'Back home in 10 mins xx' would be a normal communication most days between husband and wife, but this year it's been distilled into something more concentrated. After 7 weeks this little text ping sent our household into delirium. As J walked in, I felt we had too few arms between us, as we five became immediately entwined around each other, small arms around longer legs, and longer arms around smaller necks; the dwarfs emitting little cries of: 'Daddeeeeee.' Then the Pea took her position suckered tight to her Daddy's leg or torso where she remained for the following fortnight. 'Daddaddaddadda' she muttered as she stumbled, newly a biped as if with two wooden legs. A shining index finger pointing his way. And for me, tears of joy followed by a lightness of heart and a featheryness of foot. For J's presence around the house; but also for another brain on every decision from what to eat for dinner, which way to drive into the West Bank, and what to do for a children's party.
The dwarf party. Oh my - I overestimated our organisational skills once again - though would that I had taken J's raised eyebrow seriously as I suggested what I thought might work for this year: A Star Wars theme for 24 small people. The dwarfs had reluctantly agreed to share a party, so in trooped all their friends, dressed in Star Wars costumes and ready for fun - at least 15 nationalities under one roof.
This was where we could have come against the rocks. I realised too late whilst J and I tried to herd 24 children between 7 and 5 years old into groups to begin the treasure hunt around our local district in East Jerusalem. I'd roped in the friendly man in the dry cleaner to hold some clues: 'Darth Vader has spilled egg down his cloak, where would he go to get his cloak cleaned?' And also our friends in the pizza restaurant: 'Yoda needs a pizza recipe for his special green pizza - where will he find it?' This is not normally the way of birthday parties in East Jerusalem, and there were some surprised looks.
I realised why, after the children broke out of the gate, like terriers out of the traps - and I found myself racing down our crowded high street with the sticky black pavement, with six under 7's running around searching for clues dressed as Darth Vader, Kylo Ren, Yoda and a belly dancer: weaving amongst all the hijab-ed ladies and men speeding by in their cars. I harked back to J's raised eyebrow and wondered when I'd ever learn to take it seriously.
But we made it around. And back for a Star Wars cake which Sashimi pointed out: 'does not look like at all like the death star Mummy. But it is very tasty.'
We held a Syrian dinner for 24 big people to raise money for Aleppo. The kitchen hummed with fun-laced perfectionism thanks to J's uncle Frankie and aunt Odile who were staying. Though we did a massive over catering job, Arab style, and were eating pomegranate tabouleh for a week afterwards.
Two weeks passed all too fast, and all of a sudden J and I found ourselves driving out of the garage and past our gate: the boys standing half way up in nothing but their pants, the Pea tottering on the middle railing with St Grace supporting her. They were all waving and smiling: 'Bye Dadddeeeee,' the Pea pressing her palm to her small flat nose and blowing a kiss our way, not to see him again for another 8 weeks. J struggled to hold back his tears. It is definitely the hardest for him, this bizarre existence.
We crossed the border. We've become so used to all this over 4 years. The gun-toting Israeli teenager at the checkpoint who would look more at home in a Mediterranean night club; the warm Jordanian welcome amid the dust and Dead Sea flies, some of whom always manage to hitch a ride in the car with us to Amman. I'm on swatting duty if J is at the wheel. The driving as if everyone is out to kill you; the winding road up the hill to Amman leaving a silver sliver of the Dead Sea below, past the minarets and the muddle of houses with no apparent planning.
We had lunch with the Duke in Jordan before J got his flight, and sat on his terrace surrounded by artefacts and home made installations, eating wild boar and fatteh salad, with a Pakistani from Rawalpindi who works for the US Federal Bank, and a Jordanian keen on teaching us idioms. We hadn't seen the Duke and his wife for a long while and he sighed and laughed: 'Ah, ia Lucy. Alan Wasahlan' then laughed again: ' Whenever an Arab doesn't know what to say he says: Ahlan Wasahlan.' (welcome) The Duke chuckled.
I drove back home again that night - the dwarfs and a Pea all clean and combed after bath time with St Grace. Then the first rains of the autumn began and the boys ran outside shrieking in excitement, naked but for a raincoat each, a little smaller on them than last year - bare bottoms peeking out. They ran back inside and giggling hysterically, tied the Pea's ankles together with a dressing gown cord. She kept standing up, then falling on her face, legs folded like a frog, and looking quizically at her ankles wondering how her new found feet were failing her.
J has less to take his mind off the separation. He explained how he looked at himself in the mirror and asked himself quite what, exactly, he was doing in a small cubicle, inside an enormous cement wall, separating himself from greater Baghdad. Separating himself from everyone he knows and loves. These are extraordinary days.
The dwarf party. Oh my - I overestimated our organisational skills once again - though would that I had taken J's raised eyebrow seriously as I suggested what I thought might work for this year: A Star Wars theme for 24 small people. The dwarfs had reluctantly agreed to share a party, so in trooped all their friends, dressed in Star Wars costumes and ready for fun - at least 15 nationalities under one roof.
This was where we could have come against the rocks. I realised too late whilst J and I tried to herd 24 children between 7 and 5 years old into groups to begin the treasure hunt around our local district in East Jerusalem. I'd roped in the friendly man in the dry cleaner to hold some clues: 'Darth Vader has spilled egg down his cloak, where would he go to get his cloak cleaned?' And also our friends in the pizza restaurant: 'Yoda needs a pizza recipe for his special green pizza - where will he find it?' This is not normally the way of birthday parties in East Jerusalem, and there were some surprised looks.
I realised why, after the children broke out of the gate, like terriers out of the traps - and I found myself racing down our crowded high street with the sticky black pavement, with six under 7's running around searching for clues dressed as Darth Vader, Kylo Ren, Yoda and a belly dancer: weaving amongst all the hijab-ed ladies and men speeding by in their cars. I harked back to J's raised eyebrow and wondered when I'd ever learn to take it seriously.
But we made it around. And back for a Star Wars cake which Sashimi pointed out: 'does not look like at all like the death star Mummy. But it is very tasty.'
We held a Syrian dinner for 24 big people to raise money for Aleppo. The kitchen hummed with fun-laced perfectionism thanks to J's uncle Frankie and aunt Odile who were staying. Though we did a massive over catering job, Arab style, and were eating pomegranate tabouleh for a week afterwards.
Two weeks passed all too fast, and all of a sudden J and I found ourselves driving out of the garage and past our gate: the boys standing half way up in nothing but their pants, the Pea tottering on the middle railing with St Grace supporting her. They were all waving and smiling: 'Bye Dadddeeeee,' the Pea pressing her palm to her small flat nose and blowing a kiss our way, not to see him again for another 8 weeks. J struggled to hold back his tears. It is definitely the hardest for him, this bizarre existence.
We crossed the border. We've become so used to all this over 4 years. The gun-toting Israeli teenager at the checkpoint who would look more at home in a Mediterranean night club; the warm Jordanian welcome amid the dust and Dead Sea flies, some of whom always manage to hitch a ride in the car with us to Amman. I'm on swatting duty if J is at the wheel. The driving as if everyone is out to kill you; the winding road up the hill to Amman leaving a silver sliver of the Dead Sea below, past the minarets and the muddle of houses with no apparent planning.
We had lunch with the Duke in Jordan before J got his flight, and sat on his terrace surrounded by artefacts and home made installations, eating wild boar and fatteh salad, with a Pakistani from Rawalpindi who works for the US Federal Bank, and a Jordanian keen on teaching us idioms. We hadn't seen the Duke and his wife for a long while and he sighed and laughed: 'Ah, ia Lucy. Alan Wasahlan' then laughed again: ' Whenever an Arab doesn't know what to say he says: Ahlan Wasahlan.' (welcome) The Duke chuckled.
I drove back home again that night - the dwarfs and a Pea all clean and combed after bath time with St Grace. Then the first rains of the autumn began and the boys ran outside shrieking in excitement, naked but for a raincoat each, a little smaller on them than last year - bare bottoms peeking out. They ran back inside and giggling hysterically, tied the Pea's ankles together with a dressing gown cord. She kept standing up, then falling on her face, legs folded like a frog, and looking quizically at her ankles wondering how her new found feet were failing her.
J has less to take his mind off the separation. He explained how he looked at himself in the mirror and asked himself quite what, exactly, he was doing in a small cubicle, inside an enormous cement wall, separating himself from greater Baghdad. Separating himself from everyone he knows and loves. These are extraordinary days.
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