll start researching canned-pumpkin uses, and I'll give a little wave to the propane man as I'm releasing Mr. Spider back into the garden. Welcome to Jordan.