MY MCNIGHTMARE

For us, it sometimes seems that there are two worlds when it comes to CF.  The world of pancreatic sufficiency and the world of not.  To the layman this may be new ground.  Pancreatic sufficiency?  What's that?  I thought CF was a lung thing.  What's the pancreas got to do with it?  Quite a bit, actually.

For upwards of 85% of those fighting the effects of CF, the pancreas is a real thorn in the side.  Literally.  Do the math and that's roughly 25,500 individuals who are not only fighting for every breath but also fighting to keep their bodies adequately nourished.  You'll recall that one of the major nightmares associated with CF is the thick, tarlike mucus that gets stuck, plugged up if you will, in the airways of the lungs.  This crud, for lack of a better word, also coats the intestines and pancreas causing the digestive enzymes that your pancreas makes to be unable to reach your small intestine.  These enzymes help break down the food that you eat. Without them, your intestines can't fully absorb fats and proteins thus impeding the nutrients from getting to where they need to go.  Kind of a rough problem to have don't you think?  Break down the 'malnutrition' euphemism and I'm talking about some really important vitamins not being absorbed into the body which can make for a real mess.  Imagine eating a full meal and not getting any nutritional bang for your buck; instead, it running straight through you like water through a seive. 

Take vitamin A for example.  Wanna have some skin problems?  Okay then, eliminate it. 

Then there's B12.  Wanna be anemic for a while?  Fine with me, nix that one too. 

Don't forget about vitamin D.  If you're up for some bone abnormalities axe it along with A & B12. 

Oh yeah, let's not leave out vitamin E.  Neurological problems, anyone?  Really?  Okay, zap it.

You want some more?  Fine.  I'll raise you some blood clotting issues for your vitamin K.

Vitamins A, B12, D, E and K are what I think of as the BIG 5 when it comes to CF.  I'm usually on the edge of my chair when Elaine, the dietician on our team, reads off the kids' levels from the blood tests.  I don't know about you but I think it's high time we had a Pancreas Appreciation Day.

Lucky for Charlie and Lola, we are still living in the world of the other 15%.  Yep, in one aspect of CF we actually won a prize:  pancreatic sufficiency.  Both kids have a pancreas that is fuctioning enough to get by.  Enough meaning, nope, it's not quite normal like the average Joe's, but it is managing to process enough of the goods that we don't have a regimen of enzyme pills to pop before every meal.  As I type this, I wrap a couple knuckles loudly on the wooden table where my laptop sits;  once for good luck, twice for continued good luck and a third time just to be sure Whomever heard me the first two times.  We were told from the git go that pancreatic sufficiency can be a fleeting thing, often waning as time goes by.  So for the time being, I rewind and hit play every few days or so just so I can hear my pediatrician's words of wisdom from way back when we got Lola's diagnosis, "Enjoy the good health while you have it..."  That said, we pay very close attention to the kids' diets; in short, what goes in AND (drumroll) what comes out. 

Even before we became a CF family, we were particularly Nazi in our menu selection for Charlie.  The kid never knew what Gerber was because his Papa made all of his baby food from scratch - typically Spanish if I do say so myself.  Breast milk for the first year, formula never touched his lips. The poor kid never even had a cookie or ice cream until well after his second birthday.  Abusive?  No.  Neurotic?  Perhaps. And quite naturally, we were the laughing stock of the entire extended family.



Overprotective.

Anal.

Ridiculuous.



Whatever.  We had our premie, he was more than thriving and Joe and I made a pact that no matter what the cost, our kids would ALWAYS be given REAL food for a fighting chance at developing a decent palate.  We also agreed that we would never sell out to the convenience of fast food chains or the pleas for Coca Cola.  Afterall, what exactly are the nutritional benefits of giving pop to a 2 year old?  We figured that if he never had it to begin with, that he wouldn't know what he was missing.  And guess what? 

We were right on the money.

Charlie ate like a king and was climbing up the growth charts.  The kid was remarkably healthy too, which we attribute to a diet that is rich in fruits, vegetables and fresh proteins.  We have consequently followed the exact same philosophy with Lola and now Henry.  Until last week.

Yeah, last week was a first for me as a parent.

We were out east at Joe's sister's house; celebrating the birth of Christ and mourning the loss of Babu Mercedes.  It was bittersweet; the whole family together but the center of it - the heart - missing.  Joe's mom had been fighting one form of cancer or another ever since I had met her some twelve years ago.  We were all devastated at the loss - our loss...but thankful that her suffering had finally come to an end and that she had passed with her children at her side.  So there we are, fumbling through the ritual that is Christmas, still somewhat numb from the loss but finding the joy through the eyes of the children who are squabbling, playing, teasing...just being kids.  At one point, we decided to divide and conquer a seemingly insurmountable to-do list by splitting the kids up amongst the adults.  We took off, tackled our respective lists and met back at the house to debrief.  And this my friends is where the double homicide nearly occurred.

SIL:  Lola, did you tell Mamá what you had for lunch today?

Me:  Did Tita Susi and Tita Pepis (note:  Pay-peace, not Pepsi) take you out for a special lunch, honey?

Lola:  [grinning from ear to ear]  Mmmmhmmm.

Me:  What did you eat?

Lola:  MADONNAS
Me:  [hopeful yet worried]  Madonnas?
SIL:  No, she means MCDONALD'S.  And you shoulda' seen her!  What a machine...she went to town on it!

Me:  [jaw clenched, forced grin and feeling like I want to crap all over her white carpet]  What did you order for her?  Chicken nuggets?

SIL:  Are you kidding me?  A BIG, greasy hamburger.  You shoulda seen her wolf that thing down!

Me:  [dryly] Well, I hope she enjoyed it because it will be the last one she ever eats.

The maniacle fits of laughter spouting from my sisters-in-law sent me out the front door and around the block on a fast walk.  Pissed doesn't even come close to describing how I felt at that point.  I was furious.  Go ahead, feed that garbage to your kid, but not mine.  Hadn't they seen Jamie Oliver's experiment?  Well yeah, it was considered by most to be an 'epic failure' but it sure did illustrate a point.  We had invested nearly 5 years in teaching the kids about what a  heatlhy choice is and why it's in their best interest to eat for fuel and these two knuckleheads had undermined everything in 2.2 minutes.  INTENTIONALLY.

I decided to let it go and left it on the back loop of the sub division.  The damage was done.  Ronald McDonald had found his way to my little girl's digestive tract.  I'd just have to keep a closer eye on her the rest of the week - no more 'errands' with the Titas, that was for sure.  So not wanting to make a scene, I trudged back to the house and vowed not to make an issue out of it.  Afterall, the more I drew attention to it, the more the kids would remember the whole thing.  I would give the Titas a Get out of Jail Free card and chalk up the lapse in judgement to extreme grief.  For now it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Now reading this, I know there are some eyeballs rolling so let me explain my point of view on the whole fast food boycott.  I know that for many with CF, especially those who are struggling with digestive issues, that food becomes a major focal point.  I've heard so many talk about pumping in those extra calories in any way, shape or form because the effects of CF really make it a challenge for people to keep weight on.  For me however, I struggle with the concept of 'anything goes' just to get the calories up.  When I think about how that processed food is made; the chemicals, the grease, the scraps, the fat - it just cannot be good for your body at all.  I think about foreign nations who perhaps aren't so developed as we are and I wonder, how come I never read about them having a high rate of obesity, heart disease, cancer, diabetes, etc.?  I'm no scientist - in fact I'm about as far left of scientist as one could possibly be.  However, I believe to my core that good nutrition has made a difference in the health of my kids - less flu, less colds, less everything and I'll be damned if I'm gonna sell out now. 

As for Lola's Date with the Devil?  I guess I'll just be thankful that her GI tract is solid enough to handle the garbage that the titas dumped into her. 
Grrrrrrrrr....

DOWN BUT NEVER OUT

How fitting that my last post, some 6 months ago, was titled On Hiatus.  It must have been my subconscious writing that day as I really did have no immediate plans to abandon my blog.  Apologies aside, I'm back.  Now let me catch you up to speed...

Basically, I was feeling like real crap.  Crap with a capital C.  The kind of crap that you just can't put your finger on so you ignore it, chalk it up to getting older and trudge forward dragging one foot at a time.  I knew something was off but I just couldn't quite pin it down.  Was it Joe?  Was it the kids?  Was it work?  Was it CF? Was it the house?  The dog?  The yard?  The bills?  Uhm, no dumbass it's YOU!

Once I made that startling revelation, I grabbed the phone and made an appointment for a complete physical, something I had neglected to do since turning into a human incubator for the past 5 years.  While on hold with the receptionist it dawned on me that I had serviced my car more frequently than I had my own body.  The girl who had once been so responsible about getting a yearly physical, had taken a hiatus on her own health, servicing only her vagina for those nasty postpartum checks once every eleven months.  Vagina be damned.  Enough was enough.

As I drove to my appointment the following week, I was nervous - sweaty palms kind of nervous.  I knew that the scale was not going to be kind and the doctor even less.  Let's face it, 4 pregnancies in less than 5 years does not a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model make.  I thought back to the old me - the me who had taken up running 8 to 10 miles a day 'for fun'...what had happened to that girl?  I was trapped inside a body that wasn't mine and absolutely everything ached.  Doing the math, it was not hard to understand why either.  Since Charlie's birth nearly 5 years ago, I had put on 160 pounds yet had only managed to shed half as much.  By the time Henry was born I looked like Jabba the Hut, tipping the scales at 239 pounds.  Everyone kept feeding my ego about the pregnacy glow - yeah, it was a glow alright...a red hot mess of a glow.  

Dr. K walked in, asked how I was doing and I burst out in tears. 

"Not, good..."  I snorted.  "Not good at all."  Between sobs I told her how tired, how depressed, how frustrated, how completely spent I was.  I told her about how stressed out I was about cystic fibrosis and how I felt like I was always waiting for the roof to cave in, the other shoe to drop...basically, for the shit to hit the fan.  I had practiced on the drive in to work the converstation of me being completely open and honest with my doctor.  And for the first time in my adult life, I was.  If she was gonna bill my insurance for this visit, she was gonna earn every penny of it, dammit.  No more feigning Mrs. Good Patient.  I was coming clean.

I'm not one to break apart so easily - at least I like to think so.  Evidently, though this is not the case.  It was kind of like a breach in a dam; once the leak was sprung, everything came spilling out.  She listened, I bawled.  She listened some more, I ranted.  A little blood work, some urine and a few tissues for the road and I was done.  As we say in Spain, pis pas no más.  I was out the door.

Life went back to normal - whatever that means and I waited for her call that labs were back and it was time to consider Prozac.  Instead, I got a personal invitation to come back in to go over the results.  I had a sinking feeling wash over me.  Breast cancer?  A brain tumor?  Schizophrenia?  I was a mess.

"Well, we have your labs.  Quite interesting really..."

Great, I thought.  I'm dead.

"Remember how upset you were at the last visit?  How you complained of being so tired, so depressed?"

My throat, dry a as a bone, I barely managed a "Mmmhmmm..."

"Well, I checked your thyroid.  Kelly, a normal functioning thyroid will score in the range of 3 to 4; high being in the teens."

Oh God.  It's over.  I have cancer. 

"Your thyroid came in at 136.  It's the highest score I've ever seen in more than 15 years of practice."
GASP.

"It explains everything, Kelly.  This is why you have been feeling so down.  Your thyroid has been underperforming and so your pituitary gland has been dumping excess hormone levels into it in hopes of kick starting it.  But what's happening is that it's flooding your system, causing you to be overly tired, lethargic and yes, even depressed."

Screwed yet again by bad genetics.  Dammit.

"I'm putting you on a thyroid medication, and a daily dose of vitamin B.  We'll follow up in six weeks to reassess and if need be, tweak the dosage."

That's it?  No chemo?  "Uh, okay."

That was in how my conversation ended with Dr. K on August 17th.  Now, 4 months and over 150 miles later, I can say, erh...I can shout,  "I'M BACK.  THIS BITCH IS BACK!"

At last appointment, my thyroid, cholesterol, and weight were all within normal range and I feel like ME again.  Is it the meds?  Well yeah, they definitely helped to get things under control but I don't attribute everything to them.  I've been working out daily and working out hard core, like I used to.  The treadmill that once mocked me, now winces when it sees me coming.  The .8 of a mile that nearly brought me to my knees is now a cool 10 mile run, balls to the wall as I like to say, with NO pit stops.  I hear Ronnie Sharpe pushing me with "...you can do anything for just one more minute, can't you?"  I hear CysticGal pounding that treadmill and baptizing those new lungs of hers as HERS.  I hear Maylie's fit of giggles as she jumps higher and higher on that trampoline out back. I hear Charlie coach Lola to "take a big breath, hold it as long as you can and let's see who can stay under longer."  And the mommy guilt that once was no longer is.  I decided that in order for me to be a good (insert noun), I have to lead by example.  How can I ask my kids to adhere to an hour or more daily health regimen if I myself can't even maintain one?  If I want Charlie, Lola and Henry to love the feeling of a good workout then it's my responsibility to show them; not just talk the talk but walk the walk.  I traded my 5AM drive into school to work on lesson plans that may or may not get rave reviews for a 5AM drive to the YMCA.  I kept "21 days to make a habit" as my mantra knowing that if I could stick with it long enough, it would be a need not a just a seemingly intangible want.  I tuned out the excuses and plugged in to those who were leading by example; mainly my friends on CysticLife. 

Then, almost by dare, I took it up a notch.  I signed up for my official comeback.  March 20, 2010 I will be running my first half marathon since gosh, I can't even remember how long its been.  Of course I'm running for my cause, CF.  One of the many rock stars of the CF community, Emily Schaller, has organized a virtual race, Out Run CF.  The concept is so genius - sign up to run, pay your twenty bucks (all of which goes to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation), pick your distance, then no matter where you are on 3/20/11, RUN IT. 

I am running to raise funds and awareness for cystic fibrosis.  I am running because I have two strong legs, two great lungs and two awesome kids who are chasing good health.  I am running because I want to show my kids, all three of them,  that comebacks are the norm not the exception.    I am running because I can.

I am running for me. 

And I invite you, my long lost friends, to do the same. 

RUN.  WITH.  ME.

ON HIATUS

It never fails.  Whenever I get to a certain point in mowing the yard, my brain kicks into automatic pilot, my to-do list that I've been mentally checking off all morning self destructs and I'm on temporary hiatus from the chaos that is life.  This same phenomenon, though perhaps to a slightly lesser degree, used to happen to me back when I could call myself a runner-10 miles here, 6 to 8 there...but let's face it, a husband, three kids and a dog later, those running shoes have seen little action lately. 

So there I am today, following the power lawn mower back and forth across the front yard wondering how badly the tan lines from my nursing bra are going to look if I can ever get into normal clothes again and I pass the lightning stunted climbing tree that would usually have 4-6 kids hanging out of it save for the fact that Charlie and Lola have been at Grandma's for the past day and a half, the neighbor kids are pissed and now boycotting our front yard.  Anyway, as I pass the tree I squeeze the handle of the mower a little too tightly and feel the power surge and it dawns on me that in doing so I have probably just used up more gas than necessary.  And like that my mind takes off like a stallion out of the gates at Churchill Downs and I can barely keep up...

How much gas does this mower hold in it's tank?
More than a gallon?  Less than a gallon?
Lemme think now -  I can fit 3 gallons comfortably in our side by side fridge, provided they're the Costco kind.
How many gallons did they say BP spilled into the Gulf of Mexico?
Didn't Anderson Cooper report some 1.5-2.5 million gallons since mid April?
MILLION?
No.  Impossible.  Well, if it IS in the millions we're screwed.  
And why do they keep calling it a spill?  Isn't a 'spill' more like a one time event?
You know, like,  "Hey Charlie, careful now, that's a big-boy cup.  No lid on that one, Buddy.  Try not to spill."
All that oil from the live feed camera just above CNN's ticker was coming out full force.  That was no 'spill' in fact, it looked more like a massive hemorrhage to me.
How do you spell hemorrhage anyway?  One h?  Two?  I think there's two.
So if BP drilled into the floor of the ocean to hit oil, the pipe then broke....um, yeah, this is some some serious shit.
How many gallons came out again?
Per day?
Per hour?
Total?
How big is the Gulf of Mexico anyway?
And now there are reports of oil coming ashore and settling to the sandy bottom of the sea floor.
How is THAT going to effect all those bottom feeder fish?
Will I ever be able to eat a jumbo Gulf shrimp again without needing a follow-up medical exam?
Won't the birds that survive get sick from eating contaminated fish?
Are the birds that have been rescued smart enough not to fly back into all that crap again?
Geez, how can they miss it?  It's everywhere.
Oh crap, there goes the food chain.
Wait a second, didn't they say in high school earth science class that water evaporates off of the big bodies of water, goes up into the atmosphere and then comes down again? 
What exactly was it about that water cycle thing again?
I gotta look that up.
So my toilet overflows.  Shit is going everywhere.  I'm not gonna whip out the Clorox and start mopping the floor.  NoSireeJimBob-a-Rooney.  I'm gonna turn the danged thing off. 
Yeah, common sense says to TURN.IT.OFF!
What were they thinking?
Plug the damned thing.
Now.
And hey, Mexico.  You too Central America, Cuba, and while we're at it, South America - newsflash:  it's your water too!
Can't that Gulf stream spin that crap down around the tip of Florida and whip it up the Eastern Seaboard?
Well, helllllllooooo Europe!
Come on, world.  Get off your butts and react to this. 
It's a stinkin' mess!!
HELP!
How many platforms are out there anyway?
Who's regulating them?
Hell, what good is regulating them when your drilling into the bowels of Mother Earth? 
Jesus.  This is insane.
Where did we buy the gas for this mower?
Did it come from a BP station?
Note to self, gotta boycott BP.
Nope.  Not gonna double cut the lawn today. 
Maybe I should stop mowing altogether.
Wouldn't the neighbors just love that? 
Better yet, I should get Joe to do his ridiculous crab grass removal strategy which involves matches and a bit of pyromania on the entire front yard and not just the bad spots
No, wait!  We could burn a message into the front yard so that all of the NW flights that fly over our house can look down and see in giant letters


F     U     B    P


Yeah.  That's it.

Hang on, sister.  There's more to it than just oil...
It's deforestation.
It's lack of recycling.
It's global warming. 
It's lack of potable water.  95% of the world’s cities still dump raw sewage into their water supplies.  Really?  Come on, people.
It's food safety and chemical contamination.  Genetically modified crops, food tainted with salmonella and E.coli bacteria, milk and other food containing hormones or antibiotics, baby formula laced with perchlorate (a chemical used in rocket fuel and explosives)...
No wonder our insurance rates keep climbing.
It's pandemics and superbugs.  Swine flu.  Avian flu.  Resistance to antibiotics.  70% of which are fed to healthy pigs, poultry and cattle, and end up in our food and water supply.
How's THAT?
It's nuclear energy.
It's...it's...it's...enough already. 
Screw the yard.
I'm going back to running.
My butt and thighs will thank me.
My unbalanced postpartum hormone levels are too unstable for this shit, that's for sure.
Oh yeah, and one last thing.

F     U     B     P
 

Viva Espana

For your information, I was the geek who sat front row center of your high school Spanish class. The one who had not just her hand but her entire arm straight up in the air after Senora's every question.  For those old enough to remember Mr. Kotter, I was the Horshack and the class was AP Spanish.  On any given day you could walk by the room, peer in and see me leaning so far over in my desk chair that it teetered on the brink of tipping over, my fingers straining skyward with an added frantic wiggle at the tips to alert Senora that I knew the conditional tense of ser and could use it in a sentence.  I annoyed my classmates to no end as I parroted the accents coached by my teachers,  "Carmen estaaaaah en el baño.  Me guuustaaah la sopa pero no puedo comer maaaaahs."  By the time I was a Senior my family had sponsored four different foreign exchange students, I was stealing the monthly copies of Hola magazine from our local public library and I had convinced myself that Prince Juan Carlos and I had a future together.  Good times alright...good times.


Although things didn't work out for good ole' PJC and me, I did manage to land myself a Spaniard.  Joaquin Jose Geist aka Joe, Joey, El Americano...he's all mine.  And together we have three kids, a dog, two cars, a clubhouse out back and a tree swing out front.  Life is pretty good, I must admit.  Yet we are cashing it all in.  Not for more but rather for it.  A chance at our wildest dream come true: a permanent move to Spain. 

The question inevitably comes up: Are you guys really moving to Spain? But why? Why Spain? Even my Spanish friends ask me this. And I'm left there scratching my head, trying to sum it all up in a sentence or two before the moment passes. Usually I just smile uncomfortably, shrug and give a lame, "Well, we just love it there," which is true but it's actually a lot more complicated than that. At least I'd like to think so. So I think I'll take a detour from my rant on cystic fibrosis and concentrate on putting this question to bed once and for all.  Here's the because in no particular order...

1. PLEASE PASS THE SOCIALIZED MEDICINE

During the work week I see my children for less than three hours a day; 30 minutes of which they are strapped in to their Vests and doing treatment.  Talk about a captive audience.  I realize that some of this is my own doing since I leave for school when it's still dark out and am almost always the first teacher to arrive in the building.  I'm a morning person and I use the quiet that is an empty school building to my advantage...whether it's grading papers or lesson planning...all in the name of keeping work at work and not cutting into my family time at home.  I usually get home, barring any after school meetings, around 4pm.  This leaves me slightly more than 3, sometimes closer to 4 hours to reconnect over dinner, bath time, and treatment.  In spite of having summers, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Spring Break off, I've managed to miss most of my children's major milestones:  first steps, first words, first self inflicted haircut...I spend more time with other peoples children than I do my own and THAT really bothers me.

I'm the first to admit to being a working mom by necessity, not by choice.  I work because without my job we would have no health insurance, dental insurance, or life insurance.  I tried to go half time following Lola's birth and it killed us financially.  The cost of health insurance for our family devoured 85% of my meager paycheck that year.  It was shocking, to say the least.  Though the perks of my husband's self employed status are many, it is stressful to feel the weight of your family's medical well being upon your shoulders.  So many times I have shuddered at the thought of the current layoffs at school hitting us. Losing my benefits would be like losing a major limb.  I don't know if we would survive it.  And so I continue to work full time...not for bread and butter but for the safety net that is insurance.

Enter socialized medicine!  Spain is a democratic monarchy.  And in Spain, everyone is entitled to health care.  Free health care, that is.  Are there long lines for waiting?  Yep.  That is, if you're going in for a tummy tuck or a twisted ankle.  But for the major stuff, you will be just fine.  You won't die from waiting in line in the E.R. if you're having a heart attack.  You won't have to wait your turn to give birth either.  And best of all, chronic conditions, such as CF, are treated as priority.  CF patients are seen at accredited care centers routinely every two months.  This is actually more often than the kids are seen here in the States.   Also, because there is no FDA to contend with, Europe is seeing some pretty quick turnarounds for agressive drug therapies aimed at cystic fibrosis.  While the kids do not (yet) have a health regimen that includes any of the hard core drugs, we would like to be positioned to receive them if the need arises.  Remember your last trip to the pharmacy?  How much did you end up paying?  Was your copay enough to handle it?  Some of my CF mama friends are spending more than $10,000 a year on drugs to keep their kids up to snuff.  One gal pal met her full year's deductible at her first pick up at the pharmacy for that plan year.  What gives?  Why so expensive?  Is the mass marketing by pharmaceutical companies really improving the quality of meds by that much?  I think not.  In Spain, it is illegal for pharmaceutical companies to advertise. You enter a pharmacy over there and you won't find hourly employees peddling chips and salsa, Hallmark greeting cards or nail polish in 65 different colors.  What you will find is a pharmacist and drugs.  That's it.   The Spanish government subsidizes prescription medicine by 75% and negotiates a cap on what pharmaceutical companies can charge.  The consumer reaps the benefit by only having to come out of pocket for 25% of the cost of the drug.  And of course, once you put something in a plain white box and "market" it with it's scientific name, you just saved about 300%. 

Finally, and arguably just as important, is that a move to Spain will afford me something that I've been aching to do for the last 4 years:  retire.  I have sacrificed a major portion of the past four years, chained to a job so that we would have good healthcare for our family. As we head to Spain, we do so knowing that we will be afforded the aforementioned benefits because my husband is a Spanish citizen and heath care for citizens and their immediate family is much more than just a come hither perk.  It is a right.  I'll be able to stay at home with the kids and Joe will finally be able to get back to his travel schedule and grow his business to where it should be instead of changing diapers and thawing out breast milk while simultaneously taking client calls for more tile.   Aaah, the beauty of Internet commerce in all of its glory.   

2.  BILINGUALISM OR BUST

My husband was born and raised much of his life in Spain. His father, an American pilot for TWA, spoke to him exclusively in English.  His mother, a flamboyant, dark-haired gypsy from Andalucia, raised him speaking purely Spanish.  It was a strange mix, those two made.  Nearly a dozen years later and I still have vivid memories of that first Thanksgiving with my future in laws.  Neither his mother nor his father were fluent in their second language  - can you imagine?  "Please pass the pavo, amor."  "A toast to our invitada, chin-chin!" Dinner was a smorgasbord of Spanglish and to this day I still don't know how those two managed to stay married as long as they did.  Maybe their success lied in the fact that they often did NOT understand one another.  Whatever the case may have been, it worked.  And they had the bilingual offspring to prove it. 

Joe, my husband, is a rare example of a perfectly balanced bilingual.  The linguistic gift given him by his parents is simply incomprehensible.  He can small-talk, argue, inform, debate, convince, convict and pray just as easily in Spanish as he can in English.  He turns on the Spanish as fast as you or I would flip on a light switch.  It never ceases to amaze me and yes, I'm very, very jealous of it.  To speak two languages at a level equivalent to that of a native speaker is rare, very, very rare. 

With the birth of our firstborn, the plan was for Joe to handle the Spanish and I the English.  Fairly straightforward, this approach would ensure that our little guy got off to a rock solid bilingual start.  The United Nations convened in our living room and so began the journey towards bilingualism.  I posted conversation topics on the kitchen calendar so that I could be sure to chat about the same daily stuff in English;  what he did, what he saw, what he ate, colors, numbers, younameit...we even insisted that the pulmonologist, a Latino, speak Spanish during our CF clinic visits.  Believe me, all bases were more than covered.  But there was one problem.  At every turn, Charlie responded appropriately in English.  In short, he refused to speak Spanish.  I hypothesize that our son was astute enough to realize that Spanish was the minority language between his parents.  Second fiddle, second class, not up to snuff...we failed in terms of modeling its use between ourselves.  Somehow, some way, Charlie decided that if Mamá and Papá weren't gonna step to the plate to speak it that neither was he.  And so a civil war of sorts began right at the kitchen bar stools and continues to wage on some four years later.  A typical passive/aggressive battle sounds like this:

Joe:  Oye, nen.  ¿Qué te apetece para desayunar hoy?
Charlie:  Uhm.  I dunno.  How about pancakes!?
Joe:  No, no quedan.  ¿Qué tal si te hago una tortilla francesa de jamon y queso?
Charlie:  No.  I want pancakes.  Omelettes are gross.
Joe:  Pues pancakes no hay.  A ver si te puedo poner unas Galletas Maria con un vaso de leche manchada.  Y si te lo comes todo, un pan tostado con mantequilla y azucar.
Charlie:  Okay, but only if you put extra sugar sprinkles on the toast.

If it weren't so darned frustrating, it would be laughable.  The fact that our son understands absolutely everything but refuses to articulate anything is maddening.  Ask him a question and he'll answer it...in English.  Talk about him and he'll correct you...in English.  It's enough to drive you to drink, that's for sure.


Enter Spain.  Try as we have to get the bilingual thing to happen in our household, it just hasn't taken root.  Neither one of us feels comfortable waiting out the next 8 years until the public school system will offer mediocre Spanish classes from a gringo teacher who spent a semester abroad during college some 25 years ago. We're jumping ship in the name of bilingualism.  Friends, cousins, aunties, uncles, school, TV, movies...it will ALL be in Spanish.  Charlie will have no choice but to speak it, breathe it, eat it, drink it... LIVE IT.  And who knows, maybe he'll be closer to us because of it, not in spite of it. 


3. AN EDUCATION FIT FOR THE BIRDS


Next year will mark my tenth year as an ESL teacher.  I don't normally like to discuss my views on education because more often than not, I end up offending someone.  So if you may be one of those people, now would be a good time to do a rapid scroll to number 4 or buckle up and hold on tight because you're in for a bumpy ride.


Basically, I don't want my kids going to school here in America.  While I have managed to remain union free, keep most of the gang related stuff out of my classroom and come up with some pretty fun lesson plans that capitalize on the technology that kids are using today, I have seen more than enough of my fair share of just plain bad teaching and that scares the hell out of me.  A school district that rewards teachers based on longevity is neither my idea of progressive nor rigorous, the two buzzwords we hear most often these days.  I know more teachers who whip out the same tired, coffee-stained lesson plans year after year than not.  I have met and worked with dozens of high school students who are promoted to the next grade level while still unable to read a fourth grade level narrative, sign their name in cursive, identify a verb in the present tense let alone write a complete sentence with one in it.  Yet these are the students who will graduate with the same diploma as the valedictorian of their high school class; the one who took four AP classes, worked two part time jobs, ran track and got a full ride to UC Berkley.  I have a HUGE problem with that.  HUGE.


It's different across the pond.  In Spanish schools, the stakes are high for everyone, not just the GT kids.  And the students know it.  Following each grade level is a final exam.  Pass the test and you are promoted.  Fail the test and you don't move on with your peers.  Period.  There is a universal curriculum approved of and enforced by the Spanish Ministry of Education.  Ninth grade in Spain is the same across the board, whether you're in Badajoz or Barcelona.  You can expect not one but at least two foreign languages because English class is a given.  The second one is up to you to decide upon.  An End of the School Year Field Trip is to see the Strait at Gibraltar or the Guggenheim in Bilbao, not a free for all at Adventureland or the zoo.  Selectivity exams are held to see not only if you qualify to get into college but if you are fit to study your career choice.  It's tough.  It's stressful.  It's selective.  And I'm okay with that.


4.  BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER


Ask and my husband will say that his fondest memories of growing up in Spain are his summers on the Alicantine beach, sailing up and down the coastline on his catamaran~cruising for hot swedish chicks, I'm sure.  He's recounted the same nautical adventures dozens of times and though the stories are entertaining, his face does not light up quite the same way as it does when he talks about the antics of his Titos.  I often wonder if he realizes the impact that growing up surrounded by such close family had on his development.  I really do wonder...


It's different here. 


The nearest cousins we have for Charlie, Lola and Henry are over 1,400 miles away and we see them once a year, if we're lucky.  To our Spanish family, the distance is the equivalent to a long haul over to Siberia.  They cannot fathom being that far removed from family.  In a country where you often find yourself in the same classroom as your cousin Eduardo, and you can stop at an auntie's house for a merienda on the way home from school, American distances are just plain inexplicable.  To be fair, we do have one grandparent in town, my mom.  She's close with the kids but we don't see her nearly as often as one would assume in fact a once a week or every other week visit is a lot and that's just not right in my book...especially when ours are the only grandkids she has.  

We've been shuttling back and forth across the pond for almost ten years now. Our relationship with Joe's cousins remains tight.  I can't think of one of his cousins who doesn't have at least one child close to the same age as our own children and the same can be said for his childhood buddies, many of whom still live within a stone's throw of his childhood home.  It's exciting to think of the memories yet to be made amongst this brood.  The sooner we can get over there and set up house, the better in my book.  I hate to think of yet another Christmas to go by where our children will not be visited by the three wisemen (Titos?) on Epiphany or pelting Papa Noel (Joe?) with oranges as he makes a surprise guest appearance on Christmas Eve.

This past Easter was bittersweet for us.  As we watched the kids open their Easter baskets, I cringed as the giant chocolate bunny uncloaked himself.  Later that evening, Joe and I would sit amidst the glow of the internet and watch the Easter processions through the candlelit cobblestone streets of Spain.  Entire towns were gathered at the main plaza to pay tribute to the Virgin Mary and of course Jesus Christ.  I thought about how I had robbed my children of this experience by not being there already.  Here I am, in middle America, going to the Mall, running everywhere at a million miles an hour in my car, yet seeing and doing nothing.  How many days do I feel like that hamster running to nowhere on her wheel and then doing it all again the next day?  Maybe a move to Spain will not be any different, but I'm willing to at least give it a shot, that's for sure.

5. HOME SWEET HOME 

For as long as I can remember, Spain has felt like home.  We've been there so many, many times that I know the streets well, the vendors better and the best bets for speedy parking.  Hell, I even have my own hair dresser there.  For me, Spain is not a foreign country at all.  I am confident and comfortable there.  I don't feel like an outsider in the least, in fact I have felt lonelier and less a part of things on cross country visits right here in the States more than I've ever felt in Spain. 

Having lived abroad in Spain back in the early 90's, I fully expect that the honeymoon period that comes with expatriate life abroad will wane...especially as the demands of Joe's business grow and he is forced to travel more.  But I'm up for the adventure and have somewhat of an idea of what awaits me so I think it'll all work out...doesn't it always?  That, and this is just one of those moments in my life where if I don't follow through, I will forever regret it.  I don't want to live my life like that; looking back 5 or 10 years from now and wishing we had gone for it.  True to myself, we're jumping in head first, all at once...no such thing as testing the waters with the big toe...nope, we're locking hands and jumping in together...all five of us.

So while it may be true when they say that the grass is inevitably greener on the other side, this I already know.  Afterall, I am not so naive as to think that life in a foreign country will not come without its fair share of pitfalls but that my friends is an entirely different blog.