Author: Robin Chartier

I went to work out today (just like groundhog day, over and over again) and there was a chickie there with this t-shirt:

And I thought, “Ooh, I like that design.” You know, the elemental abbreviation for iron is Fe and working out makes me a strong woman . . . cute, right? And then I added that to the list of Things I Swore I’d Never Say, But Lived To Eat My Words. Oh well. At least my new interest in workout wear makes Josh happy and keeps me comfortable. It really is the lazy woman’s way to dress. Last night someone told me (and they were sincere and meant it in the sweetest way) that I really pull off the Plain Jane look and I knew exactly what they meant. They followed it up by saying I dress like a yoga instructor which is really the greatest compliment ever, as long as we’re imagining the woman in comfortable yoga pants and soft shirts with thumbholes in the sleeves and not the ones with long armpit hair, woo music, and smelling of incense.

This month is Ramadan and for the first time I’m working out with people who are fasting. I started Crossfit last year during Ramadan, but the class I attended back then was made up of non-Muslim expats. Those women have moved on and for the last few months I’ve been in a class with all Bahrainis. When Ramadan started our gym shifted all the classes to the late afternoon/evening to accommodate those who are fasting. Classes are at 4 and 5 (so people fast from food and water all day and then work out!) and then there’s a break for people to break the fast (at approximately 6:30pm every day), then classes at 8:30, 9:30, 10:30 and even an 11pm class!

I’ve been going at 4pm because that’s when the ladies I work out with decided to go — so they can get home in time to get ready to break the fast with their families. I’m amazed by how tough they are and how dedicated they are to working out in spite of the heat and not being able to eat or drink for 12 hours before they arrive. I suck down extra water for the hour before I go to the gym and my mouth still feels like a parched desert halfway through the workout.

Because I’m not Muslim, the coach and everyone said “feel free to drink water as usual,” but I figure if they’re all fasting, the least I can do is go without water for the hour that I’m at the gym. The first day of Ramadan, between every exercise, my friends were begging me, “Please drink water.” “Have some water.” “Really, you can have water.” I told them that I was fine, but as soon as class was over they went and got water from the cooler and said, “Please drink. Drink for us. It will make us feel better.” I can’t explain it well, but their care for me and not wanting me to be burdened by the sacrifices that they take on as part of their faith . . . it’s not what you’ll see on TV, but it’s what we have experienced in real life.

All that to say, I’ve been a rock star at the gym these past 3 weeks. But I joke with Josh that it’s a bit like bragging that I won a race against a bunch of people on crutches. If I were dehydrated (we’re at well over 100 degree temps these days) and faint, I know the last place you’d find me would be at the gym. I’m impressed by all those who come and attempt any kind of workout under those conditions day after day.

Since Calvin finished school last week he’s been coming to the gym with me. And he’s got some work to do to catch up. Ha! Let me brag that I can lift more than my 17 year old boy (for the 5 minutes that it lasts) before he masters proper technique and blasts straight past me. He’s already stronger than he was when he started, but today, I came out on top. 32.5 kg push press (shoulders to overhead) vs his 30kg. That’s me, winning against newbies and a crew of people ready to pass out. #beast

Too bad I don’t mean that literally. More like doggie paddling from one event to another as we finish out the school year. We really are part of the “everybody gets a trophy” generation. Sports awards, academic awards, yay you put on your shoes awards . . . I don’t know what all these awards are for, but it feels like there’s a ceremony every time I turn around.

Josh and I went to our last rug flop last night. I didn’t take any photos — too busy soaking it all in. The smell of the wool, the motes that fly as each carpet is flopped on the top of the pile, the velvety feel of expensive silk . . . At the end of the evening we had 3 carpets that we were considering, but there was one that had caught my eye back in the shop about a month before when I went browsing while Josh was away in the US. He tells me to buy whatever I want, but I’m terrible at committing to large purchases, so I intended to go back into the shop with him when he came back, but hadn’t had time.

We decided against buying a carpet at the flop and chose go to the shop the next morning, hoping that the heavy wool one that I had my eye on hadn’t been snapped up yet.

Some posts I write for other people, to share a funny story or an oddity of our lives, but others are for me. I might post some things on my blog that I wouldn’t necessarily share with the whole world, but if I write them down here they are mine for good and I can always go back and reminisce and remember. This is one of those stories that I don’t ever want to forget, but it’s not my typical Crazy Family Meets Middle East Misadventure.

We’ve been messaging with the kids’ school for next year, trying to decide on class schedules. Since the school places an emphasis on art and music the students all take band, choir, drama, or art of some kind. My kids have not taken band in Bahrain (Calvin did our first year here and since I don’t have anything nice to say, I’ll leave it at that). When they looked at their options for electives, both Carter and Caleb wanted to sign up for band next year.

And . . . I wasn’t feeling it. I think musical instruments are great, but I’d much rather have them invest that time in learning piano or guitar. Something that they wouldn’t have to drag back and forth to school. Something that they wouldn’t lose or leave on the bus. Something that doesn’t sound terrible when they practice. Something that has a usefulness beyond high school. Like Josh said, when’s the last time anyone was asked to bring their trumpet to a bonfire or to a christmas singalong?

Carter can’t be counted on to practice anything on his own and Caleb is my singing and whistling fool. That kid makes music with his mouth 24/7 so the idea of refining and channeling his talents in a melodic way would be lovely.

Caleb and I were discussing his class choices last week and at the end of our conversation I said, “Baby, I know you want to take band, but choir is a much better fit for you. My job as your mom is to help guide you and I don’t normally make decisions for you, but I want you to take choir.” His eyes filled with tears and he put his head down on the table. I rolled my eyes and said, “Really? You’re crying about this?” (OK, so I’m not always the most sensitive and empathetic mom, but tears over nonessential things drive me crazy.)

He shook his head and wiped his eyes and said he was crying happy tears. Say what? I was completely puzzled.
“Earlier this week in Health class, during meditation (oh goodness, don’t get me started on that mess) I was praying about my classes and how I really want to take band and I asked God for a sign so I would know what to do.”

Oh, my sweet baby. I guess something good has come out of that waste of time — 20 minutes of each class is spent following a guided meditation tape while the teacher “works” on her computer. I’m no dummy. It’s like when I taught swimming and made the older kids swim laps so I didn’t have to get in the pool right away. She’s killing time. Big fat eyeroll. I had told both boys that they could always spend that time in prayer — Carter told me he tried to sleep, but I guess Caleb actually took my advice.

He continued, “I told God that I was willing praise him with an instrument or praise him with my mouth, I just needed to know what to do.” Wow. That’s super deep for this 11 year old who just seems to be rolling along through life with a smile on his face.
“So when I told you that you had to take choir, that was your sign from God? And you were crying because you were happy that he heard your prayer?” He nodded.

Amazed that he was willing to take my declaration as an answer to his prayer instead of arguing about it, I told him I was proud of him and then told his brothers how God and Caleb had an awesome thing going and that they could also pray for things in their own lives instead of just asking me to pray for them. Carter, in his smartass way said, “So if I ask God for a sign will you let me take band?”
“Only if you ask him for a sign to let you quit Arabic,” I shot back. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk and said, “Never mind.” (He wants to quit Arabic and switch to Spanish because Arabic is “too hard” and after a lot of consideration I had finally given in and said Sí.)

I reminded them that God doesn’t always give us signs and he doesn’t always answer our prayers as quickly as we might like, but he’s always listening. Hug, hug. The End. Just like an episode of Full House.