Tag Archives: pedram

Kitchen Remodel

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This apartment is totally baby ready.

 

Doesn’t this look like an inviting space to bring a child home to?  Or even to bring your mother home to?  Here is what her bed looks like.

The culprit is our kitchen, which was totally hip/cool fun looking and completely and utterly useless.  It didn’t have any drawers!  The fridge and freezer were tiny!!  There was no storage, and definitely no working space.  So we had to change it.  You know, because we have money burning in our pockets and plenty of time before the baby.  The irrational decisions we make.

Pedram, who is definitely the “nester” between us, somehow pulled together a contractor and redesigned the kitchen himself.  Which is hard, considering that we don’t have a car and all of the kitchen places are about an hour away and bringing home huge samples of tile on the bus is a great way to hurt your back before having a baby exercise.  He occasionally asked me questions, but then would see the blank look on my face and decided to continue this journey alone.

You would think that with my own father in construction, I would have a clue about the type of disruption that would occur.  But no, I thought I could just hide in my room and study like crazy while they did the kitchen.  I have two papers and a dissertation to get done, and I would like to get as much completely as possible before mid-June.

Mahsa:  I am going to write two papers in two days!

Contractor:  There will be minimal disruption.  No worries.

Mahsa’s brain: Ummmm…which button is the on switch?  Let’s youtube videos of animals and cry instead.

The very first day, when I sat down to unleash my genius, I realized that minimal disruption means sporatic electricity, no heat, and no plumbing.  Very very pregnant woman cannot go pee in her own house?  That is no good.

Mahsa’s bladder:  I know you think you shouldn’t have to pee because you haven’t had any water all day, but I stored some up from a week ago, and you really really need to pee…right now.  And again in 3 minutes.

Fun times.  Meanwhile, Rusby, who has never been allowed in our bedroom before, was forced to take up residence there because there is no other place in apartment to put down his bed.  The plumber, painter, tile guy etc loved him, because he is the best dog ever, and on top of that, he had access to our bedroom, with its plush carpeting and sunlight.

Rusby:  No more rules!  Life is good!

Unfortunately for him, all of the baby stuff arrived at the same time, and his ample kingdom was crammed with baby junk, and I am pretty sure that out of annoyance he went ahead and peed on everything.  And we probably deserved it.

So, what to do when brain is no-more-working and apartment is pee-ridden mess?  Go to Brussels of course!

We hopped on the fast train to get the hell out of claustrophobia land into the land of chocolate.  I got my haircut, we put on some cute outfits and went to Bahija’s wedding, which was wonderful in every way possible.  Reuniting with friends, laughing, and good lord the dessert buffet.  The DESSERT BUFFET is one thing that I think Belgians do better than anyone else in the world.  Nom nom nom.  More please, cause its a buffet.

It is always nice to go back to Brussels and to catch up with friends and eat some of our favorite foods and reconnect with our old home.  We spent some time in cabs and talked to people about how the city has changed and all the conveniences and inconveniences the changes have brought with it, and realized that our time there was very special and unique, like a snapshot of time, a photograph that can’t be replicated.  I mentioned to the group of friends how they have all changed so much, just like the city itself, and they accused me of the same, rubbing my enormous belly while labeling them as different.  Sighhhh…c’est vrai.

We even walked by Barnaby’s old apartment and I didn’t overreact or anything.  It was just an acknowledgement, followed by Pedram saying something like, “yeah, he was missed this weekend”, and that was it.

And then we came back to our current reality, which is not frites and gaufres and cobblestone streets, but dust and dirt and lots of moving stuff around.  The good news is, the kitchen is practically done.

And it looks amazing.  Hopefully it will be completely done before the little one arrives, but more importantly, before my mom arrives, cause I am pretty sure she will use it more than the baby.

The bad news is, the brain is still on hiatus.  Potentially still in Brussels.

My birth team, plus I love gifs

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Yesterday, Pedram and I met with Lucy, our doula.  We decided to go for a doula soon after discovering that midwives weren’t cutting it for us and there were no doctors to be seen.  Lucy is my yoga instructor, has plenty of baby delivery experience, knows the system here and most importantly, has no agenda.  Her presence calms me because she is super sweet and very informative.  Plus, she calls me ‘darling’ with her amazing English accent.  I love that.

Pedram and Lucy, however, have a bond that I don’t seem to have yet with her.  Eventhough they have only met once, they immediately hugged when seeing each other, which made me realize that maybe I should be hugging my doula.  So then I went to hug her, but it was a little awkward.

In the meeting, it was even more clear that I am the third wheel in this team.  They both pulled out their notebooks, she drawing diagrams, Pedram taking fast notes, and me wondering how many cookies I could eat without them noticing.  They chatted about the birth like two good friends, giggling with excitement, discussing hospitals and options and how cute the baby would be, etc.  And when they asked my opinion, I told them I felt like we were discussing another person, not me.  And they patted my hand in reassurance and continued with their plotting.

Don’t get me wrong, I am so happy that they get along so well.  They are indeed, my team, and I am really lucky that I will have both of them eagerly involved in the labor process.  Lucy has been amazing at presenting the entire process in a way that makes it seem manageable, not frightening.  But sometimes I feel a little out of the loop.

Perhaps it would help if I related it to a story, like Lord of the Rings.  (Pedram has never seen the movie or read the book – shock!).

I am totally Frodo Baggins, poor hapless little hobbit who somehow ends up with the ring.  The ring is the baby, which possesses great power.  It is lovely and perfect and I am carrying it toward the mission to drop it off at Mordor (clearly I am not planning on destroying my baby — don’t think about the end of the mission).

Pedram is totally Smeagol.  He is totally into the ring/baby, and is willing to help me through Middle Earth and all that, but has been completely transformed by the ring/baby, and once I delivery, will be reunited with ‘the precious’.

My Precious!

Perhaps that is not fair, as Pedram is much sweeter than Smeagol/Gollum.  Lets just say that he is the rest of the hobbits, and I am very very affectionate towards him.

I loves him.

Lucy is kinda like Gandalf, she will be guiding us and helping us out, and is more removed from ‘the precious’.  Plus, she has luxurious silky hair, just like Gandalf.  She’ll come and save the day like Gandalf did when the elves and everyone were getting their butts kicked by the Orcs.  And then there Aragorn, who is the king, and we’ll just say that is all the pain relief options available to me.

And so that is my team.  I am Frodo, a little naive about what is going on, but carrying the ring, hoping to make it to the other side with the help of my friends/Gandalf/Aragorn.  My mom will also hopefully be present, but it was decided last night that it might be best to put her in a different room and maybe drug her until the war/birth is over.

I do feel good about this, knowing that it will be a tough, but I am not alone.  I am reaching the stage in pregnancy where I do really need to start thinking about this, and yet I can’t seem to get my mind around it.  I can’t seem to visualize it, you know?  Someone else, perhaps, but I need to come to terms somehow, over the next two months, that the person that Lucy and Pedram are talking about, it is me.  I will be the person…you know…doing that…

Lord help us.

Instead of writing papers, I will share my thoughts

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1 – I thought I would be too uncomfortable at 7 months pregnant for a 9 hour plane ride to Seattle at this time.  But yet, I spent two full days (8-10 hour stretches) in a car driving to Luxembourg last week.  Totally manageable, but O.M.G., please can I never be stuck in a sitting position again while having to experience European farms through four different countries?  The cows and sheep I used to find endearing, they are no more.

Although the ones right outside Pedram’s parent’s place, they were cute.

2 – It is sunny!  People are wearing dresses!  I even shed my enormous coat and my big boots and showed off my belly.  My hope is that maybe, perhaps, now people will actually get up and give me their seat on the bus.  Not just the old chivilarous men and the handicapped elderly, but the able-bodied teens who could STOP TEXTING for one second and offer up the space to someone who needs it more.  Seriously.  I am taking photos of your laziness.  Shame.

3 – After only craving sour things, I’ve made brownies and cookies and biscotti this week.  And I somehow came across this Paula Deen recipe – holy cow, if I ever wanted to kill someone, this is how I would do it. Forget the dozen Krispy Kreme donuts as the base, skip straight to the stick of butter and one pound of sugar for the glaze to get the heart attack on track.  But there is also this one — a burger, topped with bacon, fried egg, and instead of buns, use donuts.

4 – Rusby and I now have the same sense of hearing and smell.  Which means we perk up whenever someone is near the door or anyone in the neighborhood is bbqing long before Pedram knows about it.  I feel like a superhero.  If only I could stop smelling all the things that make me want to gag.

5 – I know I haven’t written much about England and the lifestyle living here, but I feel the need to explain one thing that I never really anticipated living so close to the sea.  I was so excited to be by the water!  I was so delighted to smell the salt from our home!  Until…Seagulls.  They are maybe the most annoying birds in the world.

I am beginning to feel like I don’t like any birds.  The feeling might be mutual, as I have been pooped on twice already.  But the racket that comes from these crazy seagulls is absolutely horrible. “aark aark aark”, “he he he he”, “ahh! ah ahh ahh ahh ahh” they scream.  The cacophony begins at 5am.  The pigeons aren’t much better, neither with sound or their poop.  But the seagulls and I — I believe — we will never be friends.  Especially not in the springtime.

6 – On the other hand, tulips in the spring time.  So much sun in our house.  Come visit!

7 – This Sunday, while I made pancakes, Pedram played an old album that he brought back from Luxembourg.  It was Serge Gainsbourg, who I usually find delightful, but this entire album to me was….hilarious.  Like, really?  Did this really happen?  Perhaps in the 60s, but how is it possible to listen to it today and not die of laughter?  It is ridiculously cheesy.  Here is a little taste — an adorable treat called “Mambo, miam miam”

The best part was how hard Pedram tried to convince me that these songs are as good now as they were back then.  Including the one where he sings about his trip to New York City, and then lists off all the buildings in the city.  I. About. Died. of Laughter.  The music, the genre, the feeling, the beat, it is all from another generation, I don’t care how many French people still listen to it.

8 – I feel the need to make this list go to 10.  What does that say about me?  Is it only because it is paper-writing time and I am procrastinating?

9 – The “oh my goodness! there will be a child in our future” moment hasn’t hit this household, eventhough Pedram’s mom bought us a ton of baby clothes.  Which she washed and folded and I brought back with me and put immediately away to not be reminded that we need to buy a whole lot of other things.  Like beds and strollers and bottles (and a place for the clothes!  as opposed to under a towel hidden from view).  Instead, we bought a BBQ and outdoor furniture and I am shopping like crazy for a hammock.  Priorities.

10 – Pedram is currently away at a conference, giving a lecture on the perils of the planet or something.  But he got sick and currently doesn’t have a voice, so I am not sure exactly how he will do it.  Maybe he can mime the woes of land-use/land-cover change and climate?  Or put on a little Gainsbourg and do a dance for the crowd?  Because it is SOOOO relevant….

It is all practice

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Today, we had a midwife** appointment, and when she asked me how I am doing, I replied, ‘Great!’  Cause, you know, small talk, right?  But Pedram, who was slumped on the chair next to me, was like “what? great??  this pregnancy is so difficult”

I feel for the guy.  The problem is that Pedram is my only source of venting, so we have arranged for a good session of Mahsa complaining and pouting everynight.  I don’t like to complain to others (other than my sister), but feel very very comfortable doing it to Pedram, depositing all my angst and frustrations and fears and problems onto him.  We often have weeknight therapy sessions, in which afterwards I feel much better and he probably feels like, well, going to see a shrink.  Also, he gets to hear in vivid detail about my dreams, which probably entitles him to a few extra sessions of therapy, cause my dreams were always vivid and scary before, but now, they are straight out of a sci-fi thriller film.  I should write them down and sell them to Hollywood.

We still do not have any friends here, so really, he is all I have.  So when I am sick and need tissues and drugs in the middle of the night, Pedram runs to get them.  He cancels plans, he makes soup, he cleans the entire house, he runs back to the store because I need oranges.  And twenty minutes later, he goes back to the store because I actually want orange juice.

In the first trimester, I spent a great deal of time complaining about people, and the smells, and EWWW…is that garlic??  Take it away from me.  NOW! and I am claustrophobic, please do not get near me and can you stop making that noise, and please please please stop touching your face.  Because I am claustrophobic and you touching your face makes me want to die.  Also, I can’t stand the smell of our entire apartment.  Please fix it.

A few weeks ago, when I spotted raw chicken (EWWW!) and then proceed to vomit spicy red Indian curry sauce all over the bed, the carpet, his fresh pile of clean clothes, the wall, the bathroom and myself, he didn’t hesitate to clean up.  Actually, that is not true.  The scene was straight out of a horror film, so he took a minute to compose himself before asking me “how did you manage to spray everything but completely missed the toilet?”

Sleeping is becoming more difficult for me, regardless of how many pillows I prop in bed.  And when my ectopic heartbeat (a skipped beat which feels like someone is pounding on my chest) was freaking me out and preventing me from sleeping, I hurried us both to the Emergency room, where for 4 hours we waited for a doctor to see me. And tell us everything we already knew before sending us home at 3am.

The whining, the crying, the lack of sleep, the viruses, the endless cleaning, the vomit and its aftermath, it has been a tough 6 months for Mr. P.  I feel like things are going great, but he is slowly losing it.  But this is all great preparation for the wonderful joys of parenthood, right?

** at some point I am going to talk about the British health system and midwives, especially since someone specifically asked me about it.  Some day.

The big love day

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Yesterday, Pedram and I were reflecting that in the eight years we have known each other, we have only spent two Valentine’s days together.  Usually, one of us is off, traveling or visiting family or living in England or abroad.  The Hallmark date doesn’t really play a role for us in our relationship.  But this year, we are both in England for this crazy love fest of a day.

Sadly, Pedram worked until 10pm and I was at a Baha’i’ study circle, so the day went uncelebrated.

However, my true Valentine, Khanh, who has consistently been making me feel loved with candy and chocolates for 12 years now, did not fail to impress.  In addition to the yummy Frans salted caramel (which I will share with NO ONE!) and my favorite heart candy, she included a little gift for the baby.

It is the softest, plushest, most adorable thing with ears in the world.  It is now in the baby pile, which includes nothing else.  Hope the kid is okay with wearing this home from the hospital and for the following few months.  Thanks so much auntie Khanh.

Speaking of babies, a certain someone became a complete gooey, mushy puddle of emotions when seeing this gift.  Which may have made my day a little more lovable.

The first three months

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All of these pregnancy websites encourage you to take pictures, weekly if not daily, to showcase your growing belly.  Or to write a daily journal with your emotions and feelings, turning your excitement into a small book that you can reflect back on with pride and joy.  Start early and share frequently, they encouraged!  I was told to express my feelings by then posting the pictures and journal entries with other newly pregnant women on forums, so that we could share our common experience.  During the first three months of my pregnancy, I only wrote one journal entry, with the following line:

“I never thought pregnancy would be so lonely”

At that point, I was just plain sad about everything.  I could not get excited about being pregnant, and I couldn’t fathom the idea that I was going to be a mother.  Suddenly, every horrible scenario in the world was racing through my mind.  Something bad was bound to happen.

I fell sick early on and at one point I spent a few days with over 18 hours a day in bed.  I was tired, exhausted in a way I had never thought was possible, spending hours upon hours in bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes just staring at the ceiling and repeating my morbid thoughts to myself, sometimes just crying.

I cried endlessly.  Randomly.  I had seen a video where a seal fights bravely but succumbs to a group of killer whales, and weeks later the images would come to mind in class, and I would have to leave and run to the bathroom so I could cry for the suffering of all seals.  I cried when one our assignment included caculating the unpaid work of rural mothers in India.  I was just sad.  Really really sad.

I was in denial that I was actually pregnant.  In England there is no official confirmation until the 12 week, so I held out for possibilities that it wasn’t true.  I felt guilty for thinking such thoughts.  And then I would cry about it.  I would eat something I knew I shouldn’t, and then I would cry about that.  I felt horribly guilty all the time.  I felt shame of my own feelings and unbearable disappointment in myself.

I forced a wedge between Pedram and myself.  I refused to cook, I refused to discuss things, I wouldn’t participate in learning more about pregnancy.  He made the doctor appointments.  He bought books and learned about what foods were okay to eat, and then prepared them for me.  I became chronically claustrophobic, and did not want anyone near me, coiling at his reassuring hugs.  Even on the buses and at University, I felt uneasy at the crowds and the lack of private space.  All I wanted to do was lie in bed.

When I had my first visit with the midwife, I tried to explain this all to her — I did not feel myself, and I really really wanted to go back to normal.  Her advice was that this IS normal, that hormones often cause such feelings.  But it didn’t help me at all. I wanted to erase the thoughts in my head, I wanted to be full of energy and joy, I wanted to be confident and not catatonic with anxiety and fear.  The midwife couldn’t help me — I was sent home feeling even more isolated.

I felt so distant from my friends and family, but I refused to share the news with anyone because I couldn’t come to grips with the questions they might ask.

A few weeks ago, I was telling this story to a friend with Pedram present, and at one point I saw his face and realized how unfair all of this was to him.  I did not allow Pedram to share the news, even though he was so thrilled.  Even worse, I wouldn’t allow him to show his excitement, instead asking him to NOT talk about it.  Also, do not ask me how I am feeling, and do not share your own feelings about the baby.  I often told him that I was fine when I wasn’t, and he knew I wasn’t, but was too afraid to try to help.

Pedram was feeling the opposite of my emotions — he was full of joy, raging with excitement, ready to plan and discuss and celebrate, but I asked him to mute it all.  But I did oblige him and ended up telling my sister and one of my closest friends, and they both made me feel so much better.  I was able to share my anxieties and fears and frustrations, and they were sympathetic and reassuring.  They got me — they understood my hesitant responses and gave me great advice.  And slowly the cloud of irritability and sadness started to fade away.  (Not completely though — at one point in Los Angeles, I went around the table and pointed out why I hated each person in my family.  Luckily, they had no problem telling me I was being rude and sending me to bed).

I thought a long time before sharing this.  I don’t have alot of pictures or memories from the first three months, and perhaps that is a good thing.  But I know what I felt was very normal for other people, and in alot of ways, the fears and anxiety are still there.

So maybe it is good to talk about it openly.  I am feeling much better, and am very lucky to have a good support system to help me through my more dark moments.  I still feel a bit out of control with my body, and occasionally guilty or lonely, but overall I am more energetic and less alone.  I share in Pedram’s enthusiasm, am reading more about pregnancy and have joined prenatal yoga classes.  I feel comfortable talking and more in control of my emotions.  Most importantly, I feel more positive about everything, including the idea  that I can be a mother.

Award winning housewife

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When I asked my Japanese classmate, a former consultant, what she wanted to do when we graduate, she replied that she wanted my life.  But in her words, 

“I want to be a housewife, just like you”

I think it took me a few minutes to process that one.  And then I realized that she was being somewhat humorous, and was saying that she hopes to get married and “settle down” in a house as a wife.  You know, a housewife.  She has achieved much in her life and this position was the next one on her life goals list.

My status as a married person has much more significance to certain cultures than others.  As I was explaining this morning to another classmate about how sometimes we go all out for dinner at our place, and sometimes it is just bread and cheese, she was really perplexed.  

“You serve your husband bread and cheese for dinner?” she asked.

“Umm…yeah.  I mean, we kinda prepare it together”,  I replied.

“Yeah, where I come from in Zambia, that is just a less direct way to ask for a divorce.  A woman who is married is expected to cook a good meal for her family, regardless of her job or school or even if she is sick.  What does your family think about this?”

And I explained to her that my older family members are probably not proud of my role in the kitchen, but that our marriage is built on a foundation much stronger than domestic abilities.  I did reassure her that occasionally I make the effort for a good home cooked meal, and that he does the same as well, but I got the feeling that she was worried I would be fired from my job.  

Later on, as Pedram and I were eating delivery pizza together, I asked him if he married me because of my culinary skills.  His reply?

“You knew how to cook before we were married?”

Exactly. 

The Four Year Story

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Happy Anniversary Cheri.

Washington DC

What is new this year?  New apartment, new city, new country, new job, heck, even Rusby has a new tail.

Havana, Cuba

Maybe this has happened in the past and I just didn’t think about it, but I feel this year more and more people are looking to us for relationship advice.  How crazy cool is that?  And when it happens, I talk and talk and talk, giving endless stories and ancedotes and tales about our interesting fights and our consulatation process, how it has evolved, and how we make big decisions together now.

Eastern Townships, Quebec

And then I turn to you, you who hasn’t said a word, and say, “remember Pedram?  Remember that??”  And you will say something to the effect of “Relationships are hard – that is the only thing I can say.”

And I think back to the time when we were going through a difficult period, and I was worried about the strength of our relationships, and you reassured me that we have become so entertwined that the weave our of relationship could withstand any obstacle.  That through our commitment to each other and the relationship as a whole, the fabric of our marriage is so strong, it can only get stronger, never disintegrate, regardless of what life throws at us.

Remember that Pedram?  Remember??

Tulum, Mexico

And this year, with our six months apart and the endless challenges that are being hurdled our way, it does indeed seem much stronger.

Perhaps before I told my friends that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram and it scares me to death.

But now I say that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram with complete trust, and it makes me content.

Happy Anniversary.  Four years, three countries, one dog, endless stories.  Remember Pedram? Remember?

 

Love you,

Mahsa

One time admittance

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Yesterday, we ordered some delicious kebab take-out from a local place in Montreal.  In the car, we suffered the 10 minutes it takes to get home, enduring by eating the bread.  Rusby, who was with us (which is why we didn’t eat in the restaurant), licked his lips continuously, smelling his first kebab in a confined space.  We flew in the door at home and devoured the food as fast as possible, which is, in my opinion, the only way to eat kebab.  When I reached the stage of fullness, where I was satisfied and probably could stop eating, but was still planning to consume much much more, I decided to put aside some pieces of joojeh kebab and barg for Rusby.  This careful maneuvering of kebab to the side of my plate caused Pedram to give me his “what are you doing” look.  And I explained to him that Rusby is part persian, and it is our duty to ensure that he enjoys some kebab as well.

Pedram is used to this.  I often claim that Rusby needs his antioxidants, which is why we need to give him blueberries.  Rusby also needs his belly rubbed for digestion.  So Pedram rolled his eyes, but still  asked if I thought it was a good idea to feed our dog human food.  And I said it was.

It was not.  I am not willing to admit when I wrong too often, especially when Pedram is involved.  This summer, we had a random fly problem, which culminated with the largest fly I have ever seen coming into our kitchen.  It was so large that it couldn’t fly too high, and so I took out the fly swatter and killed it.  It was late at night, and I proclaimed that I would leave the fly carcass on the floor overnight, to show other flies that we were serious and that our home was not friendly territory.  If I could have pitched its head on a stick, I would have.

The next morning, Pedram woke up early and called me in the kitchen.  The fly carcass was about 5 feet from where I left it, being marched towards the door by something like 10,000 ants.  My plan had failed, and the bugs in our house had multiplied exponentially.  And even then I was not prepared to say I was wrong.  No apology was offered.

Back to last night.  When I fed Rusby the kebab in his dog bowl with his dinner, he inhaled it, eating it so fast, he forgot to chew or taste.  I just thought this was him being as persian as a dog can be.  But then, later, when we went to take him for a walk, he cough twice, and then vomited everything he had eaten (included pieces of kebab still intact) on our hardwood floors.  It was so gross, so repulsive to see, that my reaction was to go vomit all my kebab in the bathroom.  Then both Rusby and I lied down on the floor and rubbed our bellies.  Pedram was not amused.

And so I give him this present, this one time admittance, that perhaps it was not a good idea to give the dog kebab.  This special gift is due to his departure from Montreal today.  He is now in England, starting a new job on Monday at the University of Sussex in Brighton.  I will be joining him sometime this year, but between now and then, we will be doing the lovely, always delightful long-distant thing.

For those of you who know how I feel about cross-continental moves, I am sure you are aware that this decision did not come easily to this household.  If anything, I was convinced that our next move, which wouldn’t be for another 3 years, would be further west.  And maybe a smidge south.  But this job is a great opportunity for Pedram, and I am proud of the professor.  It will be hard to leave Montreal, as we have had a great experience here, but it is time to start the new chapter in our life.  And sadly, this chapter starts with us apart.

But maybe this chapter, and the 2011 year, could also start with me admitting that sometimes, I can be wrong.  I hope this brings a smile to his face and eases the transition to England that he will have to do alone for the next few months.  But remember, this is a one-time occurrence.

The Three Year Story

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Happy Anniversary to us.

Three years is a good amount of time, right?  Long enough that we have figured some stuff out, and the rest we are not sweating cause it we actually know how to have productive arguments now.  It is as if we are climbing Mt. Everest, and I feel confident that we have all the equipment for the long hike — eventhough there will be undoubtedly some avalanches and storms in our future.  And hopefully a friendly sherpa to help me carry my bags.  Or that we are going on a long scuba dive to discover treasure, and the oxygen tank is full to fuel our adventure.  And I have something that scares away great white sharks.  I am not sure why all of my metaphors are so dramatic.

We’ve spent a good amount of time with my family this year, although if you asked me it is never enough time.  And in addition to gaining 10 pounds each time from my mom’s cooking, I’ve picked up some pearls of wisdom from being with so many couples with 30+ years of successful marriage.  There is this word, “chash” in farsi that we hear all the time in Seattle, meaning “okay” but in a better sense.  Like when my mom asked my dad to make her tea, and he says “chash”, even though he is tired, it is his way of saying, “whatever you say”.  Or when my aunt asks her husband to take some pictures, he replies “chash” without questioning her idea.  And during each of these times, I would turn to you, and repeat, with all seriousness, “did you hear that — chash!”, in hopes that you would also adopt this term as an automatic reply to everything I say.  Cause for me, the foundation of these relationship is one persons ability to always reply with “chash”.

I think we learned it best, however, when we were in the Adirondacks and we had breakfast with a couple who had been married for 43 years.  The man of the relationship waiting patiently for us to ask him his secret to success.  And when we finally asked, half cringing, half interested, he bellowed “The secret is:  ALWAYS SAY I AM SORRY, DEAR”  And then she rolled her eyes and he laughed for a good 5 minutes, and I leaned in and asked — “no seriously, is that the secret?  And how did you get him to learn this?”

But all joking aside, thank you for all you do to make this relationship so steady, the rock that maintains the foundation of Pedhasa, a temple to which I bow my head in gratitude.  Thank you for waking up early to walk Rusby on Saturday and Sunday mornings, allowing me to sleep in.  Thanks for pedaling your bike slower so we can ride to work together in the mornings.  Thank you for your patience with me when I am wide awake at night, and want to talk about n’importe quoi.  Thank you for helping me get back into yoga.

Thank you for understanding the art of consultation, and walking me through it when I need it.  Thank your for the uplifting conversations, the sing and dance sessions, and for the many many sink load of dishes you’ve washed when I have one of my cooking frenzies.  Thank you for ensuring that I am never, ever bored, and that there is a lesson in everything.

When I was younger, I would admire my father above all other men, often claiming to my mom that I would hope to marry a man like him.  You chide me for my little girl dependence on my dad, my need to call him to verify the best refrigerator brand, or for the lyrics to Que Sera, Sera.  You have to understand that my dad is the picture of perfection to me, even with all his flaws. Yet my father, like you, is a very unique individual.  Three years ago, before we wedded, I reflected on this and felt a great satisfaction that although you are very different from my dad, you have so many amazing attributes that I love.

However, it is clear to me that there is one that is very similar between the two of you — your generosity — in time, in love, in caring and understanding.  And perhaps subconsciously I knew this, and this is the reason we work so well together.  And when I look at these successful relationships in my family, and know that you and I are so different, there is a part of me that knows that I am, in many ways, married to man as generous and loving as my father.  And I pray one day, when my daughter tells me that she will marry someone like her father, that she will be so lucky.

Happy Anniversary to us.  I hope there is more and more cake and adventures in our future.

Love,

M.

PS – Repeat after me, “chash azizam”, and “chash joonam” and “ghorboonet, chash”

PPS – can we just take a moment and figure out exactly what is going on below?