Fasting for Ramadan, as told by a Christian

Fasting is not exclusive to Islam, the big three, Hinduism, Buddhism, and many others all have some sort of fasting ritual. Fasting for Ramadan is probably the most well known fast because so many people around the world take part. Ramadan goes according to the Islamic calendar so it is about a week after Ramadan the prior year and lasts 29 or 30 days, depending on the new moon sightings. From the first day until the last, a person will not eat or drink while the sun is out. They also should not do “sinful” behavior, like swearing, fighting, etc. The mosques, and plenty of internet sites, have calendars with the specific prayer times and sunrise and sunset times. Fasting is required for all Muslims unless they are sick, pregnant, menstruating, diabetic, travelling, or breastfeeding.

I did not want to fast. I love to eat and I am not a huge fan of being hungry, it makes me crabby. My in-laws did not request or require me to fast. My husband (sort of) requested that I do fast and honestly, it caused a bit of an argument. In the end it was the fact that I am overly stubborn that drove me to fast on that first day. As the days went by, I had to come up with more, better reasons, why I was choosing to do this. A big part remained as me just being stubborn. I could not believe that I was not able to do something that so many others are able to do each year and actually look forward to it.

Another large reason I continued to fast was that it made everyone very happy, the maids, my in-laws, my husband, they were all happy that I was fasting. As a people pleaser, that is huge for me because it also made me happy. I enjoyed joining the family in Iftar (breaking of the fast) in the evening, all of us in the same hungry and thirsty boat. It was a nice time to spend together, on the few days I did not fast I felt like I almost did not belong, not because of anything others said but because of my own feelings, because this snack/meal is for the hungry, which was not me.

I also thought that Ramadan could be a good time to kick start my healthy food lifestyle change. (I do not want to call it a diet because “diet” sounds restrictive and that is not the mindset I want to have.) I weighed myself at the beginning of Ramadan and figured I would lose weight. The Iftar meal/snack is different in different cultures and families. It usually includes dates, sweets, deep fried stuff, a snack made from chickpeas, some veggies. All in all, it is not really health food. After Iftar, I would feed Sam, have some coffee and biscuits (read cookies), give Sara dinner, get the kids to sleep, eat dinner myself, read or watch TV, have a snack, stay up way too late, have more food around three in the morning, brush my teeth, go to sleep, wake up around 9 or 10 and fast until about seven in the evening. I weighed myself again after Eid (the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan) and I was up two pounds. I cannot say that I am surprised. The fasting caused my metabolism to hit the floor.

Preparing for Iftar 

Setting the table (2013)

Each day as I fasted I would think that this is insane, why are we doing this to ourselves? I am hungry, I could sneak food, I am thirsty, and no one would know if I had a little water but that is when my stubbornness would kick in and – most of the time – I would resist the temptation.

On a few days, I would go to work and paint, which was exhausting. Many hours spent on my feet, trying to hold my hand steady. The director of the school smokes and combine the second hand smoke with the hunger and I swear, the only thing keeping me up was the sheer force of my will. After the day spent painting, I would catch a rickshaw to the Club to get milk and then home, on those days I could see the importance of food and water more than other days. On one particular day I went swimming. I did not work hard, I just enjoyed the feeling of the water, but by the time Iftar came round I think I gulped about a gallon of water in one go. To insure I was getting enough water, which I need a lot, I would drink about two liters in the hour after Iftar, about the same with dinner, and again with the “meal” at 3AM. One day, we were out of water (we cannot drink from the tap, there is an elaborate process to get drinking water which I can talk about later) and I nearly started crying. Sakib quickly ran out and got us some bottled water, smart man. I was more careful about preparing water after that.

Each day around 6PM I would go upstairs to my in-laws house and help with the final prep for Iftar. I would mix things, set the table, divvy out the food and juice, and do anything else my mother-in-law needed. This became my favorite part of the day. I loved having something to do that helped my mother-in-law and contributed to the family, no matter how small of a thing it was. My MIL and I would chat, which was nice, and then the whole family would sit, Sam and Sara too, and enjoy the food together. After eating, everyone, except the kids and me, would go to the bedroom for a short prayer and I would clear the table. Now that Ramadan is over, I miss having the reason to come together and share our time.

Enjoying Iftar (last year, 2013) 

Sara, at some point, asked why it was we were fasting. My brother-in-law told her that one of the reasons is so we can understand the poor people’s hunger better. On the final day of Ramadan, Sara asked me if I understood what it was like to be poor now. I said that to some extent, I understand hunger better but because I had food in the fridge and I know that there is a big meal waiting for me when the sun goes down, I cannot truly understand what it is like to be starving, but I can imagine better now. In the first few days and in the last, I felt why we say, “hunger pains” it really does hurt to be so hungry.

The last month has proven to me that I get to choose what I eat or do not eat, even if it hurts. In light of that, I have decided to ride the momentum of Ramadan and give up my sugar addition. I do not look forward to fasting next year but I do look forward to the way the family comes together and shares our time.

Eid Mubarak! 

Home

There’s no place like home… but where is home?

Home is… safe… where the heart is… where you hang your hat… where you are comfortable enough to walk around naked…where the pants are stretchy and the wifi connects automatically…a person or place you want to return to, over and over…where your story begins…wherever we are together…

Home seems to be some magical place that only exists in our minds. We build houses, of all sorts, fill them with our things and call it home. Then we collect our stuff, leave that place and put our stuff in a new place and suddenly we have a new home. The magic place that gave us so much comfort no longer exists; you cannot go home again, as they say. So does that mean our stuff defines our home? Is it the comfort of the familiar? Perhaps it is the people around us that make us feel at home.

So, what happens when you leave the building, the stuff, and the people behind and move to the other side of the world? Nearly two years ago, when I moved from my house, sold most all of my stuff and left America with six suitcases, my husband, my daughter, a growing pregnancy, and as small amount as expectations as I could manage, I did not ask myself these questions about home. I knew that we were going to have a roof and a bed and comforts; I thought that the magic of home would travel with me and be in this new place.

Homesickness is a funny thing. It creeps up when you are not paying attention and grabs you by the whole body. There is no medicine or treatment to help, it is hard even to diagnose. Suddenly the things that used to bother you about the place you left, like the scratchy carpet, the barking dog next door, even shoveling snow or mowing the lawn sound like heaven compared to cement floors, new annoying sounds, and not having tasks to keep yourself busy. The food, the weather, the smells, the language, everything that is different can trigger homesickness.  So I grasped onto the familiar, my husband, my daughter, facebook, books, writing my blog. I held onto to these things so tight, without realizing that my hands were too full with the old to experience the new.

People kept telling me how well I was adapting. Was I adapting well? Maybe. I really do not know. I hid behind my pregnancy. I was completely dependent on my husband and his family. I felt like I gave up my freedom and I was now stuck in this new place, and I resented that I had freely given up who I was. I would kick and scream (sometimes literally) against my new life, resenting everything, desperate to go home. Then those feelings would pass and I would step back and see where I was, I would actually look at the people and the things around me and I would get overwhelmed with the idea of excitement. There are so many possibilities, so many things to see and I needed to do something in that moment, to experience this new place. I would go out with someone, swimming shopping, family’s house, I got a (short lived) job. Then a holiday would come, holidays are the worst for homesickness, and I would spiral back into the resentment and regret that are the symptoms of homesickness.

Sakib experienced homesickness when he first moved to America and did not find his home in Minnesota until he went back to Bangladesh for a visit and then returned to America. He suggested I try the same trick. My visit to Minnesota, to home, was wonderful. I did most everything that I missed. My first time driving after a year away was the best. I went to Target (which was awesome too), and then drove home. There was very little traffic and it was wonderful. I smiled the whole way. I was in Minnesota for three months and I knew I would miss Sakib, and I did, but I was surprised to find that I missed other things as well. I actually got a little homesick for my home and family in Dhaka. I never believed that it would happen. It was nothing compared to the homesickness I felt for Minnesota, but it was there.

It has been six months since I left America. In the last six months I have done more here than I did the whole year prior. I take rickshaws on my own, I have multiple job opportunities, I go shopping on my own, I have made more friends, and I no longer feel that the walls are closing in. I still look forward to the day when we move back to America but I am no longer desperate for it. People keep asking if I will visit America again this year. Before I would have screamed ‘yes’ from the top of our building for the whole city to hear but now I want to travel, I want to see other places and I want the people I miss to join me in those travels.  

So, what makes a home, the place, the stuff, the people? I used to think it was these things. Now I think a magic fairy follows people to their new homes and sprinkles magic dust on a place to make it a home and the farther you go the longer it takes her little wings to carry her to your new place and sometimes she may get lost along the way so you have to go back again to help her along. It is really the only logical explanation I can come up with. 

Boycott of The Village Restaurant.

Generally, I try to keep the theme of my blog positive and try to see the good parts of Bangladesh and the people who live here. Unfortunately, because of the continued disrespect shown by “The Village” restaurant, I cannot find the positives in this situation.

My husband's grandfather purchased the land our home sits on long before Dhaka became the mega city it is today. At the time he bought it, it seemed like a foolish purchase because it was not a coveted spot. He built a two-story apartment building with four large flats for himself and his extended family. As the family grew, two more floors were added to make it what it is today.

My husband, the oldest of three brothers and one of many cousins who grew up in this building have fond memories of playing cricket on the street, on the roof and even in their homes. They played with the neighbors who (mostly) lived in single-family homes that dotted the nearby roads. The pictures and stories of their childhood look and sound beautiful and fun. I would love to visit Dhaka ten to fifteen years ago, it sounds like a wonderful place. 

Fast forward to present day, the city has changed – grown, and is now over crowded. Our building is ageing but still a nice place. The family has done well maintaining their homes. The location is prime. We live inside the "diplomatic enclave" the safest and most sought after real estate in Dhaka. We live near the major road but our street is relatively quiet. 

There is a lot of noise in Dhaka, like any major city. Construction, people yelling, dogs barking, mongoose fighting, ceiling fans, cats, car horns, crows, and the foot falls of the upstairs neighbors. All this creates almost a musical cacophony that we are able to get used to and tune out. 

We have the extreme misfortune of living next to “The Village” restaurant. Zoning laws are more flexible in Bangladesh so this very large restaurant was allowed to be built right next door to our home. This restaurant features outdoor seating and outdoor kitchens (which we can see directly into from the higher floors and have observed animals climbing over the cooking surfaces during the night and early mornings). One of their kitchens happens to be right next to our bedroom windows. All day (and most of the night) we suffer having to hear the industrial exhaust vent motor, the clanging of dishes and silverware, and the employees shouting at each other over all the other noises. If this was not enough, they also feature music. All day they play a loop of Eastern and Western music. George Michael's “Careless Whisper” played every few hours. In the evenings, on weekends and holidays, they have live music. Terrible singers scream out the same songs and drown out everything else. We cannot watch TV or have a conversation at a regular volume even with all our windows closed. Sam wakes up frequently because of the sudden loud sounds of dishes or music changes. It is very hard for anyone to fall asleep before the restaurant is done washing the silverware and they do not finish until midnight or later.

"The Village" restaurant's wall on the left, our bedroom windows on the right. 

Sakib has been working with the management and managed to get them to redirect their exhaust fan so our home does not smell like their food (but does nothing for the noise) and to keep the volume at a reasonable level. This was working for a time; management was even calling to ensure the volume was okay. Management is changing and now, our problems are starting again. This time, they are not being reasonable. They have told us that, “the music will not have the right feel unless it is very loud.”

The owner of the restaurant is a member of the same club my father in law has belonged to for the last nearly thirty years. I met her and her children at the club restaurant when my mom was in town. She knows about our struggles with the noise and does not seem to care. Profit comes first relations with neighbors are inconsequential.

Sakib has tried so hard to handle this diplomatically with little results to show for it and he grows tired of it. I hope that those of you reading this, who live in or visit Dhaka, will join me and my family in our boycott of The Village Restaurant, maybe then they'll take a look at our point of view and respect the neighborhood they moved into. 

"The Village" One of the outdoor dining areas. 

Taking the lead.

Are you playing the lead role in your life or are you a supporting character?

When Sakib and I first started looking at our five-year plan, two years ago, I was the one who suggested that we move to Bangladesh. We were struggling, like so many others, trying to live the “American dream” on a tight budget, and like so many others, it was not working out well for us. However, I think, when it comes down to it that is not the reason I suggested that we go. I often felt that life was happening to me. My decisions were made for me and I had few options. I felt stagnant. I wanted to travel, to experience life and have an exciting life with many adventures to share with my family.

It is probably an extreme solution, moving to Bangladesh, but sometimes the best way to fix something is just to bang on it really hard, so we banged on our lives. After living here for a year, and having a few great adventures, experiencing so many new things – facing new challenges – feeling overwhelmingly – I can say that I am happy with our choice to move. It is not an easy happiness, because living here is not the easy choice, life here is not as easy, for me, as in the US.

Our children get to grow up in two worlds, speak two languages, and be able to live in both worlds, without being out of place in either. Sakib is able to work and play cricket and make up time with his family who he sorely missed during the ten years he lived in the US. I get to be at home with my young children.

Our plan is to live here for three years. One year is past and I understand some Bengali. My goal is to understand 90% of what is said and to be able to respond simply and appropriately by the end of the next year here. I want to find a way to make money by writing, maybe even attempt a book. I want to see more of the beautiful Bangladeshi countryside and spend more time at the village home. I want to see some of our neighboring countries and some that are not so close. Perhaps then I’ll feel ready to return to the US to live.

A few ways I have changed.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” 
― Laozi

I imagine a person cannot spend a year in a totally different culture and not change at all. I did not notice some of the changes much until I went home to Minnesota for a visit.

The first, and most obvious, change has been physical. I was fifteen weeks pregnant when we moved here and very hungry. I ate a ton but Sam was taking all my calories. While I was pregnant, I watched my body slim down as my belly grew bigger. Through the whole pregnancy, I do not think I gained any weight. If I had started out thin then I may have worried about this but I had weight to burn and I was healthy so I just enjoyed eating a lot and still losing weight.  A week after Sam was born I was down fifteen more pounds (about 7 kg). I am now down about fifty pounds (23 kg) from my pre-pregnancy weight and eighty pounds (36 kg) down from my highest weight. I imagine there are multiple factors attributed to the weight loss but two main ones, first, the food here has less in it – less additives, less chemicals, less preservatives (although we do have to watch out for a formaldehyde mixture they treat fruits and veggies with as a preservative) and second, my meals here are structured. Each meal is at a certain time and I snack less between meals. I am sure the breastfeeding helps too.   

January 2011

July 2013

July 2013

June 2009

One change I did not notice until I left Bangladesh is that I am more willing to “put myself out there.” I would never really call myself shy but I would shy away from social situations. If I did not know anyone, except the host, at a party I usually would not go. If I could not arrive with someone, I would not go. Now, I do not know anyone. I often go to parties where I am the only white person and many people do not speak English well or at all. My in-laws are excellent at introductions and people are curious enough about me that they’ll come talk to me and I have grown so used to this that my prior nervousness is gone. I have also gotten to the point where I sometimes (at the smaller dinner parties) forget that I look different from everyone else. This may sound strange, I do not forget that I am white and they are brown, I forget that it matters, or that it is noticeable. I am just part of my husband’s family, I am my children’s mother, and they are friends or family – no different from in the US. Other times, at large weddings or out in public I am painfully aware that I am different but even that is getting easier to handle.

Me, my mother in law and some of her colleagues.

I am now bothered by waste. Especially plastic bags that are used once and thrown out. We all have cabinets that are stuffed full of Tupperware that can be easily thrown into the dishwasher so why not use it?

I want to look good when I go out. Honestly, I used to not really care and sometimes, as a mother to young kids, there are times when I cannot manage to put in the extra effort when going to the park or the grocery store still. I am noticed here as different, I know I do not blend in and because of that, I want to look nice, not for them, for me.

I am more open about my opinions. I often am asked for my opinion about many things, from religion to US politics to celebrity news. I have always tried to be informed but now I am more diligent about finding my opinions on those issues and voicing those opinions instead of regurgitating what I heard or read.

I hate the cold. I did not mind winter too much while I was living in Minnesota but now that I am here and the coldest it has gotten is mid 50 F (10 C) at night, I like not freezing. I like not having to bundle the kids and start the car ten minutes before going out. I do not miss digging my car out of a snow bank or driving on glare ice. I still miss the warm winter days after a fresh snowfall when the air is crisp but the sun is warm or watching the snowfall from the comfort of my couch with a warm blanket and a good book, taking comfort in the knowledge that I do not have anywhere to go the next day. But, then I see news about a “polar vortex” and I am glad to be warm.

I am sure there are a lot more ways in which I have changed and I will continue to change the longer I live here and the more I experience. I hope that the changes will be good and make me a better wife, mother, daughter, and person. 

A few things Bangladesh gets right.

There is a lot  could say about the challenges of living in a developing country but that seems typical and whiney so I decided to mention a few things that Bangladesh gets right.

Plastic bags. Shops are not allowed to give plastic bags to customers. Net bags, thin cloth, or paper bags are offered instead. Sometimes, if the shop receives products wrapped in plastic bags they will give those out instead of throwing them out. Which brings me to the next point…

Reuse. My mother-in-law is the best at this. Very few things are actual trash to her and the things that she cannot reuse she sells to a man that collects “trash” to reuse or recycle. The “trash” that leaves the house everyday is about half a bucket of food scrap.

Clothes are made to order. Sure, you can buy premade clothes of all sorts but it is more common to buy fabric and bring it to a tailor who makes it to fit you (sometimes it takes a few tries to get the right fit, depending on the tailor and what he is good at making).

Hospitality. You will always feel welcome in the home of a Bangladeshi. If you are a fourth cousin twice removed, you are still treated like the closest of family members. Drinks and snacks will be offered in abundance and you never feel unwanted.

Invitations are accepted. You know when you have a party, wedding, graduation, birthday, or whatever, if it is a big thing you may send out a save the date card. Next, you send evites, facebook events, paper invitations and you ask for RSVPs. Maybe a quarter of the people RSVP with a definitive ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and everyone else says ‘maybe’ or just doesn’t reply. When the event finally arrives, you really have no idea who will be there. People who said they would go do not show up, one or two of the ‘maybe’ people go and, if you are lucky, some of the people who did not respond at all will go. This sort of thing does not happen here. When we arrived last year, just before Sara’s birthday we organized a party for her and invited people the day before the party. Everyone, save a handful of people, showed up, I was amazed. I continue to see this with each party I attend. Unless you are ill or have a different invitation at the same time, you go if you are invited. During the holidays or wedding season, some people will have three invitations in one day, one for each meal and they will attend them all.

Salons are affordable. I understand why the prices are high in the US. The overhead is high, the people working there do not get benefits, I get it, but I still love the fact that I can get pretty much my whole face threaded (which we should all do in place of waxing, it’s great!) for about $2.

There are switches on all the outlets. No need to unplug your appliances after each use. Just switch off the power to that plug. Instant conservation. 

The food is made from scratch. Again, I understand why this does not happen in the US. We do not have maids and cooks and drivers but that does not mean I cannot appreciate it. 

There are many other good things, mixed blessings and challenges of living in Bangladesh and it is always interesting to experience each one.  

What we eat.

I have gotten many questions about the food here in Bangladesh. One person facetiously asked me to write a blog about cheese. I do not think I can keep this interesting enough if I only write about cheese, and it is really hard to get good cheese here.   A small pack of American cheese slices cost about $5. A small block of cheddar could be $6 or $7. The local cheese is called paneer, it is a very soft cheese and I do not care for it. We went to A&W once and the cheese on the burger was very strange – defiantly not the American food they advertised. Now I want a grilled cheese sandwich.

Rice is the staple food here. Some people eat it for breakfast lunch and dinner. One cup of cooked white rice is the suggested serving size in the US but here that is not the case. When I was pregnant, and very hungry, I was eating up to three or maybe even four cups per meal. Our driver fills a big bowl each meal, it is a lot of rice.

The typical breakfast here is parotta, flat flaky bread that our cook prepares in advance and freezes. It cooks in a few minutes in a fry pan.  With the parotta we have a sweet (sweet malt-o-meal type thing, a syrup soaked doughnut hole thing, or a custard) and commonly some leftovers from dinner (chicken curry, a dish made from lentils, beef, etc.) or fried potatoes. This is usually not the kind of thing I want for breakfast; I will have toast with jam or egg and toast. Sometimes, I will make Sara some French Toast. I have not yet found a good wheat bread. The “brown bread” from the bakery where we get the white bread from is ok but I suspect that they add molasses or something just to make it brown. The white bread is delicious, especially toasted.

Our cook will usually make a vegetable, meat (chicken, beef, fish, egg and sometimes shrimp, goat or duck) and dal. Dal is one of my favorites; it is made from lentils and different spices and water, the consistency is like soup. We eat it over the rice and it has become my comfort food. Everything is made fresh and from scratch. There are no prepackaged meals like Hamburger Helper. Even the spices are freshly ground. We do not buy ground beef, the cook cuts the beef into small pieces and my mother-in-law grinds it in her food processer. 

Around six every evening we have snack, crackers, cookies, vegetable rolls, samosas, chips, sweets, fruits, toast and jam… there are a lot of options. Sara usually has chips or an apple. I am not fussy but I like to have a fruit with whatever else I have.

Sara and I eat dinner around eight and even with the snack at six we are hungry. Dinner is the same stuff as lunch. We finish the leftovers from lunch but the rice, vegetable, meat, and dal are usually on the table. Sometimes we will have variations from this, like the lentils will be prepared with the protein so there is no dal but that is unusual. Sara is “so sick of rice and whatever!” so occasionally she will get a special meal. Sometimes it is an egg sandwich for lunch or a hotdog or breaded chicken patty (two things we buy instead of make) for dinner. She dislikes all cooked vegetables so I try to give her cucumbers and carrots, which I can peel and give to her and I do not have to worry about her getting sick. Meals are quite the battle with her right now.

Unlike the grocery stores in the US we can only have the fruits and vegetables that are in season. Right now, we are enjoying some gourds, spinach, oranges, carrots, apples, and other winter foods.

When I first got to Bangladesh, I really missed food from home and sometimes I still do. I still miss sandwiches, salads, and mostly tacos for lunch but I am now used to the food here and missed it when I was in America (or I missed having a cook!).

Sam Has to Eat!

I love it when people request topics for me to write about! Most recently, a friend requested I write more about breastfeeding, and people’s reactions.

As I said in my last blog about nursing, I have a love / hate relationship with it. One of the best parts is that I can feed him when he is hungry and I do not have to sterilize anything or bring clean water. I HATE cleaning bottles so it rocks that I do not have to.

I was not really able to nurse Sara for various reasons so I was starting new with Sam. For the first couple of months, I was constantly feeding him. When my mom came for a visit, I had hoped to go out shopping with her and bring her to the salons and restaurants. I was so exhausted from the constant nursing all day and all night! I did not feel like I could go out. Plus, how do you nurse a baby in public here? I already get stared at, I cannot imagine nursing in public with all those people’s eyes on me. In the first 3 months, I did not go out much. When we did, I often ended up nursing him in the car while we were stuck in endless traffic jams. A nice part of the clothes here is that they all come with scarves so I always could cover up a bit. I have become quite adapt at nursing discretely.

At my brother's-in-law wedding Sakib would help me find a back room or in one case, I hid behind the stage decorations and avoided the dripping A/C, another time I sat in a deserted corner, as if we were on timeout. I refuse to use bathrooms because it is just too gross.

After a wedding, there are tons of dinner parties to attend. These are at people’s homes and there is always a spare bedroom available. Most Bangladeshi mothers hire a maid / nanny to help them with their children. We had a young girl working for us during Faisal’s wedding and we brought her along to help. She and Sam did not seem to get along all that well so she was not a great help but it was better than nothing. While nursing in the spare room it happened a few times that, a maid would also be in there with another young child. It seems very few affluent mothers in Bangladesh choose to breastfeed. These maids always had kind smiles for me and it seemed that they may appreciate that I was nursing. They also liked to try to help me. I found this more amusing than annoying. One older woman was feeding another baby from a bottle but was much more engrossed in my breast. She was watching me rather intently and then finally tried talking to me. Once it was clear that I had no idea what she was saying to me she got up, walked over and pushed on my breast because she was concerned that Sam’s nose was squished and he would not be able to breathe. Having a stranger poking at me was a bit off-putting but to be honest I was more concerned that she would wake Sam up. The older maid poking at me also reminded me that in the hospital, after Sam was born, a nurse came to help me get Sam latched on. Sam was a good eater from the start so I did not feel I needed her help but she too poked at my breast so Sam’s nose was clear and then tried to get me to do the same. I remember from the breastfeeding part of my birthing classes, in America before Sara, that babies have cool noses that allow them to breathe even if it is squished into the mother’s breast. Also, I figure if Sam was having any trouble he would be sure to let me know.

Sam hates to be covered while eating. If I try, he will not eat. He’ll get distracted by the cover-up and play with it or get mad at it and cry. All his fussing usually causes me to expose more of myself than if I had not used it at all. I have adapted to this and I always wear a fitted nursing tank under another top. The bottom layer goes down, the top layer goes up and I show less skin than the ABC Thursday night line-up. In Bangladesh, it is more of a conservative culture so I excuse myself still. On the plane rides and while in America, I fed Sam pretty much from wherever I sat. When I went to people’s homes, I would announce that I needed to nurse and gauge their reaction to know if I should excuse myself. I nursed in malls, one time standing around in the back of a kid’s clothes store. I nursed at parks, in the back of my church, at restaurants, and everywhere else we went together. I often had conversations with strangers, women and men, while nursing. I am not sure if they even knew that Sam was eating or if I was just cuddling him. I brought the kids rock climbing a couple times, which was harder to do my shirt trick so I was more exposed then but Sam had to eat. Through all of this breastfeeding, all over the city, no one ever said a bad word or made me feel strange about it. The only times I was self conscious about nursing without a cover was when I was with other moms who were covering while nursing but even then, it was my own insecurities.

Christmas

This year has been a different sort of Christmas for us.

Because the kids and I went to the US and had an early Christmas with my mom, we did not choose to do a big Christmas celebration now. We did not decorate our home and Santa brought one gift for each kid. I told Sara that I sent my own letter to Santa telling him that Sakib and I have all that we need and the gifts we want cannot be wrapped up under a tree. The gifts we want are time together with our beautiful family, wellness, and love. When I told Sara that she should not expect a haul she was disappointed but I reminded her of all of the gifts we have received this year, including our wonderful trip to Minnesota and explained all the fun family things we will do today, her disappointment didn’t last very long. This morning Sara woke up she found her single present and had just as much joy in her face as she did when she had many presents.

 We also did not exchange gifts with each other. Instead, we are focusing on the more important aspects of Christmas. The gifts that cannot be wrapped.  I hope to continue Christmas in this way as my children grow. Next year, Sara, Sam and I can make some decorations and a tree (no evergreens here), they’ll get their gift from Santa and one from us, and maybe I’ll have a lazy elf on a shelf, just to spice things up. I hope that when Sara and Sam are adults they’ll be able to remember back to all our family Christmas celebrations and remember love and togetherness instead of the gifts they did (or did not) get.

I received a wonderful gift today. I went to my first church service in Dhaka. It was held outside on the lawn of the American club. It was a beautiful day and the sun felt so good on my face as I listened to the pastor speak about giving the gift of ourselves to God. Sara decided to stay home, which was a bummer because there was a beautiful park where she could have played. I think Sam enjoyed himself because he behaved himself so well. After the mass, I met the pastor and his wife, both very kind, sincere people, and I met many other very nice people too. They have mass there every Friday morning with a nursery and a separate mass for kids Sara’s age. I am very excited for next Friday and I very much hope many Fridays to come.

Merry Christmas to you all and I hope you all have a great Holiday. 

How I do it.

I don’t know how you do it!

This was the most common statement I heard about traveling alone with two young kids from one side of the planet to the other. I did it like you do anything, you just do it, come what may. After this travel experience, I figure I am qualified to write some “Do’s and Don’ts” about traveling.

Don’t wait to pack everything for the last minute.

Duh! I did wait. I had started putting our warm clothes into the suitcases about a month ahead of time and my husband teased me about it. I didn’t want to seem overly eager so I waited for the packing. True to my form, I waited too long and the evening before we were to leave, I was still gathering everything and making sure our suitcases were not over weight. I did better on the return trip (with prompting from my dear mother), I was ready to go the night before!

Do get in a good nap or nights rest before going.

Again, Duh. I didn’t do this because I was packing at the last minute. I finished the packing with an hour or two to spare and tried to rest but Sara was so excited that she would not sleep and I was only able to toss and turn for about a half hour before I gave it up and did final checks.  This went better for the return trip, seeing as my packing was done.

Do leave in the very early morning.

When I left for America, back in September, our flight left Dhaka at four in the morning. This means we had to be at the airport at two in the morning. This may sound foolish to keep a five year old up all night before traveling but the kid has to sleep eventually, so why not wait until you are on the plane?

Do keep laughing!

We made it to the airport and check in and it was time to say good-bye to Sakib for the next three months. It was a very hard thing to do and I get emotional still while writing about it. It was especially hard on Sara. It was two in the morning, she had not slept yet and she had a very emotional good-bye with her father. As you may guess, this lead to quite the meltdown.  After leaving him, we had to wait in a security check line and as we stood there she was wailing, “I miss my Baba! I want my Baba!” I tried all the normal mom things to comfort her, hugs, distraction, talking about her feelings, but the exhaustion was too much. I let her cry. I didn’t scold her or try to temper her feelings – they just had to come out. I stood there in line, with Sam in his stroller (looking rather confused by his big sisters cries) and had to laugh as her wails filled the small hallway. Everyone stared at us and I could only imagine them thinking that they do not wait to sit next to us! Nothing lasts forever and eventually she started getting distracted by her surroundings. It went something like this:

Sniffle-sniffle, “Mama, look!” She points to a signs around us with her best attempt at a smile, “those signs are purple, why are they all that color?”

She looks up at my sweetly and I take a moment to wipe her face before answering. “I imagine that that is the airlines color.”

Sniffle, “What do you mean, their color?”

I then explained a bit about how companies have colors and symbols to be easily recognized. It takes about a minute or two. Then I ask, “do you understand?”

She looks up at me and I see her eyes have filled with tears again and her little face is all scrunched up, “I want BABA!” Her cries last a minute or two and then, sniffle sniffle, “Mama, look at that lady, her bag is purple too!”

These drastic mood swings lasted through security until we were able to sit at the gate. Through all of it, I tried to smile and laugh to myself because it was either that or stress about it and I did not want to stress.

Do reserve the bulkhead in advance.

Do this on any flight, especially if you have kids with you or you are very tall. If you do not have a baby, you may be bumped for someone with a baby but it is worth the effort if you get it. The extra legroom makes it all worthwhile. The attendant hooked a bassinette to the wall once we were in flight and it was so nice to be able to put Sam down to sleep.

Don’t sit for the whole flight.

When we flew to Bangladesh the first time it was a terrible experience and we swore we would never sit on a plane for fifteen hours again. I was so excited to visit home I would have taken a slow boat over the ocean, sitting the whole way. This time, with Sam, he woke up about every thirty to sixty minutes, which meant that I was standing often to get him in or out of the bassinette. I also spent some time standing and rocking him. All the standing and moving was great and when I got off the flight I did not have the feeling of death warmed over, as I did last time.

Do keep your cool.

I slept when I could, ate all the food offered to me to keep up my energy, and did my best not to get frustrated. Sara refused to eat. The most I could get in her were sips of water, a cup of sprite, and a bread roll, and that was ok. She could eat when we got there. One day with nothing, as long as she is not hungry, will be ok. Sam was getting up a lot, he was nursing a lot, and that was ok. He wasn’t crying or all that fussy so I fed him, laid him down, and tried to sleep as much as possible before he woke me again. Sara not eating and Sam constantly eating probably would have bothered me at home but it had to be OK for the flight. They needed what they did and I needed to be OK with that.

Don’t over pack your carry-on.

General knowledge or advice is to bring your kids favorite book, stuffed animal, travel game, etc with you when you travel. I will never do that again. Everything in your carry-on you have to carry. I strapped Sam to myself while getting on and off the plane (until I get my stroller back from the gate check). I had a backpack filled to the brim (diapers, wipes, change of clothes for each kid, my kindle, toys for them both).  On the return trip, Sara had a backpack filled with stuff she didn’t touch that I had to carry, and my purse so I could reach the passports and tickets easily. All this had to have weighed about fifty pounds. My shoulders still have not recovered.

Do take a bigger plane, if you can.

Sara and Sam never had any trouble with their ears until we were on the smaller planes that took us from Chicago to Minneapolis and reverse. Sam was able to nurse so he was fine but poor Sara suffered through the flights because the smaller planes are not able to manage the pressure as well. We tried all sorts of tricks to help her but none worked.

Don’t forget your barf bag.

We made it fine on the trip from MN to Dhaka but on the return trip Sara vomited twice. The first time was right after we landed in Chicago. We were still in the plane, sitting in the last row, and the very kind attendant was able to give her a bag in time and then gave us some sodas for later.  The second time was after we landed in Dhaka. As we were packing to get off the plane and I was strapping Sam into his carrier, he grabbed the vomit bag out of the seat pocket. I didn’t bother to take it away because he was enjoying himself, waving it around. Sammy carried the bag through the airport and for about fifteen minutes while we waited in the customs line. Sara then announced she was not feeling well so I had Sam hand the bag over. Darn good thing too! I noticed later that someone, a few lines over had vomited on the floor. I will always travel with a barf bag from now on.

Happy travels!

WARNING! This one is about breastfeeding.

As with a lot of things in life, especially in motherhood, I have a love / hate relationship with breastfeeding.

Sometimes, as I cuddle my adorable baby and he is sucking wonderfully at my breast, I am filled with a sense of fullness and he is not only taking my milk but he is drawing love or something even greater up from the every cell in my body. The connection we have is so great that it overwhelms me and all we want, all we need is wrapped up in our little nursing cocoon.

Breastfeeding is demanding. Ask any nursing mother and she will confirm it; Mothers become slaves to tiny dictators. We eat, sleep, and play on the baby's schedule. We have to explain to our older children and sposes that we want to play, cook, or whatever but the tiny human trumps all that. We mothers give every ounce of our energy to the baby and most times are glad and proud that we are able to do it.

Once and a while it becomes too much. The baby has ANOTHER stuffy nose, the baby is getting ANOTHER tooth (to bite us with) and suddenly our comfy little nursing cocoon is more like a torture chamber. The baby's latch gets all screwed up and each suck is more like a "titty twister" and we cannot call our playground supervisor to pull the little bully off. Once the baby settles in, the latch still isn't right but it will do, and soon he's dozing in your arms. Success! You may think but you'd be wrong. Just as the tiny innocent looking angel is finishing his meal he chomps down with those brand new sharp fang-like teeth and your body responds instantly by pulling away which then rakes your overly sensitive little nipple through his teeth and you cannot help but yell out in pain which stirs the little vampire from his sleep and like a baby bird he is once again searching for the nipple.

So we switch sides and do it all again. This time we try to outsmart him. Yes, just as he's finishing we try to break the latch without waking him. The websites make it sound so easy. Simply press on baby's lip with a finger and break the suction. The trouble with this is that it pisses him off, asleep or not, and he will bite you. Another, not-so-great-for-our-nipple-but-better-to-keep-baby-asleep, method is to pull the nipple from the mouth. Sometimes it works, sometimes it pisses him off and he bites you. Eventually, he is asleep and your nipple is free but you are still holding him.

Who ever decided that drop-side cribs are not safe and banned them deserves to have at least 10 kids all who wake easily. Our little dictators know our plan to get them out of our arms and into their crib and try their best to foil it. Our only hope is to cuddle that baby close all the way down to the crib mattress and hold them there for a few seconds so they don’t feel the transition in their sleep. If that kid wakes, it is all over and the nursing starts again unless it all took too long and now the nap is done and baby is ready to play. This, depending on the day, could result in much frustration and tears.

The baby does have to sleep eventually and when he does, a fairy gets its wings... or something equally as magical.

At this point, the fate of the world rests in everyone in a mile radius being very quiet. This includes the five year old who lives in the next room. I have read that it is important that a baby learn to sleep with noises. I agree that it is true and important but my nipples do not agree. They believe that if anyone so much as hiccups in the same room as the baby or even outside the door they should be punished severely. Trying to balance my brain and nipples desires consumes me every moment my baby sleeps.

Now he is asleep. Yep, still sleeping... great. Still asleep? Yes... now what? It has been too long. My brain knows it. He didn't sleep well last night and he's making up for it now. My nipples rejoice. The rest of me knows better. If he's still asleep now he won't sleep tonight. If I wake him, he will be crabby and he may want to nurse, maybe he'll feel better and we'll climb back into our happy cocoon, or not...

Our trip out of Dhaka

I have been living in Bangladesh for about 10 months now. I was pregnant when I came and because of that reason, we did not plan any trips outside of Dhaka. Abu has been working in the family business and has had to travel to Jessore and the family’s textile mill for work. While there, he saw extended family who was upset with him for not bringing the kids and me to visit yet. When we decided that the kids and I would visit the US, we also decided that it would not be right for us to leave Bangladesh without seeing more than a small part of Dhaka.

There are four ways to travel to Khulna and Jessore: car, bus, train and plane.  Car is not really an option for us because we do not own our own and my in-laws need theirs. I said no to the bus because I could not imagine sitting on a crowded bus for eight or more hours with two kids while strangers stare at me while I try to hide while breastfeeding Sam. The train, even with a private cabin, is less expensive than an airplane and I would be able to see the countryside as we go.

We arrived at the train station minutes before seven in the evening, when our train was scheduled to leave, in a huge rush, only to find out our train was delayed at least three hours. We went back home, had dinner and relaxed a bit. I was worried we would have to rush again so around ten at night I was eager to get going. We arrived back at the train station around 10:30 but the train did not come until about midnight. There is only one bridge crossing over a large river and that bridge had a crack in it so all trains were delayed anywhere from five to ten hours while the bridge was being repaired. Even with Sara and Sam, the wait was not so bad. Sara behaved herself nicely and Sam either slept or watched everything without much fuss. The only bad part was the crowd. The station itself was not overly crowded, except for our little area. I am now used to being stared at while I am on the move but it is very different while sitting in public. People literally stop midstride to look at me and they are not shy about it. People of all ages, men, women, kids, it does not matter they will stop and stare. At any given time there would be anywhere from two to ten people standing in a circle around us. Sometimes, a braver person will ask where I am from or ask Abu about the kids and me and this draws more people. Two young girls came over just to ask if they could hold Sam. They could not. Occasionally, Abu would shoo everyone away only to have them trickle back a few minutes later.  When our train finally arrived, we waiting for it to empty there were a dozen or so people who climbed off the top of the two train cars in front of us. It was hard to watch, the train is quite high and there are no ladders. They would throw a leg off the side and try to step onto the half-inch thick windowsill before jumping the rest of the way down. The train is quite high and the platform is not raised, as it is in the US. The door to get on the train is about four feet above the platform.

Sara is SUPER excited!

People climbing off the train.

When we finally made it to our private cabin, we found it was infested with small cockroaches. The train attendant sprayed the room with some bug killer and then closed up the cabin for it to be most effective. He also sprayed the rest of the cabins but the train was about to leave so we had to go sit and be settled. The spray did not have the time to work so we kept our shoes ready to smash the little buggers. It was a bit annoying but not nearly as bothersome as I thought I would find it. We were able to sleep fairly well. I woke up early and got to experience trying to pee on a rocking train. We still had a few hours left on our journey. It was great to see so much open space and nature. Everything was so very green! Rice paddies and jute fields spotted the landscape. We stopped about once an hour or so to pick up or drop off more people.

My family at 1 am.

Lucky shot out the train window.

Road to a village.

Well used bikes.

Our cabin.

Our stop was the last on the line, which was nice because the train only stopped for less than three minutes at each stop. With Two suitcases, two shoulder bags and two kids, it would have been tough to get off in time. We were nearly to Khulna and Sara started to not feel well. There was not a food or drink service during this portion of the trip so Abu would have to get off and buy a sprite from a little shop on the platform. Unfortunately, we were in the car right behind the engine and the shop was on the other side of the platform near the caboose. He was collecting his change when the horn sounded and the train started to move. He shoved the change in his pocket, had his wallet in one hand and the soda in the other and took off running. People on the train were yelling for him to jump onto a different car. Our train was actually separate from the rest so if he were to jump on to any car there would be no way for him to get to us until the train stopped again. He sprinted down the platform, dodging people as he went. About fifteen feet before he reached the end of the platform - and missing our train car - he caught up. Remember, the door is about four feet off the ground so with the soda in one hand and his wallet in the other he grabbed onto the rails, got a foot on the ladder, prayed that he would not slip, and jumped aboard. I was in the cabin with the kids worrying because we were gaining speed and Abu was not back yet. I stuck my head out the door and he was trying to catch his breath and sweating in the hall. It was all very exciting! A few sips of Sprite and Sara perked up. It was totally worth his run.

After all excitement, Sam decided he was ready for food and a nap so I took him to the top bunk and we fell asleep. Abu and Sara dozed off soon after Sam and me and we did not wake up until the train reached Khulna and the all the power was turned off. When the power went off so did our high powered AC and the heat and humidity quickly poured into our cabin. We were barely able to get off our bunks and straighten our clothes before someone was pounding on our door. Abu’s family had sent their driver to pick us up and help with our bags. He was fast and efficient. Before I really knew what was happening we were out on the platform and I pulled out my camera and started snapping random pictures.

Looking back at our train.

Cows wandered around freely. 

A Hindu monk.

On the way to the car.

Cows eating trash.

The train station was crowded with trucks carrying goods to Dhaka and it took us a while to navigate the car through the heavy traffic. Once we were away from that area, the roads were fairly clear and we made it to Abu’s aunt and uncle’s house in just a few minutes. Abu’s uncle is well known in Khulna and owns a few properties. Their house is over a medical clinic that the family started and runs. His uncle is also in the process of building a hospital near the house. The house above the clinic is the house my mother-in-law grew up in. It is large and very comfortable. Abu’s uncle is in America visiting but his aunt and cousin were there and were extremely welcoming.  We ate, showered and rested. We were only able to stay one night and were up early the next day to catch a car to Jessore. Before we left, I requested a tour of the clinic. It is a great resource for the city. I met some of the patients, which I felt bad about because I am sure I would not like it if I was introduced to some random woman when I was not feeling well but the patients did not seem to mind. Two women had just had babies and the babies were cute and healthy.

The room where we slept.

Cooking over a wood stove.

Street view from the roof.

A man selling fish.

The neighbors.

OR

OR Supplies

Gloves drying after they were washed.

The big baby died at 20 weeks and would have been 20 years old now. The little one was 12 weeks.

Labor bed.

Delivery bed for normal deliveries.

The drive to Jessore (which took us within an hours drive to the Indian boarder) took about two hours. The road was narrow and every few miles there were speed bumps by the villages. The drive was like a rally race that involves playing chicken with each oncoming vehicle. The method of driving seems to be speed up as fast as you can while swerving around traffic and then slamming on the breaks for the speed bumps and then doing it all over again. By the time we reached Jessore I was very glad to be out of the car because if I was about to get carsick. We ate at a very small, very old, and very well known restaurant near the house (I just had bread) and I requested that we walk back to the house. I was a short very crowded walk.

The restaurant.

Walking down the road.

Primary mode of transport for the narrow roads.

The family’s home in Jessore is very old. Back in the 1940s when the British left the subcontinent, they divided the land into East and West Pakistan and India. The Hindus were to stay in India and the Muslims in Pakistan. To accommodate this, house exchanges were arranged.  This house used to belong to a Hindu family and there is proof of that in the architecture of the house. There was a separate entrance for the servants of the house because of the cast system that parts of India still imposes. The toilets are separate from the showers, which I was told, is Hindu custom.  There are very cool large pillars inside the door and a courtyard in the center. Only a few people live there now and most of the huge house is closed up. Gas stoves and fuel are sold out of the front of the house. We only had a short visit while I fed Sam, Sara played and Abu ran to the bank. Too soon, we were back in the dreaded car. 

Just inside the front door.

The courtyard.

Sam hanging out in one of the bedrooms.

View from the window.

Sara and Sam with a cousin. 

After another forty minutes of stomach churning driving, we made it to the village house. I immediately went straight to the bathroom, which was the nicest squat toilet I have ever seen, and proceeded to puke until I was empty. I was feeling very bad physically and emotionally because this is the first time I was meeting these members of Abu’s family and I was running in and out of the bathroom. Everyone was so nice, they had dressed up and prepared food and all I could do was moan and puke. After an hour or two, I lost track of the time, I was starting to feel better and drank a lot of water. It turns out, pretty much the whole village came to see me and each person there encouraged me to eat. I finally agreed to food just because I felt so rude saying no so many times. I ate very little and was surprised how much better I felt after I did. I finally got up, met everyone properly, and got a tour of the village. During the whole time I was moaning inside, Sara was having the time of her life playing with all the kids outside and Abu was relaxing and exploring his old stomping grounds.  Abu toured me around, all the kids ran in front of us, and the women followed at a distance. Everyone was very curious about me.  I figure this must be what it is like to be famous, being followed around and stared at.

While I was sitting on the bed, feeling very bad, all these people and more were there to see me. One woman was kind enough to say that I was very pretty despite the fact that I am sure I was green. 

Sara and the kids.

The round thing holds rice and the doors in the bottom are for the chicken coop. 

Some of the women from the village. 

Goats, chickens, and cows roam free. On a side note, they served goat for lunch. 

During the tour the kids stayed close.

and the ladies stayed back.

Wood burning stove. These homes with the wood burning stoves also had gas options but they still prefer to use the wood. 

Even though I was sick for a while I truly enjoyed my visit to the village and look forward to going back. We only stayed during that one day and then left to go to Abu’s great aunt’s house for dinner. After the meal we left and drove to Raz Textile Mill. The drive was about forty minutes again but at night, with less traffic and the time I had to recover, I made the drive without getting sick again.

I have heard a lot about the textile mill but what I did not realize is that it is so much more than the mill. There is a whole community there. The employees live in the surrounding village. There is even a school on the property for the employee’s children. We stayed in the owner’s bungalow. It is a large two-story house with four bedrooms and three bathrooms. While an owner stays there, there is a man who takes care of the house and cooks meals. There is a guard stationed outside the door, although I felt quite safe without him. These rules about having the cook and guard were set in place by Abu’s grandfather when the mill was started back in the 1960’s. Our cook is a really nice man and an excellent cook, he loves the kids, especially Sam, and made our trip even more enjoyable. We arrived at night so we went straight to bed. The next day we explored the grounds, saw the school, the river that runs behind the mill and the mill itself. The mill produces the tread to make fabric, not the fabric itself. It is a twenty-four hour operation, has three shifts, and employs hundreds of people. They take in raw wool and spin it into different types of white thread that are shipped to different factories to weave into fabric. We stayed one more night and left very early the next morning to have breakfast in Jessore and catch a ten o’clock train home.

The owners bungalow. 

Someones home. 

School building.

Principal's office.

A new classroom.

Road to the employees homes.

Our cook lives in the white home on the right. 

The man who lives here is a security guard. He invited us in and loaned us his umbrella when it suddenly started to rain. 

MAT - Mohammed Abu Taher - Abu's Grandfather. Abu and Sam are both named after him. The family had brick fields too and introduced branding on the bricks in this area. 

Making thread.

Finishing thread.

I cannot believe this barges can go down this river!

The ferry brings people to and from the village on the other side of the river. 

The road to the factory from the river. 

By the time we packed and got the kids in order we were running very late, and it was just our luck that our train was not. We stopped at the Jessore house to pick up some groceries and just before we got out of the car, Sara threw up all over Abu’s pant leg, shoe and the car seat. Motion sickness struck again. We cleaned it all up as quick as possible and went on to another relative’s house for the shortest breakfast and visit ever.  Sara was feeling much better and the ride to the train was short. When we got to the station, we saw our train there. At this stop, the train only stays about three minutes so I knew we missed it. We had one suitcase in the doorway of the train car – not our car – when the train started moving. The station manager tried to get us to run and jump on board but there was no way I was going to do that with all our stuff, with Sara, and while carrying Sam so we pulled the suitcase off and watched the train pull away. All the sudden, everyone started to yell, whistles were blowing, and the train actually stopped. Abu told me the station manager radioed the conductor and actually had the train stop for us. We hopped on the last car and made our way up the train, which with all our stuff took Abu and a train employee a few trips. Lucky for us our cabin was in the second to last car this time and there was a door between the cars.

We settled in, killed some cockroaches, slept, woke, ate some train food (it was not horrible), slept some more, I found out that squat toilets on trains are not nearly as bad as they sound, and soon we could see the big buildings that could only be the outskirts of Dhaka City. Aziz, our driver, picked us up and about an hour later we made it home. The noise and the commotion of the city seemed so much worse than normal after the peace and quiet of the Bangladeshi countryside. Even with the bugs, and the vomiting, which really could ruin a vacation, I had a wonderful time and I cannot wait to go back. I hope that we can make regular, longer, trips there after the kids and I get back from America. However, maybe we will fly down to try and reduce the bugs and the vomiting. 

Our cabin on the way home. Abu and Sara are sleeping. 

Almost home.