525,600 Minutes

Jonathon Larson famously posed the question in his Rent song “Seasons of Love”, “525,600 minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?”  For Dave & me, there have been too many ways to measure the past year for us to count.  However I suppose “Seasons of love”, like the song title says, are really the best way to measure these past 525,600 minutes in Belfast.  I went into this year convinced that I would be counting down the minutes until I got to come back to the U.S.  Now I am finding myself holding onto each passing minute as I have to get ready to say goodbye to this place I have come to call home.  In a year that I thought would be seasons of longing to leave, it really has turned into a year filled with seasons of love.  How else could I measure a year which includes the birth of my first born child?  Her season of love is enough to fill an entire year and beyond.  A season of love from this year that I am dreading to leave is our church, Newtonbreda Presbyterian.  I really don’t think this church realizes how special it is – it really embodies everything that a Christian church should.  It welcomes foreigners with open arms and shows them love in every possible way.  I am also sad to be leaving a season of love which brought growth.  Dave has been blessed to work for an institution which gave him a renewed sense of purpose and I have been blessed to have a year to reflect and find out that moving to a new land is not as scary as it seemed 12 months ago.  We have both experienced seasons of life that could not have been experienced any place but here – a city that provided us a small reprieve from our hustle and bustle lifestyle in America.  A year of love looks like the face of our daughter, it looks like the church in which we worshiped, and it looks like the green and rolling hills we were blessed enough to call home in 2013.  All of these truly special moments which far too often get taken for granted taught us so much this year about living instead of just watching life go by.  These are seasons of love which truly turned into moments of love to last us a lifetime.

Images from 2013 Seasons of Love:

Outside Belfast City Hall

View from our house

Walking along one of the rolling hills in the Lagan Meadows

Atop Divis Mountain, with the city of Belfast behind us (more like a hill, though, compared to Colorado's mountains).  (4 months pregnant)

20 weeks pregnant

Right before my 1K Fun Run & Dave's Half Marathon
(33 weeks pregnant)

At the hospital, last pregnant picture

Daddy & Daughter


First family photo
 

Merry Christmas (complete with our paper crowns from our Christmas Crackers - a UK tradition)!
 

A Visit from Grandparents

We have just come to a reluctant close of arguably the best week of Shiloh’s life.  This little girl is lucky on many levels, one of which is that she has three sets of grandparents who love her with all their hearts.  Sue & Gerry, parents of one of Shiloh’s namesakes, Ellen, came to visit us for the past week and it was so hard to see them go this morning.  Grandma Sue & Granddad Gerry spoiled our little girl rotten and gave Dave and me some much needed refreshment.  Although Sue & Gerry are not blood related, they have been like second parents to me most all of my life, with Gerry knowing my dad well before I was born back when my dad was interning at St. Lawrence hospital, Sue acting as my girl scout leader until I graduated from high school, and both of them helping to shape me into who I am today.  As wonderful as it is to have a loving church family here in Belfast, it is not the same as having our real family here.  It has been beyond wonderful to have them here and not having to ask for help, but rather having them see where help is needed with Shiloh and jumping into help.  As soon as they arrived last week, they went into grandparent mode, and began the week-long gift of helping the new parents with the new baby.  There were gifts like hauling a Christmas tree from downtown to our house via a city bus, cooking dinner while I was told to sit down on the couch, manipulating backs with osteopathy to alleviate pain, massaging my head which put me near to sleep, and gifting adorable hand-made pajamas & booties to keep Shiloh warm.  I didn’t realize how tired I really was after adjusting to the past seven weeks of motherhood until they arrived and I had two extra sets of hands to help with Shiloh.  It was so wonderful to walk into the kitchen and see that the dishes had been washed and counter cleaned and wet clothes hung up to dry, or being told to go take a shower and “we’ll deal with the crying baby”, or not have to carry the diaper bag or push the stroller because someone else had already volunteered for the task.  A definite highlight of the week was having them here for Shiloh’s baptism, and the fact that Gerry did one of the readings for the baptismal ceremony.  It was a special moment made even more special because these two grandparents were present.  I don’t think it will just be me who misses them – Shiloh had taken to smiling up at Gerry when he fed her her bottle of expressed milk at night, and Shiloh had gotten used to snuggling with Sue in the morning while Dave and I walked Toby.  Their calming presence amidst the circus that is taking care of an infant and a very emotional dog helped lower my blood pressure and provided a respite when I needed it most, especially coming off a stressful week of figuring out Shiloh’s tummy issues.  When they left early this morning I took a page out of Shiloh’s playbook, crying like a baby, so sad that this week, like all good things, has to come to an end, but eagerly anticipating the next time we are all together.

First time meeting Grandma Sue

Yawning as she meets Granddad Gerry for the first time

Our trimmed Christmas tree

Decked out in her "Pixie Girl" pjs made especially for her by Grandma Sue, wrapped in the receiving blanket made especially for her by Maga (the name I call Sue's mom)

Snuggles with Granddad as he and Dave beat Sue & me in Trivial Pursuit

Baptism Day

Sue, Gerry, & Shiloh in St. Anne's Cathedral

Bottle feed time with Granddad Gerry

Cheers!

In the gardens at Belfast Castle

Shiloh, Sue, & Gerry in Belfast Castle

Sue & Shiloh in Belfast Castle

Beaming Granddad Gerry & the Pixie Girl, fast asleep

Hanging out with Grandma Sue

Great-aunt Hattie booties

Our first (and second, and third) Trip to the Hospital

There are a lot of “firsts” that I am anticipating in this first year of Shiloh’s life.  First time rolling over, first time sitting up, first tooth, and so on.  One of the firsts I was not looking forward to was the first time we took her to the hospital.  Since she was born, Shiloh has had a lot of vomiting (or “boking” as they would say in Northern Ireland).  Right around Thanksgiving, it started getting worse.  For example, one morning she was lying in her Baby Moses Basket and managed to hit the wall with some big-time baby throw up.  Another time I was holding her and she threw up so much that the entire right side of my shirt was dripping wet from baby throw up mixed with red stuff in her little baby throw up.  While I was waiting for the doctor to call me back after that episode, I found myself collapsing onto the floor with my baby in my arms and just crying.  Toby came over and did his best to comfort us both, lying right next to us and doing his best to snuggle.  The doctor told us to take Shiloh to Children’s Hospital for observation.  A few hours later, we were sent home from the hospital with a new medicine, changed from the one she had been on for the prior two weeks (half her life at that point), and told to come back if she didn’t get better.  Two days later we were back, this time requiring blood work (from which both of her little hands still have bruises) and a scheduled ultrasound for the next day of her digestive track to see if there was a blockage.  After the ultrasound (marking our third hospital trip in five days), the results were thankfully all good, but her medicine was changed yet again.  So far that seems to have at least changed the projectile vomit to just regular vomit (and eliminated the acid in the vomit so her esophagus doesn't get damaged).  There is really no way to describe how hard it is to watch your new baby be in pain and also how scary it is to watch a little four week old get poked by big needles, hooked up to beeping machines and scanned with baby-sized ultrasound wands.  Thankfully, the doctors at the Royal Jubilee Children’s Hospital seem to understand that a hospital can often be scarier for the parents than the child.  They quickly ruled out pyloric stenosis and confirmed that Shiloh just has extreme acid reflux.  The entire time they worked to reassure us and tried to be as gentle as one can be when inserting a stiff and shiny needle into wiggly and doughy baby hands.  Now that we are on the mend and seem to have the correct medicine dosage dialed in, we are all quite thankful that this “first” is past us, and we are moving onto the next exciting milestone in Shiloh’s life.  Hopefully the next “first” is more along the lines of a typical milestone and less along the lines of one involving a medical team. 

They had to wrap her hand up to keep the IV in her hand.

An Abridged Thanksgiving

November 28^th came and went in Northern Ireland without much more than a yawn from most residents.  However, those expatriates from America (such as us) did our best to celebrate a mini Thanksgiving day feast.  We have known for quite a while that there is no way that we would ever be able to fit a whole turkey in our Euro sized oven.  We started looking around for a substitute fowl, but had a hard time finding pheasant or quail or the like, so we started scratching our heads for another substitution (a chicken seemed to common for a special day like Thanksgiving).  In the recent edition of Everyday Foods magazine, there is a recipe for a stuffed turkey breast with Italian sausage.  We decided our oven could handle that, so we ordered a 4 pound turkey breast (it was so fresh it still had some quills attached!) and a few pounds of Italian sausage from our butcher and bought fresh parsley and sage and went to work on our Abridged Thanksgiving.  We started wracking our brains for what side dishes we could whip up, too.  We don’t have any mixers or pie tins or many of the other kitchen tools here that we have used in years past to make a traditional Thanksgiving meal, which limited the items we could make.  Since we also have an infant this year, and we’re in another country, we decided to cheat a little and buy some store-made items.  While I still made mashed sweet potatoes by myself, we turned to Sainsburys (our local grocery store) for the pre-made cranberry sauce, gluten-free French bread loaf and gluten free deserts.  Two traditional British deserts we added to our menu this year were Christmas pudding (which is not really a pudding at all but more of a spiced bread) and minced meat pies (also deceptively named – the “minced meat” is really currants, sultans and spices).  Dave added some baby potatoes and carrots to the baking pan with the stuffed turkey breast and our feast was ready to eat.  It may not have been the fanciest Thanksgiving that either one of us have ever eaten, but it was one of the more thankful Thanksgivings.  This was our first year with a child for whom we have prayed for a long time, this was our first year with Dave out of school and me on a sort of “sabbatical”, and this was our first year figuring out our way in a foreign land and somehow doing alright at it.  God has truly blessed us to abundance this year, something for which made this Abridged Thanksgiving feeling like our Fullest Thanksgiving yet.

Pre-cooked stuffed turkey breast

The finished product

Our Thanksgiving table, complete with a 4-week old baby

A Two Week Old and a Passport

There are a lot of things that all new parents have to contend with when a new baby is introduced into the picture.  Add a foreign country into the mix, and the list of “new things” grows exponentially.  Take for example, registering the birth of said baby.  We started on that for Shiloh last week Monday, five days after she was born.  We happened to be downtown on a few other errands, and Dave suggested we pop into City Hall to see what we would need to bring back to register her birth.  Apparently, all we needed was Shiloh, a working pen to fill out some forms, £16 (about $25) and we received two copies of the “long” birth certificate and one copy of the “short” birth certificate.  Our next step involved getting Shiloh a passport.  We made an appointment for this past Wednesday at the U.S. Consulate General to obtain a copy of her social security card, register her birth overseas, and apply for her passport.  Before we could go to the consulate, though, we needed two passport pictures of her.  Off to the chemist’s (aka pharmacy) we went where they take the picture and were impressed to see that the person behind the counter knew enough about taking infant passport photos to lay Shiloh down on her back and put the camera right above her face so we didn’t have to try and hold her up.  With Dave holding down Shiloh’s hands and me holding a finger in her mouth to try and sooth her until the camera went *click*, we managed to get two good-enough passport photos to take with us to the consulate.  The next day was our consulate appointment.  It was my first time visiting a consulate, and the security was the first thing that made an impression on me.  In addition to the 13 foot iron gates surrounding the compound were also reinforced barricades in the motor vehicle entry way, reminding anyone who thought of trying to storm the gates that great harm would be incurred to their car.  We got buzzed into the guard’s box to declare any and all electronics (which meant I had to surrender the camera I was going to use to document Shiloh’s first passport experience), go through a metal detector and have ID badges hung around our necks.  As we exited the guard’s box and made our way up the pedestrian path to the Big Consulate Building, Dave told Shiloh “Inhale deeply, Shiloh.  This here’s ‘Merican air.”  We made sure to put our “business” faces on as we walked into the Big Consulate Building so as not to arise any suspicion that we were actually having a little fun with the fact that our two week old daughter was already applying for her first passport.  We were pleasantly surprised when we entered the Big Consulate Building that there was no line and they started to process our paperwork immediately.  About a half hour later, with fees paid and signatures signed and paper work secured to renew Dave’s passport, we went back down to the guard’s box to reclaim our electronics and turn in our ID badges and wait for our ride home.  In two to three weeks, we should have Shiloh’s passport in our possession and our little pixie girl will be well on her way to following in her parent’s world traveling footsteps.

Shiloh Maryellen Gebben

Part One: We have a daughter

Born October 30th at 3:15 pm local time, 6 lbs 3 oz, 19.6 inches.  We are simply over the moon with our little pixie girl (what some of the midwives started calling her because she is so little).  On Monday the 28^th, I was going about my business, knowing I still had a solid two weeks until the expected due date for our little one, when I started having contractions.  By Tuesday morning, the contractions were coming a little more quickly and my water broke, so we went into the hospital for an examination.  They confirmed the water broke, but realized that I had developed hypertension and was headed in the direction of pre-eclampsia.  Since the contractions were still not coming quickly enough together, I was not dilated, and the protective membrane that is the water had broken in the very early hours on Tuesday, the doctors scheduled me in for an inducement on Wednesday morning.  I felt devastated knowing that I would have to be induced and my plan for a natural delivery was being thrown out the window.  However, by the time we arrived at the hospital on Wednesday morning and they did one last examination before starting the inducement medication, it was discovered that overnight my cervix had dilated on its own to 3 or 4 cm.  All of my dread from the prior day about having to be induced fell away as my natural delivery plan started to come back together.  Around 9:30 am, Dave and I were walked into the delivery room and met our midwife, Jennifer from Scotland (how she referred to herself), who would be with us until Shiloh’s birth.  By 11:30, Jennifer told us that I would most likely still have to have an IV drip of inducement medication because I was not dilating quickly enough and the contractions were still too far apart.  She went on her lunch break and by the time she returned a half hour later, her substitute, who filled in while she was gone, informed Jennifer that my contractions had quickened to every three minutes and I was dilated to 6 or 7 centimeters.  In other words, the IV drip would not be needed because things had just sped up on their own.  As I was quite terrified about the possibility of inducement, that piece of news was such a blessing to know that I could do this labor thing on my own.  The next few hours are a blur, (although I do remember telling the doctor to shut up), and the next thing I knew I had a beautiful baby girl on my chest.  I won the prize of staying in the hospital for two more nights because my blood pressure was still staying too high.  That ended up being a blessing in disguise because the midwives were just one button push away when I needed them, especially for learning how to breastfeed (which I have since decided warrants a rocket science degree).  One of the nights I was so tired and Shiloh was having such a hard time latching on that I called the midwife who came into my room, sat with me in bed for a half hour, and showed me step by step how to start a baby breastfeeding.  All of the midwives were so helpful and so comforting, reminding me that feeling overwhelmed and overtired is completely normal and to be expected.  The community midwife who makes her daily stop at our house has also helped to answer questions of nervous first time parents and give us tips for how to settle Shiloh when she choose to scream from 1:30 am until 6:00 am.

Part Two: Her Name

Several people have asked us about her names.  In the Bible, Hannah goes to Shiloh to pray for a child when she is unable to conceive.  As a result, Hannah has Samuel.  In our journey to have a child, we thought it appropriate that if we had a daughter to name her after the place with special Biblical significance for getting pregnant (we are keeping the boy name a secret in case we have a boy in the future).  Her middle name, Maryellen, comes from three people.  My paternal grandmother and Dave’s maternal grandmother both were/are named Mary.  The second part, Ellen, comes from my best friend, Ellen Osborn, who passed away when I was in fourth grade.  So as a result, we have Shiloh Maryellen to love for the rest of eternity.

Part Three: Toby the Dog

Our sweet little ten pound 6 year old Yorkie mix, Toby, has been slowing adjusting to our new family member.  He now only vibrates and yips some of the time when she cries and has taken to licking her head when she nurses.  He gets quite agitated when her diaper is changed and she screams Bloody Mary, barking at us as if to say, “She’s in distress!  Help her!”  He has always been a very empathetic dog, as Dave reminds me whenever Toby freaks out, which probably explains why he gets so upset when Shiloh is upset.  Thankfully, Shiloh had 9 months in utero to get used to Toby’s bark so she doesn’t seem to mind it when he barks like an alarm now.

Part Four: Our Church Family

We could not have gotten through this past week without our church family at Newtonbreda Presbyterian Church.  They have brought us meals, visited us in the hospital, taken Dave to and from the hospital to visit me, taken the three of us home from the hospital, taken us out to coffee, and smothered us with love.  Our blessings are overflowing from this gracious group of people.

Shiloh, Dave, & Me when Shiloh was 24 hours old

 

"I'm Good"

There are so many cultural expressions over here that I am still finding myself getting used to after all these months.  One of those is responding with “I’m fine”, or “I’m alright” when asked if I need help – instead of with “I’m good” as I usually would in The States.  I first realized this cultural difference a couple months ago when we had our friends Maurice & Fiona over for dinner.  The four of us were chatting as the dinner cooked when Dave went into the kitchen to check on the food.  I heard one of the pots start to boil over, and I asked him if he needed me to come help him.  He responded with, “No, I’m good”.  Maurice & Fiona chuckled to themselves, and then explained that if someone here were to use that response it would mean more that the responding person was telling the other person that he was well behaved instead of not needing assistance.  I’ve tried to remember that caveat as I have been out and about, but apparently that response is more hard-wired into me than I realized.  We were at church the other Sunday and a fellow congregant, Joan, approached me and asked me if I wanted any coffee or tea.  I responded with “I’m good” (within earshot of Maurice) and Joan looked at me peculiarly and said, “Yes, I know you’re good, but I was inquiring as to whether or not you were thirsty”.  Maurice and Dave immediately started snickering, especially since they were the only ones who understood the joke/accidental cultural faux pas I had just committed.   I think at this point I am starting to run out of times to use of my “I’m an American, please forgive my ignorance” card, but there are still times like this when I am finding need for it.  I am trying to do more thinking before American phrases pass through my lips and do more of “when in Rome, do as the Romans”.  However, at this rate by the time I head back to the U.S. I will have just gotten down the North Irish cultural sayings and will have to adjust again and turn my brain back to “American English Mode”.

Balls in Europe

The other day, Dave made an observation: “I’ll bet this year has seen the most Balls in Europe since WWII.”  By “Ball”, he was referring to my mom’s side of the family (the Balls), and I think he might be right.  In WWII, my grandpa, Devere, and his older brother, Don, and younger brother, Delos, served the U.S. as soldiers in Europe.  Prior to that, Francis Ball & his father, William, extended the branch of the Ball family tree to America when they boarded the Mayflower and made their way to upstate New York.  Their decedents eventually found Cadillac, Michigan, and members of the Ball family still live on that Ball Family Farm.  However, this year has for some reason seen a bumper crop of Balls making their way back to Europe, the most in one year since WWII.  The first wave of Balls coming back to Europe in January began with me, followed by my mom and sister visiting us this summer, my cousin Kody visiting Italy this summer, and my cousin Jason and his wife visiting Germany and Ireland (including popping up to Belfast and seeing Dave and me for a couple of days) this fall.  The next member of the Ball family to arrive in Europe is due 3 weeks from Sunday.  This will be the first birth of a Ball in Europe, who can trace his or her lineage to the Balls who came over on that historic ship, since King James I ruled England.  2013 has shaped up to be quite the monumental year for the Ball family and connecting back to its European roots.

Raising a Child in the Village

“It takes a village to raise a child.”  This might be a clichéd and tired saying, but it is also a very truthful one for our current situation.  Dave and I have been moved by how much the people of Northern Ireland and Belfast in particular like to take care of those who live here.  It is very difficult for someone to fall through the cracks.  Our church knows that we don’t have any family nearby except for a lengthy plane ride across a very wide ocean, and so they are doing everything they can to lift us up and know that there will be at least a loving church family to help us after the baby is born.  We have had grannies volunteer free babysitting, mothers offer to lend baby supplies, and one couple volunteer a ride to and from the hospital when the big day arrives.  Another area of feeling raised up and protected has been our antenatal (North Irish for “prenatal”) care and education courses.  Our antenatal care has been top rate care.  We are first timers to a viable pregnancy and at the start were still mentally and physically exhausted from all the work it took to have a viable pregnancy.  Thus, it was a relief to come into a prescribed system where we didn’t have to think and were told exactly how many scans (their word for “ultrasound”) we would need and when we would need to go to our doctor’s office to get checked up by her or our midwife.  It has been reassuring to be reminded that a woman who is pregnant is not a woman who is ill.  Rather, it is a woman who needs health checks but other than that can continue on with her regular healthy lifestyle.  The antenatal classes at the hospital left us with lots of information and a feeling that the midwives and doctors here won’t let us fail.  The “village” of Belfast will be helping us after the baby is born in the form of a house-visiting midwife.  Post birth, we will have daily visits for at least ten days and up to a month at our home from our midwife to answer any and all questions we might have.  She will also give me advice on breastfeeding, give me a pat on the back when I have the baby latched on correctly, and reassure these two first time parents that we are doing great.  It all makes it feel a little less intimidating to have a baby in a foreign land.  We are thankful to be a part of this village, to be a part of a country that is holding our hands as we bring our baby into the global community.

Teaching English

This September I was made aware of a non-profit organization seeking volunteers to teach English to refugees and asylum seekers.  The organization is called Northern Ireland Centre for Refugees & Asylum Seekers (NICRAS).  NICRAS is run on a shoe-string budget with the goal of helping refugees & asylum seekers transition into their new country.  It is housed in a converted terraced house which is a few years past its prime.  To say the building is old would be to say that the Vatican has been around for a few years.  The front door shuts most of the time, and only one of the three bathrooms works some of the time.  The teaching room is located on the fourth floor…four floors with very steep steps, (many of which I am certain are not up to code) made even steeper by the 33 week-old fetus growing inside my body.  For a few weeks now on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have been able to volunteer my time and help teach English to this vulnerable group of people.  Most of these men and women come from war-torn countries such as Sudan and Somalia, and other countries with extreme poverty such as Ethiopia.   Many do not know where they will be headed to next until they board the plane departing their home country.  They often are able to bring the clothes on their backs and the stories of devastation and heartbreak of the atrocities they have witnessed in their home country.  Many of the asylum seekers are living in temporary youth hostel accommodations and must check in each Wednesday at North Irish government offices to maintain asylum status.  If they obtain refugee status (something which is not a guarantee), they then must find a way to acquire housing, transportation, and nourishment on their own in a land where they have trouble communicating and are learning as they go.  There is a wide range of English knowledge from the students who show up for tutoring.  Some have had university experience in their home country and a little exposure to English, while others have never set foot in a formal classroom and instead worked as a shepherd their entire lives in remote mountain regions.  The diverse knowledge backgrounds makes for an interesting mix to teach.  One group may be learning how to greet people in English and ask for directions while another group is learning the alphabet while yet another group is practicing reading English aloud from chapter books.  This is truly turning into one of those experiences where I am the one being transformed and touched by the very people who I am supposed to be helping.  Seeing the excitement in the eyes of the students when they understand something in English is a gift like I have never before felt.  Experiencing the gratitude for simply having a teacher sit with them for an hour and a half and work through this complicated language we call English makes me feel honored to be in that role.  After witnessing how grateful these students are to learn, I have found myself feeling frustration with those, myself included, who take their overall education for granted.  Each Tuesday and Thursday night I reflect on my day and I find myself feeling that much more thankful for all of the many blessings surrounding Dave and me.  The small gift of speaking the same language keeps me ahead of many people whose first language is not English and end up here either by choice or by luck of the draw.  For example, I am able to easily communicate with my doctors and midwives about questions, concerns, and comments about my pregnancy and understand their responses without needing the aid of a translator.  There are pregnant women who come to NICRAS and I have been able to teach them the words of vital pregnancy terms they need to know as well as what to expect when they are expecting in Belfast in regards to pregnancy health care.  My only regret about NICRAS is that I did not find out about it sooner.  Although I have only been volunteering at NICRAS for a few short weeks and only have a few months left, I can honestly say that it will be one of the things I will miss most about Belfast.  It is already spurring me to try and find a comparable organization in the U.S. to help people in similar situations and work to extend a hand of humanity  in an otherwise cold world.  In other words, take on the challenge laid out by a former Hope College dean of chapel in my undergrad years who said, “go out and be the Gospel”.

Learning the Ancient Craft of Aran Knitting

There are several experiences I have had in Northern Ireland that I never would have had in the U.S.  One of the experiences happened recently when Fiona, a friend from church, came over to teach me some Aran (pronounced “air-in”) patterns which would be used in an Aran jumper (aka, sweater). 

Aran jumpers are unique to Ireland.  They originally came from the Aran Isles which are located off the west coast of the Republic of Ireland, and became adopted throughout the Emerald Isle by fishermen.  The jumpers became popular amongst fishermen for a few reasons.  Two of the reasons are because (a) they were made out of raw wool which still had its natural oils and thus making it water repellant (important for a jumper worn by sea faring fishermen) and (b) each fishing family retained its own distinct Aran jumper pattern and so if a fisherman met an untimely death and drowned in the sea, when found the pattern on his jumper would identify from which family he came.  (Fiona married into the Doherty-pronounced “Dockerty”- family, which according to her husband actually has its own Aran pattern stitch.) 

Fiona admitted to me that there is no “easy” Aran stitch to learn, and luckily for me she was a very patient teacher.  The first thing I learned was that there is an additional needle I would need: a “cable needle” to hold some of the stitches while I would knit and purl and end up twisting the stitches into a specific design.  Sitting next to Fiona and copying her knit for knit and purl for purl and slip stitch for slip stitch, I was struck by the history that I was partaking in.  For generations, long before the island of Ireland was divided into two countries for religious reasons, women made these wearable stories for their men; here I sat, in the 21^st century next to someone who had distant roots to these knitters and was able to learn a few of the patterns of this ancient craft.  It was definitely a “pinch me” moment.  Fiona revealed to me that about fifty years ago, one could purchase a hand knit Aran jumper for right around £10 ($16).  However, now because Aran jumpers have become popularized amongst American tourists, the price is now around £80-£90 ($127-$144).  She said that a machine knit Aran jumper would not run that much money, but she said you would be able to tell the difference.  When I asked her what the difference would be she hesitated, and then said “Well, I guess it would be the difference between how you are knitting the stitches right now and how I am” (she also has about fifty-five years of experience on me).  After spending over three hours at our house, she left me on loan with one of her knitting books, one of the “magic” (her words) cable needles, and a ball of real Aran wool with which to practice my stitch patterns.  She also gifted me a book titled “What to Knit When You are Expecting” which contains some pretty cute project ideas.  After a few days my stitches had already improved (see pictures).  I popped into the “Pins & Needles” club at our church to show Fiona my improvements (granted there was a dropped stitch at the top of my sample), and she gasped and said “Did you do that?” in disbelief.  I beamed with pride knowing that I left my teacher speechless.  Now I have to just keep practicing the stitch patterns, hoping to get better in the 8 weeks of free time I have left before our “little adventure” arrives.  I better get knitting…

The "Cable Stitch"

Fiona's sample on the left, mine on the right

My improved cable stitch after a few days of practice

The "Honeycomb Stitch"
Mine on the left, Fiona's on the right

I don't remember this stitch's name
Fiona's on the left, mine on the right

An American Visit

Dave’s parents visited us for a week and we had some fun and exciting times along the way.  In addition to checking off the city hall tour, Titanic Exhibit, Belfast Castle, and tour around the city, we also revisited Giant’s Causeway, took our first walk across the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge, and our first tour of the Mourne Mountains. 

Part way through their visit, some friends of Dave’s parents & their son arrived and went with us up and down the North Irish coast.  Giant’s Causeway was still as grand as it had been when we visited with my family in July, but this time there was a fraction of the number of tourists and the weather could not be beat.  Whereas July provided gale-force winds and rain pelting our cheeks like rice coming out of thousands of BB guns, our September visit provided blue skies and a breeze so light that there was barely a visible wave rolling into shore.

The Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was a fun tourist trap but also one of historical significance.  Paying a toll allowed one to walk across the 20 meter wide and 30 meter deep chasm to Carrick Island where fishermen used to go to check on their salmon nets.  The rope bridge now has hand ropes on each side, but when the fishermen were utilizing the bridge for work there was only a hand rope on one side to grasp.  We also found out that supposedly there are Basking sharks, dolphins and porpoises swimming off the coast of the island – we didn’t see any, and were content with the sea views that went on for miles. 

Toby was able to come with us into the Mourne Mountains, which after living at the foot of the Rocky Mountains for four years seemed more like the Mourne Hills.  However, they were still grand in stature and beautiful enough to take our breath away.  We happened to pick an especially clear day; apparently most days in the Mournes are quite stormy.  Although the wind had fun whipping through long hair and blowing away anything weighing less than Toby, the gold sun shining in the blue sky on the green Mournes left one wondering if these were the hills referred to by the 121 psalmist who lifted his eyes and spoke to God.   The roads to and in the Mournes were barely wide enough for our 7 seat Euro sized car, and yet in several parts a full sized farm tractor managed to squeeze pass us without running us completely off the road.  Parts of the hilly roads with their sudden hair pin turns left us feeling like we were on a real-life Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.  At one point on one of the twisty roads, we came to an abrupt stop, and Dave, his dad, and Steve, one of their friends hopped out of the car.  We were puzzled as to what they were doing, until we realized that we had come upon a wild blackberry patch and the three of them were pulling off of the bushes and stuffing into their mouths as many blackberries as they could fit in the short window of time we sat idling on the narrow stretch of asphalt.  Once back in the car with their maroon-colored grins revealing three satisfied stomachs, we continued on our journey.  One of the roads took us into the Silent Valley, a lovely park with Belfast’s water reservoir and home to a man-made wall about 5 feet high of rocks to separate Belfast’s water reservoir with that of another town. What is so remarkable about the wall of rocks is that the rocks, each about the size of a bowling ball and weighing much more, were hand-quarried and hand-carried all the way up one of the Mournes.  One of the informational signs described the men who built the wall as having hands made of shovels, and that seems to be the only way to explain how they managed such a feat.  Two other sights we took in while in the Mournes were a cork tree and a gum tree, neither of which I had ever seen in person before.  It was amazing to watch the gum tree bark work its way off the tree in colorful patterns, and feel the spongy cork tree bark spring back to form after my thumb pushed into it.  Both added to the awe that was inspired by the Mournes. 

We were sad to say goodbye to Dave’s parents and their friends after a fun week of adventures.  However, we know that our adventure in Northern Ireland still has a few more months and at least one more adventure starting in November.  Until then, we are basking in the memories of a fun trip and looking forward to new memories we will form together in the land of the green rolling hills.

Jan (Dave's mom) sitting in the Lord Mayor's chair

John (Dave's dad) sitting in the Lord Mayor's chair

Jan & John in front of Belfast Castle

The Coast

The Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge

After we crossed the rope bridge

Sitting on the basalt columns making up Giant's Causeway

Getting blown away in the Mourne Mountains

The Mournes

Here, on the top mountain, you can see part of the wall of hand-quarried rocks

Gum Tree

Cork Tree

Our last supper together, eating at the Barking Dog restaurant

Dog Ownership, Belfast Style

Dogs are nothing new to me.  It is hard for me to remember a long period of time in my life when either my family or I didn’t have a dog.  Therefore, I thought that I knew at least one or two things about owning a dog.  I am learning, though, that owning a dog American-style and owning a dog North Irish-style are two different things indeed.  One of the first things I learned about dog ownership here is that it is the few dog owners who actually pick up after their dogs.  The city council recently enacted a new campaign to try and clean up dog poop by imposing a £80 ($125) fine on anyone caught not picking up after their canine companion.  Although this ordinance does not seem to be catching on, Dave and I are trying to be trend setters by picking up after Toby on walks (no one seems to be following our trend).  Leashes are another controversial contraption.  When we first visited our vet to get Toby up to date on his North Irish shots, the vet all but accused us of animal cruelty by utilizing a leash ("Let him run free!" we were told).  There is no leash law in the city (I found out after I emailed city council complaining about off leash dogs), but some parks have signs that say “Dogs Must Be Leashed” within the boundaries of the park.  However we seem to be the only dog owners who obey these signs.  We have actually seen more children on leashes than dogs – no joke.  Due to the high volume of dogs off leash, we find ourselves always a little on edge when we walk with Toby around other unleashed dogs whose owners seem oblivious to their actions.  Somehow we have managed to only have two negative experiences with off-leash dogs: one dog stole Toby’s toy and ran away with it while the owner sat talking on the phone, and another dog jumped on Toby and nipped him while the owner kept walking and turned a blind eye to the cruel behavior.  Although we are not as brave as some dog owners I have seen walking down the busy streets of Belfast’s City Centre with their four legged friend off leash and crossing busy streets, we have taken advantage of this unenforced park leash rule and had some fun times throwing Toby's toy for him in one of the open fields near our house.  It should come as no surprise to me that the North Irish dog culture would be just as different as so much else in this culture.  However, somehow it has managed to take me by surprise, and just when I thought I understood dog ownership, I moved here and had to learn it all over again.

Toby, looking very unimpressed with the jacket he has to wear on some of the colder walks.

The Old Man & The Garden

Dave and I live in what is called a Terraced House.  Picture a block with a long row of 100-year old red brick houses all connected to each other by the walls.  We live in the end terrace, so we not only get a nice view of the sunset and sunrise but also a (small) side yard.  All of the front “yards” (if you can call them yards…most people refer to them as gardens) are about 10 feet by 8 feet and are usually separated by four foot high brick walls.  Some people fill their spot with grass, others cement it over and put potted plants out, and still others place a large hydrangea or rose bush in the center to add some flair.  About half way down our terrace is an older man, I would presume to be in his 70’s, whose front garden is literally overflowing with blooming foliage.  He has somehow squeezed in three trees, a hedge with climbing flowers, and a plethora of potted flowers blooming throughout the seasons.  I love walking by his house as it is the most exciting one to walk past due to its variety of greenery.  He also tends to keep to himself, and whenever I do see him out and about he always has on his Gilligan’s Island style fishing hat, a non-descript tan jacket and carrying a partially full M&S shopping bag (M&S= Marks & Spencer’s, a large UK department store chain).  I have run into him early in the morning at St. George’s Market, late in the afternoons at the library, and walking by our house in the middle of day.  I always try to get his attention, to make eye contact with him at the very least.  Since we moved into our house on February 2^nd, I have been trying to get some sort of acknowledgement from our neighbor.  Just when I was starting to think that my attempts were all in vain, the heavens opened up and a miracle occurred.  One morning last week while Dave and I were walking by his house, he was walking into his front garden from the road and carrying to large bottles of water.  Not only did he nod his head at me, but he stopped and said, “I have some men coming to do work on my roof today and I thought I would leave them some water.”  I jumped at the opportunity to engage him in conversation, “Oh! How wonderful!” I said.  “By the way, we just love walking by your house - you have the loveliest garden.”  Instead of being able to take a compliment, he responded with “Eh, it’s overgrown and the vines shouldn’t be hanging into the sidewalk like they are.  And these flowers over here are droopy and need more water.”  I just smiled and said, “It all looks lovely.”  (I think he might have given me a partial smile as we walked away!)  Down the street, I said to Dave, “Okay.  I can now leave Northern Ireland, I got the old man to not only say hello but also participate in a conversation with me!”  I might not have formed a friendship for life with him (or even for the day) but I did find a small victory in that the old man who I had started to write off as not having a friendly bone in his body finally showed me otherwise.  This man gave me a refresher course in patience, reminding me that sometimes you have to wait, hard as that may be, for the desired reward.  

Exercising & Pregnant

Getting out the door to exercise is not necessarily the top priority on a pregnant lady’s to-do list.  I’m six months pregnant, my feet are starting to get swollen, I’m starting to waddle as I walk, and I’ve nearly given up on climbing anymore flights of stairs.  However, years ago I made up my mind that when I became pregnant I was going to train for the delivery like I trained for my triathlon.  And so, I find myself heading out the door to try and keep my body in good shape for this intense thing called labor and delivery.  I’ve actually been quite surprised at how much exercise I’ve been able to do, considering of course how big I keep getting.  Sure, I’ve had to slow down a bit (or two or three bits) here and shorten my distances a bit there, but on the whole my workouts have gone (surprisingly) pretty well.  I was feeling so good in the first trimester that I ran a 5K at 7 weeks, which made me think I could run the Belfast half marathon in September.  I talked it over with my GP, who also has a degree in sports medicine.  She told me (wisely) that I could continue to exercise while pregnant, but there would be more half marathons next year for which I could train.  In other words, my bubble was burst…I really wanted to be that super-woman of a pregnant lady who crossed the finish line with a shirt that read, “Baby’s First Half Marathon”.  My consolation prize, however, was to sign up for the Belfast Half Marathon Fun Run (a whopping 1 kilometer) that happens on the same day and on the same track as where Dave will finish running the Half Marathon.  I was thrilled when I found out that I would get to have my 33 weeks pregnant race, after all!  Now instead of training for the half marathon, I am finding other ways to give my baby its exercise in utero and train for that Fun Run race.  The baby has now had its first (and several subsequent) spin classes, several 5K runs (starting to become jogs, and not so much the 5K distance anymore) and several laps in the pool.  Dave has said he’s excited that our baby will come out of the womb already having experienced a runner’s high and wanting more of it.  I’ll just be happy if all this sweating I’m doing now pays off later in the delivery room.  So far the exercise seems to be boding well in everyday life, too, like whenever I find myself having to sprint to make the bus (that happened twice the other day) or when we have our uphill hike to church each week (and I’m trying to keep up with a husband who is in great shape with a very long stride).  However, when I’m having a day when I’m feeling like a ginormous whale of a pregnant lady, I let myself have my pity party and then I remind myself about the end-game and that this is temporary and before I know it I’ll be exercising without my own personal 15 pound kettle bell attached to my midsection.  Until then, though, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other so that when the November 10^th due date comes, I can leap across that finish line.

Violence in Belfast...Again

On Thursday July 11^th, we were looking forward to a fun cultural experience to occur over the course of the next day.  However, due to choices made by members of a sectarian group, violence and sadness became the theme instead.  But first, a little backstory: on the 12^th of July in 1690 Protestant King William of Orange from the Netherlands defeated the last stronghold of Catholic King James II from England in the Battle of the Boyne in Northern Ireland.  In order for King William to know how to find the route to King James’ camp in the middle of the night, his Protestant supporters built giant bonfires to guide his army.  Today, the giant bonfires are still lit on the 11^th of July near midnight, and on the 12^th of July the Order of Orange march throughout Northern Ireland.  We tried to stay up to watch the bonfire near us get lit, but 11:15 came and it still was not aflame so we headed for bed.  The next day, we were awaken at 8:00 as one of the marching bands paraded past our house.  We walked over to the Ormeau Road, a five minute stroll from our house and watched, along with a miniature army of police, the multitude of neatly-dressed marching bands from South Belfast head towards city hall to join with the bands from the other areas of Belfast.  The rest of the day we went about our business, which included welcoming an old friend of Dave’s to our house for the weekend.  Shortly before 8:00 p.m., we made our way back to the Ormeau Road and watched the bands march back down the street.  However, at this point they had had all day to soak in liquor and heighten their rage against anyone not in the Orange Order.  The morning’s miniature army of police had grown to include a group of police in SWAT gear.  This is when our fun cultural experience started to morph into a scary sectarian riot.  The formerly orderly Order of Orange groups were now a bawdy group of drunkards with un-tucked shirts and members wandering in and out of the crowded sidewalks.  When earlier in the day the police had provided just a presence along the parade route, mostly standing on the sidelines and a few patrolling alongside the marchers, at this point there was now a barricade of police officers dressed in riot gear blocking off access to a Catholic neighborhood along the parade route.  We found out that the buffed-up police presence, including over 600 additional forces imported that day from Scotland, England, & Wales, was due to rioting that had started earlier on Friday.  The North Irish police had banned the Protestant Orange Order marchers from marching through a Catholic area in North Belfast, and so the Protestant Orange Order members responded with chucking bricks, hurling petrol bombs, and firing missiles at police, prompting police to respond with water cannons and rubber bullets to hold back the rioters. To illustrate the local opinion of the Orange Order, one member of our church described them as the North Irish version of the Ku Klux Klan.  The rioting went on to last into the night on Friday, and go through Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday leaving 71 police officers injured in the hospital.  This past Tuesday night, a petrol bomb was thrown directly at a police officer and knocked him down (which led to cheers from the rioters), and so the prosecutors are now looking to file attempted murder charges against the responsible party.  So many people were arrested that courthouses were opened for special sessions on Sunday to allow for arraignments.  This latest round of Belfast violence and rioting has led to a real sense of disappointment within the city, disappointment with not only the members of certain groups but also a disappointment with the leaders of these groups who put out a call for rioting.  And this coming Saturday, more protests are planned by the Orangemen.  I have never felt so much hatred and violence so close to home, so woven into the fibers of my community.  Many in Belfast are holding out one last hope for Richard Haas, a former U.S. senior diplomat and special envoy to Northern Ireland who served in Belfast from 2001-2003, who arrived on Wednesday.  He is a seasoned negotiator and has respect from all sides of this problem.  One thing is clear, that Belfast still has a ways to go towards its perpetual struggle for reconciliation since the 1998 Good Friday Peace Agreement was first signed.  Only the future history books know how Belfast will be able to become the stable society for which it has potential.  Until then, Dave and I pray that our community leaders can find a way to quell the most recent rioters and that those spreading violence and hate can be drowned out by the leaders of peace.  

Notice the Republic of Ireland flag to be burned on top.  The Republic flag is a symbol of Catholicism to many Orangemen.

A march next to our house.

Policemen near the parade in the morning.

One of the Orange bands.

One of the SWAT vehicles in the evening.