Oliver Says No to Homeschool

Pick me!

"We are supposed to accept children with special needs, but as you can see, our school doesn't have a ramp for your child." -- Anonymous school from today

The school administrator's excuses are getting more ridiculous by the day. Other responses include, 

• "You are just applying now [for January 2016]? Normally our parents register when they are pregnant with their child." 
• "There's just not enough space in Cape Town schools for the children who want to go to school."
•  "Priority will be given to children who have been baptized in the Catholic Church."

These were quotes from the public schools we visited*.

The private schools are very friendly, and will even give me an application. However, each school has told me that they have already made their decisions for next year. Best of luck.

After hearing this from a dozen schools, I am discouraged. Not one person has asked specific questions about Oliver. They see a face with Down syndrome and assume that he needs a ramp to get into the school.

To be fair, he hasn't mastered riding up stairs on his bicycle yet. Perhaps his physical therapist can work on that this week.

This is just one of those rare occasions when Down syndrome kicks me in the gut. Most of life with Oliver is normal. Some days are phenomenal. Then there are those rare days when I pray for his disabilities to disappear, in the Name of Jesus! 

We are praying this week. Oliver's delays shouldn't be deal breakers. We will pay for a private facilitator to help him through the school day. We will continue his speech and occupational therapies. And at home we will work hard to help him close the gap.

We just need a great partner school to take a chance on us. Anyone?

* I can't imagine the situation in low-income parts of town. A psychologist told me Sunday that 38% of the Cape Town population is addicted to meth. But that is a blog post for a different time...

The Next Chapter

Goodbye Gift from Eric's Team at World Vision

"And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.”--Sylvia Plath

Wow. If I spend one more minute with my family in confined spaces, I am going to lose it. I almost had a panic attack on the top of the Ferris wheel in Cape Town the other night. Isaac had been eyeing it since our arrival last Sunday, so I made him a deal: figure out how much it would cost for our whole famly to go on it if we had a 20% discount.

So that's how I found myself trapped in a small cabin with everyone. We were told the ride would last 12 minutes--4 times around total. It lasted 30 minutes, because we spent half of the time suspended 40 meters in the air (over 3 stories high), and I think they added several more rotations to make up for the delay. We were begging to get off of the thing by the time we were done.

That Ferris wheel represents my life in so many ways.

Self-Portrait

Last spring Eric found out that his contract in Zambia wouldn't be renewed in January. He was encouraged to pursue some other opportunities as soon as possible, because the region had some budget cuts.

The stress was tremendous. We had our home-leave back to Seattle scheduled for July, and now we were in crisis mode. World Vision offered Eric generous opportunities both in Seattle and in other countries, and we suddenly had big choices. Choices which led to epic arguments. Epic arguments which earned Eric an amazing knick-knack.*

The knick knack: Actual size is 60 cm x 91 cm

Then a good friend offered Eric a job at World Bicycle Relief (WBR), a partner with World Vision. It's all about getting bikes to people so they can get where they need to go: school, the market, the clinic. When you are out in the bush, the nearest clinic can take hours to walk to--which is a bummer if you are critically ill.

So now we are in Cape Town, South Africa starting a new life. So far, so good, except it takes time to find friends and community. Loneliness is the hardest part about being an ex-pat, so saying goodbye to the friends we made during the last four years is awful:

• Our home church "Crazy Church" made up of parents raising kids with disabilities  
• Suzen, our blessed housekeeper and her son Daniel who was Oliver's best friend 
• The insane ex-pats who choose to live in Zambia, because they want the country to flourish.
• Our Zambian friends, from prisoners to organic farmers to artists to government officials and especially Eric's colleagues at World Vision, who welcomed us. I will miss you. Goodbye and thank you for giving us the honor of living in your country. I pray that the electricity comes back soon, my friends.

*All about the Knick Knack: This tradition started in our marriage 13 years ago after a terrible fight. Eric hates trinkets, so I bought him an atrocious one and displayed it on our mantle. This was therapeutic for both of us: the little piece of ugliness reminded us of why we should never, ever fight. Perhaps one day he will learn...

Teaching in Prison

Katherine:  The Teacher's Pet

He who opens a school door closes a prison.  --Victor Hugo

Mr. Hugo, I am not so naïve to think that education alone would eliminate crime.  But having taught literacy to a handful of women in an African prison, I wonder if my students had had the chance to go to school, perhaps things would have turned out differently for them.

Take Katherine* for example.  She is a mother and a grandmother, and when I met her in September, she didn't know her ABCs or how to write her name.  Although I am not allowed to ask why women are in prison, she told me.  She was sentenced to a year in jail for selling marijuana.

Katherine's letter after 3 months of class.

I show up twice a week and teach, so women like Katherine have a chance to learn. Christine, my side-kick joins me. Our class meets outside on picnic tables.

There isn't much to the prison:  the cell block, the restrooms, and the muddy/dusty courtyard.  There is now a one-room preschool for children and a sewing room for the tailoring program.

There is a whole lot of life happening here:

• Women cooking maize porridge on charcoal burners and scrubbing laundry in tubs.
• A group of toddlers climbing on a pile of 15 meter long re-bar and chasing each other with sticks.
• A woman butchering a chicken a few meters from my class.
• Thousands of flies swarming everything.
• Women in my literacy class learning to write their ABCs.

During Christmas I hauled in an African Christmas tree and we made decorations.  I asked people to write something they were thankful about on a tag, and hang it on a branch.

African Christmas Tree

Then Alex and Isaac's school did a Christmas fundraiser for me. We were able to buy three iSchool androids.  They cost about $200 each and they contain the entire Zambian curriculum in multiple languages for grade 1-7.   These magic tablets make my job easier, because I don't have to lesson plan for a revolving door of students at different levels.

iSchool Tablets

The other day I met Katherine as she was released from prison.  I dropped her off at the bus station, (where I took her photo) and she headed off to re-start her life.  She was my most eager and faithful student, so it was bittersweet to see her leave.

Katherine tells me prison changed her.  She found God in a place "that I hate."

It won't be an easy journey, but who am I kidding?  These women that I meet each week are tough--tougher than I could hope to ever be.

All I can do is pray they understand that they can learn to read, no matter how old they are.

They we just need to give to give them a chance.

*Name is changed

Zanzibar!

"Never go on trips with anyone you do not love."--Ernest Hemingway

A crab...and a coconut crab.  Sorry, I couldn't help it.

"Shawn and I almost got divorced at the airport," Rachelle told me once we'd arrived at the beach house.

I know, I know.  I shouldn't gossip, but this is a good story, so I've modified their names.

Rachelle and Shawn were happily married with four darling children under the age of six.  They lived in Africa too, so we arranged to meet them in Zanzibar for a vacation extravaganza.  For fun we invited my parents and Eric's sister Lo Lo to join in the chaos (seven kids!).  But back to Rachelle's story...

It was nearly midnight when they were checking in for their flights.  For those of you who haven't traveled internationally with small children at midnight, let me tell you, it is miserable.  There isn't any contraption that enables you to safely transport four passed-out kids and their luggage through the airport and immigration.

At the ticket counter Rachelle found out that Shawn made a huge mistake when he booked the tickets. She was on the midnight flight with the three boys, and he was scheduled to travel with their little girl on another day.  That's when  Rachelle, who is nearly unflappable, lost her mind. Fortunately the ticket agent, sensing an emergency, was able to squeeze the entire family on the same flight that night.  Thanks be to God.

Zanzibar Red Colobus Monkey

Oddly enough our family managed to scrape up some drama as well.

We arrived at the Lusaka airport, checked in, and waited to board our plane.  When the gate agent asked for our tickets and passports, he also demanded our yellow fever vaccination cards.  We totally had those--only they were at home, and it was too late to get them.

"I'm sorry.  Tanzania won't let people in who are from countries with yellow fever."

"Ah, but we are Americans," I pleaded, "and we've been vaccinated, I promise!"

"How long have you been in Zambia?" he asked.

"3 years..." I said.

"Absolutely not."

Alex and Isaac were devastated.  The next flight out wasn't for a few days.

But, again, I've lived here for three years.  I know that when a door closes, a window can be pried open for a few hundred dollars.

"These are good for 10 years," the gate agent told us and handed us our duplicate yellow fever cards.

But we made it to Zanzibar, and the island didn't disappoint us.  Most residents are Muslim, and we arrived at the very end of Ramadan.  The streets were packed with men and women buying food and fancy clothing for Eid al-Fitr, the big party celebrating the end of fasting.

Mr. Clean selling stuff at the market 

When Auntie Lo Lo arrived, she looked frazzled.  She'd made it all the way from Oregon to Zanzibar, but her luggage was lost somewhere in between.  "Don't worry, we'll deliver your bags to your lodge," the airline assured her.  Lo Lo rolled her eyes.

Let the record show that Eric and I told her the bags would come...and come they did.  Sure, some of her valuables were missing, but at least she had a change of underwear and her toothbrush.

One-stop shopping at the market

We snorkeled. We toured spice farms.  We played in the soft white sand.   It was all fun-and-games until my mother's elbow swelled up to the size of a soft ball.  Zanzibar is exotic, but not the place to be if your body goes into septic shock.  

Shawn, the same guy who nearly abandoned his wife and three boys at the airport, called his surgeon father.  "Get some Tetracycline, and she should feel better in a day."

Small problem:  there are no pharmacies in rural Zanzibar.   We asked the cook at our house to ask around the village for the antibiotics.  Sure enough, within the hour, there was a guy with a bag of prescription drugs.  My mom got what she needed, and as I write this post, she is alive and well.

Spice tour finds

Obligatory cow-on-city-street photo

"Nice racks, beautiful butt & smoking hot legs." Thanks Tennessee for your inappropriate shirts.

.

Carved door frame in Stone Town

On our last day, we took a soap-making class in Stone Town.  Again, great fun until Oliver creamed his shorts. Thankfully the shop had a small bathroom, so he and I scurried off to clean up.

Best soap ever.

The bathroom had a toilet, but lacked running water, soap, and a garbage bin. This may be TMI*...but let's just say that I wasn't going to be taking his undies home with us, so I folded them and hid them under the sink. Yes, I feel a little bad about this, but you'd probably do the same thing.

I then sent Eric on a mission to find some antibiotics.  Fortunately Stone Town has a pharmacy.

Imagine.  Oliver can't swallow a pill, so we needed to crush the meds, mix with juice, pour into a syringe, and shoot the concoction down his gullet.  The problem was my hands were far from clean, and with the lack of soap and water I was hesitant to mix the drugs. 

Then I remembered something:  We were taking a soap-making class!  I plunged my hand into the soap mixture, scrubbed furiously and rinsed with bottled water.  

As I write this post, Oliver, too, is alive and well.  

But, in closing, I'd like to reflect on why Ernest Hemingway would say to only travel with people you love.  It's obvious:   It's because nobody has to die.  The end.

Mama collecting seaweed

*Too much information

Sunday Snot Suckers

"Love is like a booger, you pick and pick at it. Then when you get it, you wonder how to get rid of it." --Mae West

Oliver woke me up last night with one swollen cheek and a gooey green nose.  Fantastic, I thought. There's nothing I like better than going to the hospital on the weekend.

Eric and I took small child to ONE OF THE BEST HOSPITALS in Lusaka. That is key to this story. (If you are a worry wart, please chill.  We have great medical evacuation insurance.)

Before we even saw the doctor, Eric snapped this photo of the wall in the waiting room hallway.

Ok, super sleuths...what's missing?

Then I found this poster in the restroom.  My favorite is the last illustration of how NOT to use the toilet. This means someone has actually done this.

Don't worry.  Oliver has never vomited IN the toilet at this hospital.  

The doctor poked and prodded Oliver's mouth to see what the problem was.  Then he prescribed antibiotics.  Oliver didn't say much during the whole examination except, "Fox."  Which was kind of awkward, because he still can't say the "s" sound.  I assured the doctor that Oliver just LOVES "Fantastic Mr. Fox", but I don't think he believed me.

The doctor told us to keep an eye on the infection.  Then he added, "One of you needs to suck the mucus out his nose."

Eric turned to me and asked, "We DO have one of those nose suckers, don't we?"

"Yes," I assured him.  Finding it may be a challenge.

"Actually," the doctor interjected, "The best way to clean it is for you to suck his nose with your mouth."

"Ha, your joking, right?"  Eric asked.

"No, seriously.  That way you can feel when you've got it all out."

I gagged and thought, Oliver's nose can fall off before I'm sticking my mouth there. Do you have any idea how toxic that small child is?

Don't worry, Oliver's nose will be fine.  Right now Eric is scouring Lusaka for an industrial vacuum cleaner.

Anniversary Adventures

South Africans love their warning signs.

"How can I see clearly what's wrong with someone else, and then look at myself as though I'm standing in front of a fogged mirror?"  --Jarod Kintz

I thought Eric would burst a blood vessel at the Johannesburg airport.  Our flight was boarding in minutes and the ticket agent wouldn't check his bike until he paid the extra transport fee.

"But your website says that bikes are free," he protested.

"Yes, but not during this time," she replied.

Eric groaned.  "What do you mean, 'this time?' Seriously?  How am I supposed to know when you arbitrarily change the rules?"

"Sir," the agent said, "I do not control the policy."

 I urged my spouse to give up the fight and pay the $35.

"Fine!" he shouted.  "I'll pay the stupid fee."  He pulled out his wallet.

"Sir.  I can't take your money.  You'll need to go over there to pay, and bring me back the receipt."  She pointed to a long cashier's line.

Eric stormed over to the line and barked at me to watch his bike, which I did, because I didn't want to stand next to Mr. Cranky Pants.

Of course, the cashier didn't have a clue how to find the bike fee in her computer system.  She called a supervisor and they searched together.  Eric rocked back and forth with fury.  When they gave him the receipt he stomped back to the ticket agent.  She issued us a tag and told us that since the bag was over-sized luggage, we'd need to take it to a different part of the airport to check it.  She added, "Wow.  I don't think you'll have time to do that and make your flight."

And that's when Eric melted down.  One of the airport staff finally stepped in and offered to take the bike to the drop off location, so we could get on our plane.  Which we did.

I was convinced that his bike would never show up in Cape Town.  That would be a problem, because the purpose of the trip was to ride in the 109 km Cape Argus Cycle Tour--something we'd been training for months to do.

A dark cloud hung over Eric's head for the entire flight, which irritated me.  Seriously?  You are going to let a dysfunctional airport ruin our anniversary?  How immature.

When we touched down in Cape Town, our eyes widened.  We marveled at the ocean, the tall shiny buildings, and the functioning traffic lights.  We grabbed our luggage (no bike, ha*!), checked into our hotel and ate dinner.

Then we headed to the hospital.  Yes, the hospital, because I had scheduled a sleep study for myself.  I mean, why enjoy a nice hotel when you can sleep in a crappy hospital bed with electrodes super-glued to your head?

And this is the point of the story when things fell apart for me...the one who held the moral high ground at the airport when my husband was losing his mind.

The sleep study was a disaster. Not only did I NOT sleep, the machine malfunctioned and didn't get any data.  At 5 am the nurse rubbed acetone into my scalp and pulled out the electrodes.  "Sarah, I will make sure the hospital doesn't charge you for last night.  Ok, Sarah?  You can come back tonight and we'll try again. They can't charge you for a study that didn't work, Sarah.  That wouldn't be right, Sarah."  She babbled on and on.

I fumed. I rocked back and forth.  I wanted to scream, "For crying out loud you crazy woman, SHUT UP!"

When Eric picked me up I burst into tears.  "I can't do another one.  I can't."  And my husband's response? Kindness.  He didn't tell me to pull it together and stop blowing things out of proportion.

The sleep doctor, while apologetic, said that he couldn't help me until he had proper data, and "Could I please come that evening?" Me and my bad attitude reluctantly agreed, under the condition that Nurse Nut-job wouldn't be there.

I'm glad I went, because I slept that night,  and they got the data, and the doctor discovered my sleep disorder: my legs like to dance all night long.

The rest of the time we enjoyed the magical city.

Vineyards

Mountains

Seas

One day we took the cable car up Table Mountain and planned to hike down. That plan changed once we heard the stories about people blowing out their knees.  We didn't want to risk a sprained ankle before the big bike race, so we purchased tickets for the cable car.

I am a Rock Hyrax 

We saw several of these cute marmot-type creatures.  One guy told me that it was related to the elephant.  I laughed and said something like, "I may be American, but I ain't stupid."

Today I checked the Rock Hyrax Wikipedia page, and this is what it says:

The closest living relatives to hyraxes are the modern-day elephants and sirenians.

This means that we can no longer trust Wikipedia.

As soon as we stepped into the cable car line, the power went out.  Apparently the government started rolling blackouts that day to save energy.

But no worries, folks.  Table Mountain had a back up plan:  a generator.  Sadly, but not surprisingly, it overheated after 20 minutes.  We sat on the top of the mountain for hours and hours and hours.

I'm sure they got lots of feedback.

At least we wouldn't be the first to die on Table Mountain

When the power popped on and the cable cars whizzed into motion, one thousand people cheered.  

We wrapped up our anniversary trip with the Cape Argus Cycle Tour with 35,000 other riders.  That day (of course) the winds picked up to 80 kpm.   Cycling up and down Chapman's Peak was an exhilarating ride to say the least.

And, just like that, our 12th Anniversary Adventure was over, and it was time to head back home.

When we checked in at the airport, the agent informed us that we had to pay an extra baggage fee in addition to TWO bike transport fees. Oh, and she weighed our carry-on bags and found them to be overweight.

Since Eric was so kind to me after my sleep study debacle, I won't throw him under the bus here.

Let's just say, however, that from here on out, I'm slipping Eric a Xanax when we fly anywhere together.








*Eric's bike arrived safely on the following flight.

Goodbye, Baby

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.  –Elie Wiesel

An infant named Loveness died on Tuesday.  She was four months old, and she was almost our daughter.

We met her when she was 11 days old.  We’d been in contact with an orphanage director who told us that she was available for adoption.  We immediately hopped in our car and drove four hours to make it happen.

We met the Aunt who brought Loveness to the orphanage.  For hours she had dripped sugar water from a plastic sack into Loveness’s mouth, because she didn’t have any milk.  When they finally arrived at the orphanage, Loveness sucked down a bottle of warm formula.

When I met sweet Loveness,   I held her on my chest.  That little spit-fire of a girl lifted her head up and looked around.  She was healthy, despite a rough start in life.

We took the Aunt to the social welfare office and waited in the car while the she talked to the social worker. The social worker, who was convinced that the Aunt was trafficking the baby, tried to make her confess to the crime.  But the Aunt held firm, and the social worker conceded, “Fine.  But you need a letter from the headman [who reports to the chief] in your village giving permission to release the baby for adoption.  And…you will all need to meet with me in my office next week.”

The next step was to get the letter from the headman.  We drove two-hours until we reached her village.  Soon we were surrounded by Loveness’s extended family, who were puzzled by our arrival.

Writing the letter

The family discussed letting us adopt the baby and they agreed that this was the best option for her.  The headman spoke fluent English and crafted a letter officially releasing the baby to us.  My favorite moment was when we showed them iPhone video of our children chasing each other on their scooters.  They laughed and laughed.  It seemed like a perfect fit.

With letter in hand, we returned to our hotel and then back to Lusaka.  We arranged to meet everyone again at the social welfare office in a few days.

But tragedy struck the family once again—another relative died—so they postponed the social welfare meeting so they could sort out funeral arrangements.

And it was at the funeral that Loveness’s adoption plan came unraveled.  The funeral attendees discussed the implications of adoption and what so-and-so would think if they found out.  As the headman later told us, “It threw us upside down.”

The family revoked their permission, even though no one was able to take Loveness into their home.  The headman assured us he’d come and collect her one day--when she was 3 or 4 years old.  Until then, she would remain at the orphanage.

Of course this broke our hearts, but there was nothing we could do about it.

Do I think we could have prevented this tragedy?  I don’t know for sure, but one study indicates babies are absolutely better off living with their mothers in prison than living in an orphanage. 

Author Maia Szalavitz wrote a great post here about the dangers of orphanages.   

 “But how could simply being in an orphanage kill a baby? Basically, they die from lack of love. When an infant falls below the threshold of physical affection needed to stimulate the production of growth hormone and the immune system, his body starts shutting down.”

I wish more than anything that we could have brought Loveness home. And, God forbid, if she had died anyway—despite being loved and cherished—at least our arms could have ushered her to heaven. 

Baby Loveness, I’m sorry your biological mother and father were not able to care for you. That is a hardship. I’m sorry that you died before you had a chance to live.  That is a tragedy.

But the fact that you were denied a family of your own...well, that is an injustice.

Rest in peace, sweet child.