Brynn Barineau

Category: Being a Multicultural Family

  • Diagnosis: Information Overload

    Diagnosis: Information Overload

    The Internet is amazing.  Easy communication between continents, quick access to the rules on semicolon usage, and adorable animal videos.  What’s not to love?  Well, for me, the gross amount of information available on pregnancy and mothering.  Here is a tiny sample of the useful info the Internet has provided me concerning pregnancy.
    Google query:  “What to eat while pregnant?”
    You absolutely have to get enough folic acid, vitamin C, Calcium, iron and about a dozen other things while pregnant or your baby will not have a fully developed spinal cord, skeleton, or eyebrows. You can get these things from dark green vegetables, citrus fruits, beans, milk, yogurt, steak, eggs.

    Google query: “gas and indigestion while pregnant”

    You will inevitably suffer from gas and indigestion.  In the case of severe pain avoid eating dark green vegetables, citrus fruits, beans, and dairy products.

    Google query: “Foods to avoid while pregnant”

    Avoid any undercooked meat and eggs and any unpasteurized dairy or fruit juices.  Consuming these will cause terrible bacteria to eat your baby.

    Google query: “Important nutrients while pregnant”

    You really, really need to eat a lot of iron, which the body easily absorbs from meat and eggs, spinach and beans.

     

    An hour of this will make a sane person’s head explode.  You should eat beans and broccoli but not if you want to avoid being doubled over with gas pain.  You should eat lots of meat and dairy but only if it’s been pasteurized or cooked until it can be used as a spare tire.  This is the curse of too much information.  Spend enough time researching and you will inevitably end up with contradictory information.   If it’s not flat out contradictory, it will at least make every bite of salad cause for an anxiety attack and present you with the choice of gritting through passing a beach ball through your intestines or depriving your baby of vital nutrients.  And we all know which option a good mother would choose.

    During my first few weeks, I had pretty much convinced myself there was no way the baby could make it out of my uterus alive when I had my first consultation with Dr. Paulo Batistuta.  Leaning back in his chair, he listened while I asked about eating fish and peanut butter and salad prepared by anyone’s hands other my own.  He smiled and said “Go ahead enjoy.”  Restaurants don’t do very good business if their patrons get sick, so they keep their food clean and fresh.  As long as my peanut butter is made in the USA, it’s no problem.  (Remember, Brazilian peanuts can carry a liver-eating fungus.)  And fish? Well, of course. Moqueca capixaba is delicious, isn’t it?  Yes, doctor.  Yes it is.  And thanks to you, I will now be able to enjoy it without a side of guilt.

    Internet research is basically the only skill I got in college and it has become something of a curse since being pregnant.  Dr. Paulo is exactly the zen master this patient needs.  Eat a balanced diet. Cook everything until there’s no pink.  Stop using Google.  Everyone will be fine.

  • The increasing weight of my uterus

    The increasing weight of my uterus

    The other morning at breakfast my husband casually brought up an old colleague who had called him out of the blue.  I listened attentively and then with a slowly furrowing brow as my husband explained this colleague wanted to put my husband in touch with a local college.  This college is in need of professors.  Perhaps my husband would be interested in teaching beginning in September?

    Between bites of peanut butter toast, I calmly reminded him that he has a daughter arriving at the end of August.  Won’t things be stressful enough without a new teaching gig on the side?  That’s why he was taking the month of September off from work. So, he could be here helping with the baby and coordinating international family visitation.  I agreed this was going to be a huge help but what about after September.  He would go back to two jobs and I will be at home with no jobs.

    We left the conversation at “Let’s wait and see what the college offers if they ever actually call,” but I continued to think about it for the rest of the day.  Even knowing how much my husband loves teaching and has missed it over the last few years, I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for this new project.  His dissertation is not due for another few, stressful months and he’s already looking for something new to fill up his time.  I would have thought a new baby would fill time pretty effectively but my husband seems to think he will still have some left over.

    And he just might be right.  After all, he isn’t the one whose body will be battered and bruised and need recovery time.  He doesn’t have the mammary glands required to feed the baby every few hours.  It’s not his voice lecturing on supply and demand that the baby will have heard for months and most likely have become very attached to.  He’ll have a more fit body, more energy, and maybe even enough time to teach a few law classes, all in addition to having a warm, squishy baby to rock to sleep.  Who the hell came up with this ridiculously unfair system?

    That was it.  That was the real reason I couldn’t support my husband pursuing something he loves.  While there are legitimate arguments to be made about adding stress and leaving me alone for more hours during the week (I’m including the hours needed to plan lessons), my real hang-up is that I am jealous.

    Taking on a professorship in September would not even be an option for me.  There is no discussion.  No debate.  There is not even a discussion about continuing the job I have in September.  If my husband and I have a baby, I’m not working for several months.  Period.  It does not matter how much I enjoy my job, how much money I make, or how long I’ve waited to find a real job in Brazil.  I’m staying at home because in this partnership, I’m the one with the uterus.

    I’m loving my job.  I have been waiting for years wondering if my master’s degree would end up a completely wasted investment.  I’m making friends and coming home daily with enough stories to fill up a week of dinner conversation.  Seriously, at this point, I’ve got conversation material to last through July.  But that doesn’t matter.  I will be giving it all up for months and my own dreams, interests, and capabilities do not matter. Because I am the one with the uterus.

    Before the defenders of motherhood swoop down around, let me say that, yes, having a family is a dream of mine, so having a baby is in fact pursing one dream.  It’s just not the only one I have.  And my husband gets to have a family without putting any of his dreams on hold and even has the option to pursue an additional interest.

    I do not regret getting pregnant and I cannot wait for the moment I get to meet my daughter face to face.  It is just a little shocking to me to have my life plan decided so absolutely by an internal organ other than my brain.  I haven’t changed.  The person who is Brynn still has the same interests, the same flaws, the same quirks as four months ago but, at least for the end of 2011, those things are secondary to the fact I have a uterus and have put it to use.  Do men have any experience remotely equivalent?

    I brought all this up to husband over dinner last night.  I asked if he had any problems with my blogging about the subject.  He said he didn’t mind, but he added one thought at the end.  He told me he was making sacrifices to have this baby too.  I asked what they were.  He told me, “I’m going to have to share you with someone for the rest of my life.”  And I suddenly felt a whole lot lighter.

    Update: My daughter was born 7 weeks early and is turning 4 next month.  My husband did finish his PhD and take the teaching job.  He is now the coordinator of the law school…And despite not having a full night’s sleep since July 10, 2011, I have managed to write a graphic novel set in Brazil.  Now if I could just get an agent to say yes, I’d have quite the uplifting cinematic ending. ; )

  • The Miracle of Pregnancy?

    The Miracle of Pregnancy?

    The miracle of pregnancy is that any woman voluntarily goes through it more than once.

    At 19 weeks into my own pregnancy, this is the conclusion I’ve come to.  Am I the only one that thinks a process which makes the act of consuming food torturous at exactly the same time your diet becomes more than ever before, is flawed?  Admittedly, eating has become less of a chore in the second trimester, but between constantly belching like a teenage boy chugging soda to an increasingly limited number of comfortable sleeping positions, I’m not sold on the experience.

    I’ve been doing a lot of research.  I’m reading every thing from mommy bloggers debating epidurals to the Mayo Clinic’s week by week summary.  Pretty much everyone, doctors and bloggers alike, reference this “glow” pregnant women experience.  A warm, fuzzy feeling that radiates from toes to earlobes every time a woman looks at her belly.  Unless this glow refers to light reflecting off of my sweat, I don’t know what they’re all talking about.  I’m waiting for the fuzzy feeling.  Seriously, any time now.

    Maybe my hormones are off.  Although, I’ve done so many blood and urine tests at this point, I’d think somebody would have noticed and told me if they were.

    Do not misunderstand me.  I’m not upset about being pregnant.  I’m not regretting it.  Really, I’m a huge fan of family.  Go family!  “More family,” I say.  I can’t wait to go to school plays and put colorful, abstract renditions of the family pets on the refrigerator.  I’m just not a huge fan of the pregnancy part and based on the vast majority of what is online, this feeling (or lack of) puts me firmly in the minority of women.

    Reading the material available for pregnant women and new mothers, it’s pretty clear there are millions of women who dream about being pregnant.  They yearn for it.  They wish, hope, pray and stare longingly through store windows at baby clothes.  I have never felt this.  I never dreamed about being pregnant and giving birth was never on my list of life goals.  In complete honesty, getting pregnant has yet to give me even half the personal satisfaction that finishing my master’s degree did.

    When my husband came home from the doctor two years ago and said we might have trouble getting pregnant, I said “We can just adopt.  There are plenty of kids that need parents.”  I truly didn’t feel any sense of loss.  What I wanted down the line was a family and that, at least in my mind, never required my being pregnant.

    I understand many women feel a need to be pregnant, but I can’t empathize.  I’m thrilled the baby is healthy and growing.  I’ve got a library’s worth of books coming that will tell everything from how her synapses are forming to all the colors her poop can be and what they mean.  Her nursery color scheme and theme are set five months before she’ll need it.  Yet even amidst the nesting, there is a feeling Audrey will be an only child.  At least, the only one I’m giving birth to.  I’ve told my husband we can totally have more kids but it’s his turn to gestate.  He assures me this won’t be possible.  I shrug my shoulders and say “Well, there are lots of kids who need good parents and a big sister.”

  • Coconut Water in a Bottle

    Coconut Water in a Bottle

    I’d like to share a PSA I’m working on.

    “Hey kids, let’s talk about statistics!  Statistics are lame? Ok, how about, sex and statistics? Did you know there are lots of statistics about sex? Totally! People base entire careers off of pie charts illustrating issues about sex.  What issues?  Well, you could have data about how likely it is for someone above a certain age with a certain medical history to have a baby.  You could then pass this information along to doctors.  Doctors in turn pass it along to patients.  These doctors might even chuckle when the patient talks about continuing to use birth control for the time being, because the doctor knows the odds of pregnancy are so slim contraception isn’t necessary.  Then the patient and his partner, believing the doctor knows what he’s talking about, think it’s ok to go a few weeks without birth control.  Four months later the couple is researching baby names and picking out colors for the nursery.  Look kids, my point is that the only statistic about sex that really matters is ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.”  Say it with me, ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.’ ” -This message was brought to you by the US Department of Agriculture, for years bringing you numbing statistics such as raising child from birth to 17 costs $221,000 (not including the cost of time, sanity or college).

    A little wordy for a 30 second spot?  Maybe.  I could just make t-shirts that state in bold and all caps “A SMALL CHANCE IS NOT THE SAME AS NO CHANCE” and give one to, well, everybody .

    It’s an important lesson my husband and I have learned, because, obviously, the story above is ours.  I am currently 18 weeks pregnant.  We’re expecting a little girl August 26.

    Despite what my PSA might imply, we are excited.  Although, to be completely honest, it is has taken me a couple of months to reach that stage.  We always planned to have a family, but we were going to wait another year or two.  Being a person who sticks to any well-made plan the way others adhere to religion, I was thrown by this schedule change.  “Buying an apartment comes before having a baby!”  Then I looked at the big picture, the one where you see your entire life laid out, and I realized that having a baby after college, after grad school, after marriage, after employment, even if it’s still one year earlier than planned, is actually pretty darn good life planning.  Also, I started looking at baby stuff and discovered there is not a single item of clothing that does not become totally adorable when miniaturized.  OMG, baby socks!!

    Now that I’m far enough along, I’m comfortable posting about my pregnancy to the world.  This means Coconut Water will have lots of posts in the coming months about having a baby in Brazil.  Having read about expats in Rio, I already know having a baby in Vitoria is about half the cost as Rio for the same quality of care.  There will be posts about my doctor (love him!), raising bilingual kids, costs, hospitals, finding a nanny, coordinating family visits, etc. Between the new job and the new baby, I have so much to write about but right now I need to go edit essays.  So many posts, so little time.

  • My Scientifically-Proven, Stable Marriage

    My Scientifically-Proven, Stable Marriage

    I’d like to thank the New York Times for bringing to my attention the fact my marriage is sustainable indefinitely.

    That’s not my romantic idealism talking. No, it’s based on the results of a quiz I took on self-expansion in your relationship. The quiz was developed by a university professor which make the results totally scientifically valid. Since I scored off the charts, I now have irrefutable proof that twinkies will go bad before my marriage does.

    In order to determine what chance your marriage has of sustaining, the quiz measures how much you get out of your relationship. That’s the great truth the psychologists behind the quiz realized. People are happier in relationships they get something out of. Apparently, giving up all your own needs and losing yourself in your relationship is not a recipe for a sustainable relationship. Surprising results given the long term happiness historically achieved by martyrs.

    The creators of the quiz do distinguish between sustainable and lasting marriages. Sustainable implies continuing happiness, while lasting implies children or a faith that condemns you to hell for divorce. Not having any of the things that support a lasting marriage, I had my fingers crossed this quiz would show I have what makes a sustainable marriage. I do.

    You can take the quiz here, but I’ve listed some of the questions below.

    -How much does being with your partner result in your having new experiences?

    -When you are with your partner, do you feel a greater awareness because of him or her?

    -How much does you partner increase your ability to do new things?

    -How much do your partner’s strengths as a person compensate for some of your own weaknesses?

    -How much has being with your partner resulted in your learning new things?

    -How much does your partner increase your knowledge?

    You’re supposed to answer on a scale of 1 – 7 with 7 being “omg! so, so much!” The higher the score the more sustainable the relationship.

    In looking over my results, I realized the surest way to a happy, fulfilling marriage is to marry someone from a different culture. I think I’m on to something big here. Marry even a moderately supportive person from a another culture and there is no way you won’t answer at least a 5 on every question. “Providing new experiences,” “increasing your knowledge,” or creating a “greater awareness”? This stuff happens everyday when your partner has a different culture than your own. I don’t know if the psychologists even realize what they’ve discovered. The most fulfilling relations are cross-cultural ones.

    That really is nice to know. Before this quiz there was all this other research saying how marriages across cultures are statistically less likely to succeed. Based on the different cultures, different religions, languages, the fact we’re both children of divorced parents and the 16 year age difference, the experts seemed to agree my marriage is destined to crash and burn leaving a crater that will alter weather patterns.

    But I can stop worrying now because I have a quiz which proves that I am in a happy and sustainable relationship. I can ignore all those other studies, including the one that says calculating odds on a relationship between two entirely unique individuals is ridiculous.

  • A Brazilian Christmas

    A Brazilian Christmas

    Describing holiday gatherings in my family as hectic would be an understatement. There are multiple sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins to visit and dine with. The table is buried under enough food for a week-long bacchanalia. Enough dessert is prepared for every person in attendance to have her own cake.

    In comparison, the first Christmas I spent with my in-laws in Brazil was a pleasant afternoon picnic with some acoustic guitar.

    It was surprising to me that my American Christmases are filled with more food, presents and cousins than those of my Brazilian in-laws. It certainly seems to go against the stereotype of family-focused Brazilian culture and allowing-the-disintegration-of-the-family American culture. But which “American” culture am I referring to?

    Middle-class America? Middle-class, Latino, urban American from Miami? The diversity of the US makes it difficult to define what is American and the same is true of Brazil. What is Brazilian? Well, are we talking about the Paulista sushi chef of Japanese heritage or the Carioca taxi driver of Italian/Portuguese ancestry?

    I’m not saying overarching national or regional cultures don’t exist, just that within any culture are seemingly endless subcultures that create huge variety among people and families.

    I realized this year, after hearing many accounts of “Brazilian” Christmases, that my southern family celebrates Christmas in a more “Brazilian” way than my Brazilian husband does.

    Growing up, I’d usually celebrate Thanksgiving in South Georgia on my Grandmother’s pecan farm. As one of the oldest, I got to drive my younger cousins and the kids of my dad’s cousins (who I believe are called second cousins) around in my great-uncle’s golf cart. On my mom’s side, Christmas dinner often included the daughter of my step-dad’s brother-in-law’s sister, a relationship the English language has no term for.

    Because my parent’s are divorced, Christmas day usually included visits no fewer than four houses. One set of grandparents has since moved to Florida, so we’re down to a mere three present opening sessions. Three homes is more than enough to leave my husband shell-shocked with only the strength to sit upright, mumbling to himself, “It’s so much. It’s so much.”

    Whether he was talking about the number of presents, pies, or names of family members to remember I don’t know, but after my first Christmas lunch in Rio with only his immediate family and a single pudding for dessert, I understood his culture shock.

    We now make a point of spending Christmas in the U.S.  Every December we fly to Georgia for lots of family and food. It’s a very Brazilian holiday.

  • Why are you here?

    “Why are you here?” I probably posed that question 20 times over the course of my teacher training. Asking a person to explain her existence may seem a bit forward for a first meeting but among expats it’s typically asked as a follow up question to visa status. “So, why are you here?”

    In this context “here” is understood to be Brazil and answers ranged from the romantic to the idealistic. While our individuals stories differed, whether South African, Irish, or New Zealander, all of us attending the training were united by the designation “native English speaker” plus the fact we had chosen to take up residency amongst non-English speakers. And this was more than enough to make for two weeks of great conversations, lasting friendships and several explanations of cricket.

    Jump to four days after the last training session and I’m suddenly posing the same question to myself, “Why am I here?” I was seated amongst a few bleached blonde teenagers in letter jackets and puffy-haired, middle-aged women in college football sweatshirts at a Chinese restaurant in a strip mall. The day before I had listened to my grandfather calmly discuss Obama’s intention to make the US a socialist state. While shopping, I’d overheard a conversation as a man fervently hoped the US “drops some nukes” on Iran, item one on the worst Christmas wish list ever.

    Then I was deciding between lemon or kung pao chicken while the children at the next table called for “Mama.” I felt as if I was observing a scene without taking part in it, like Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present, only instead of quotable, crippled children there were text-messaging Republicans.

    So, why was I having Chinese at a strip mall surrounded by people I would probably never have great conversations or lasting friendships with? Because I frickin’ love Chinese food. Because I can understand every southern-accented word spoken and I can identify which college claims which animal among the alligators, tigers, and bulldogs featured on sweatshirts.

    I’m here because we drove to the shopping center in five minutes on a four lane divided highway. A divided highway! It’s how angels travel around heaven.

    I’m here because I can mentally roll out a blue print of this strip mall and know that starting at the far end, my printer ink is at Staples and my reasonably priced jeans are at Gap. I bought my camera battery at the store next door to the Chinese restaurant with the wonderful egg drop soup. My salon is further down and three doors down from the grocery store. I know that while the grocery store’s bananas will taste like wax, it carries all the peanut butter I could eat in a lifetime.

    I’m here because at the far end of the parking lot there is a Target and a Borders both of which I can wander through blindfolded. I know without doubt that every suburbanite wants a coffee from the Starbucks inside Target but not a single one of them will walk across the parking lot to get one. They will get in their cars and drive alongside the paved sidewalk to a closer parking space.

    I’m here because I know this place and I know these people. This is where I became the person who moved to Brazil and became a registered Democrat. Clearly this place is not as soul crushing as I like to paint it. The truth is I share a lot with my fellow Chinese food patrons, from a love of a separate and clearly marked returns counter to a fanatical observation of traffic laws.

    At Christmas a person wants to feel at home and this is my home. I moved to Brazil but my family and my culture is here. That’s why I’m here among people I understand and who would agree that cricket is a ridiculous attempt at a sport.

  • Expat Masochists

    Expat Masochists

    The word “expatriate” derives from the Medieval Latin expatriatus, which means to have left one’s own country. It was and, according to Webster’s, still is a synonym of banished.

    If you google the word expatriate you can find literally millions of proud expatriates. Personally, I wonder about a group of people so happy about banishment they ask for it and promote it via themed cookbooks. It just proves what I’ve always known. We expats have some masochistic tendencies.

    Ok, not all us. There are lots of expats who didn’t have a choice. I’m talking about those of us who volunteered for banishment. We applied for the job, or requested the assignment, or married the handsome foreigner. Knowing full well we’d be giving up unappreciated comforts like being able to count change by touch and recognizing the people featured on it. Many of us even gave up our voice by moving into a language we can’t speak.

    We tell people the rewards of the new job/marriage/opportunity-for-world-improvement will more than outweigh the costs of self-imposed banishment but the mere fact that we have a price at which we are willing to leave our home sets us apart from, I believe, the vast majority of people in the world.

    There are literally millions of people who would rather live in a tent for decades than give up their home and rebuild somewhere else. Certainly, relocating across the world requires resources many people don’t have but war torn and failing states are populated by successful professionals (I’m thinking of several personal friends here) who could find jobs in countries without an inflation rate over 1,000%. But they stay. Why? Because they are home. They will not give up their family, their culture, their home for any price.

    Whereas many expats look at the really lustrous hair this man could pass to his offspring (or the higher salary, whatever motivates you), weigh it against living in a country with street signs in a different alphabet, and our response is “Sign me up!” I’m willing to bet if polled, the general consensus of the world would be that we are some crazy mofos.

    And I think they’d be right. We’re not certifiable but part of us definitely wanted the hardship. We revel in the fact that our daily lives would reduce lesser people (or ourselves if we haven’t gotten enough sleep) to tears and pleasure in our own pain is the definition of masochism.

    Fortunately, it’s a growing pain. We know it won’t last forever and surviving it, building a life like the one we left behind, makes us worthier people. Worthy of what? Well, I’d accept revered silence whenever I speak during holiday meals with my family.

    After all, why did we struggle to build a life in a different culture if not to become wiser, more open-minded people with all the best stories? All the struggling had to be for something. I mean, I’m not a masochist.

  • Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    Expat Milestones: First Job Interview

    I’m bragging a little today. You see, in the life of an expat there are some standard milestones. At least standard for an English speaking expat who moves to a non-English speaking country with no previous knowledge of the language. For example…

    -There’s the first time you order a pizza over the phone in your new language.

    -The first time you notice and can yell at the taxi driver for taking you on the longer “tourist” route.

    -The first time you understand enough to genuinely enjoy a film in your second language.

    Last week I hit a new one: first successful job interview in your second language.

    On Wednesday, I received the official offer to teach here in Vitoria. I had been waiting to hear back and a particularly frustrating night of Portuguese had given me a sinking feeling that I had blown the interview.

    I didn’t know going into the interview that it would be in Portuguese. I had already been through one interview with the high school coordinator. We spoke in English. All emails had been in English. I was applying to teach in English. I was reasonably expecting more English.

    When I walked in for the second interview with the principal, as we exchanged greetings the high school coordinator said, “Vamos falar em português, tá bom?” We’re going to speak in Portuguese, ok?

    Had I known the interview would be in Portuguese, I might have abandoned the entire project. I do not have very good Portuguese. It’s not false modesty. It’s speaking only English at home and having only American friends in Rio. The Portuguese I have acquired has been in spite of a pathological fear of sounding like an idiot, so the announcement that I would be interviewed by the principal in Portuguese caused a shot of adrenaline urging me to flee out the door.

    As I sat down in front of her desk, I told myself, “Just keep talking. If you start thinking too hard you’ll realize all the mistakes you’re making. Then you’ll feel embarrassed, followed by panic, and you’ll end up either tongue-tied or crying.”

    So I smiled, kept my arms at my sides to hide the giant sweat stains appearing, and I kept talking. At the end of the interview the principal complemented my fluency.

    Now, I’m the newest teacher at my school and I have to say I’m pretty proud of myself. Not only did I interview in Portuguese but I got the job without any help. I researched and found the school on my own. I sent an email asking if there were opportunities for someone with my background. I sent my resume and had two interviews. I didn’t use my husband’s contacts or drop a single name. I got the job entirely on my own.

    The only downside is that I just found out American expats still have to pay US taxes. Damn.