Often, the ending of a chapter can feel like twilight. As you live those last few days and hours in a situation before a change, there is an attractive glow about things similar to the magic hour before dusk. You feel more relaxed about the moments that didn't work out; nostalgic about those that did. Our last week here has been surrounded in that golden light, and although moving house is always frenetic, there has been a cushion of calm under our caravan which is creaking into action once again after what feels like a very short year. This wonderful country has many, many odds stacking up against it, yet it has offered us as many wonderful discoveries, and provided us with equal numbers of new friends - many twice our age - but friends nonetheless. Someone once described Jordan to me as 'Middle East lite', and if it is that, then it has been a useful and gentle introduction to this region where we hope we manage stay for a few years yet.
Bouncing on top of, and pulling all the feathers out of, our cushion of calm, have been the effervescent dwarves. I read a great idiom this week. 'When you have one son you become a parent, and when you have two sons you become a referee.' There have been innumberable moments this week where St Grace and I have needed our blue UN peacekeeping berets as the Lozenge and Rashimi lock horns. Like a disfunctional couple they fluctuate between giggling and rolling around on the floor entangled in each other to fighting shaggy head to shaggy head. I think many times a day, that I'm not qualified for this role. It was not one I signed up for. And worse, there are two types of what feels like red noise which continue all day: the decibels of Sheikh Rashimi and the unrelenting banter from the Lozenge: Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe, Mummy?Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe,Mummy? Mummy?MummyMummyMUMMYMUUUUMMMMY!!!WashimiithnotanithebrotherWashimiithweeeallynotanithebrother.Idon'tlikeWashimianymore.CanIhavethomemilk.Iwantmilk.No,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Mummy,Mummy,MUMMMMYYYY!Canwemakeapinatalikeyousaidwecouldlastnight.Orifwedon'tmakeapinatacanwemakeacake.Ifwanttomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Iwantomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Mummy.MUMMY.MuMMMMMMEEEEEEEEE!'
Rashimi says no so much that I have rekindled the 'no song' which emerged when the Lozenge was also 2.2 years old. It involves singing no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, until you get a smirk. But this week it has not been working, though I have started to hide a smile first, when I say let's brush our teeth, and he replies:'NO! I'm bizzy.' Or, in answer to a suggestion to go into the kitchen/bedroom/into the car, Rashimi replies: 'NO! Not goin' there. Goin' Jooslem.'
If only either of the dwarves understood the significance those two words, 'Goin' Jooslem' have for billions of people on the planet.
Bouncing on top of, and pulling all the feathers out of, our cushion of calm, have been the effervescent dwarves. I read a great idiom this week. 'When you have one son you become a parent, and when you have two sons you become a referee.' There have been innumberable moments this week where St Grace and I have needed our blue UN peacekeeping berets as the Lozenge and Rashimi lock horns. Like a disfunctional couple they fluctuate between giggling and rolling around on the floor entangled in each other to fighting shaggy head to shaggy head. I think many times a day, that I'm not qualified for this role. It was not one I signed up for. And worse, there are two types of what feels like red noise which continue all day: the decibels of Sheikh Rashimi and the unrelenting banter from the Lozenge: Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe, Mummy?Whenarewegoingtothenewhouthe,Mummy? Mummy?MummyMummyMUMMYMUUUUMMMMY!!!WashimiithnotanithebrotherWashimiithweeeallynotanithebrother.Idon'tlikeWashimianymore.CanIhavethomemilk.Iwantmilk.No,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Iwantjooth.Mummy,Mummy,Mummy,MUMMMMYYYY!Canwemakeapinatalikeyousaidwecouldlastnight.Orifwedon'tmakeapinatacanwemakeacake.Ifwanttomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Iwantomakeanowangecake.Mummy.Mummy.MUMMY.MuMMMMMMEEEEEEEEE!'
Rashimi says no so much that I have rekindled the 'no song' which emerged when the Lozenge was also 2.2 years old. It involves singing no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no,no to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphony, until you get a smirk. But this week it has not been working, though I have started to hide a smile first, when I say let's brush our teeth, and he replies:'NO! I'm bizzy.' Or, in answer to a suggestion to go into the kitchen/bedroom/into the car, Rashimi replies: 'NO! Not goin' there. Goin' Jooslem.'
If only either of the dwarves understood the significance those two words, 'Goin' Jooslem' have for billions of people on the planet.
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