Brynn Barineau

Tag: culture

  • Nine Parenting Lessons Learned 3 Months In

    Nine Parenting Lessons Learned 3 Months In

    I don’t have a lot of time to write these days.  The last post took more than 2 months to finish.  Still, I need some kind of outlet, so when a reader posted a comment about Moby Wraps and baby products in Brazil, I was inspired to post a few of the lessons I’ve learned over the last few months.

    Lesson 1 About 85% of my identity is based on getting sufficient sleep.  After several days of less than four hours of sleep (none of them consecutive) the talkative, thoughtful person who cracks jokes to deal with stress becomes a simmering pot of boiling rage which spills over at the slightest thing.  A pacifier I cleaned minutes before pops out and falls straight to the floor and suddenly I am using every curse I know on gravity, Newton and any living relatives.  Jekyll never made a potion.  He just didn’t sleep for a few weeks.

    Lesson 2 The Moby Wrap, a popular baby carrying device in the US, needs to come with a warning.  Caution: Moby Wrap should only be used in air-conditioned environments in non-tropical countries. After 15 minutes with her in the wrap, I was on the verge of a heat stroke.  I managed to sweat off a few pounds and successfully teach my daughter that blankets are torture devices.

    Lesson 3 Like just about everything in Brazil, baby stuff is super expensive here.  $50 is too much to spend on preemie clothes or any baby clothes.  Call me cheap but I don’t want to spend more than $20 on an outfit she will either spit up on, poop on or outgrow after only three wearings.

    Lesson 4  Every person who does not have a baby thinks every time a baby cries it’s due to hunger.  And they will tell you this. “Your baby is hungry.”  They will tell you this repeatedly for an hour and a half and when the baby is inevitably hungry again these people will say, “See.  I knew she was hungry.”

    Lesson 5 I don’t want big breasts. I used to think I wanted some slightly larger breasts to balance out my bottom half.  Nope. Not anymore. I’m totally content with and miss my modest B cups.  Hats off to you ladies who have the back muscles and patience to tolerate these weights hanging off your front and bouncing around as your work out, jog, take stairs, try to sleep, etc.

    Lesson 6 The only practical outfit for a newborn is a onesie.  Being told this and eventually learning this from experience will not stop you from continuing to buy super adorable dresses which make her closet look spectacular.

    Lesson 7 I do not believe a baby should have it’s ears pierced, and I will not be piercing my baby’s ears.  This means when dressed in any color other than pink, everyone in Brazil thinks she is a boy.

    Lesson 8 Not all babies are born willing to sleep in a crib.  Some are born with a mistrust and a dislike of cribs that is so strong merely standing close to a crib will be enough to penetrate the deepest sleep.  They may also hate the swing, vibrating chair, stroller, car seat, and sleep in general.

    Lesson 9 Nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, is as adorable as a new baby smiling.  It’s what keeps you from dropping her in that ridiculously-expensive crib she hates and putting on some noise canceling headphones.

     

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  • Beards Before Brains

    Beards Before Brains

    Being pregnant, I’ve become aware of several areas where evolution has either slacked off a little or failed utterly to come up with a sensible solution.  Obviously pregnancy is one of those areas.  Humans started walking upright but failed to develop a means of procreation that didn’t involve heartburn, back pain, hemorrhoids, and the inability to tie your tennis shoes.  I’m amazed were able to survive because if I were at this moment on the Serengeti trying to avoid a predator, with my diminished lung capacity and screwed up center of gravity, I’d be toast.

    Pregnancy is not the only flawed process evolution has led us to.  What master planner thought it was a good idea to combine adult bodies and still developing brains? Because this is the plight of the teenager.  A creature frequently misunderstood and the cause of many car insurance claims.  After only four months of working with teenagers, ranging in age from 14 to 17 years old, there is no doubt in my mind that I am working with children.  Children who can grow beards.

    Many if not most of my students would (and I’m sure will after they read this) vehemently disagree.  When in class I have addressed them as “children”, perhaps while they were poking each other in the ribs or making snot-like balls of glue at their desks, they have protested.  They adamantly state, “No teacher, we’re not children,” while painting their fingernails with white out.  Limited class time and a heavy curriculum keeps me from having the time to explain to them that, yes, they in fact are children and it is in no way meant to be an insult.  It is a reminder to myself that while many of my students may look like adults, towering several inches above me or with a few days worth of stubble on their chins, they do not have the brain of an adult. I need to adjust my expectations accordingly.

    Science backs me up.  Research seems to agree that 25 years is the age at which a human brain fully matures.  Recent studies have shown a significant difference between the brains of an 18 year old and a 25 year old, specifically in the prefrontal cortex.  This area of the brain is in charge of decision making, determining right-from wrong, predicting the future and exerting self-control.  All things teenagers are notoriously bad at doing.

    Again, I say that evolution really screwed up by giving people fully functioning reproductive systems before fully functional brains.  That is just really terrible planning.

    I think teenagers themselves should be out promoting this fact.  The world would probably go a lot easier on them if people started looking at them and thinking “old kid” as opposed to “young adult.”  When a kid sits quietly through a movie without disturbing anyone, they’re praised.  Well according to the research, a teenager who can think “Maybe I should not spend this movie texting my friends because it might disturb someone,” should be praised as well.  Thinking beyond themselves and predicting the future are difficult tasks for their immature brains. “Way to think about possible future consequences of your actions, little Johnny!  Good job!”

    It is hard to remember these facts.  I can’t help but expect someone with a size 12 shoe to be able to reason.  But for all the frustration that begins to bubble when I’m presented with their faulty logic (“You want me to give an extension because you were really busy the day the essay was due?  What about the other 13 days you had between when I gave the assignment and when it was due?), I truly am impressed by my students.  Because when I do remember that they are older kids with a decade’s worth of brain development still in front of them, I realize the fact they sit through 10 hours of class a day is amazing.  The fact that they spend several afternoons sitting in classes taught in a second language is amazing.

    So, I’ll do my part for my students by lowering everyone’s expectations because currently my pregnant belly and I are in the same boat as they are.  Evolution has failed us miserably.

  • You shouldn’t be teaching if you can’t figure out Facebook

    You shouldn’t be teaching if you can’t figure out Facebook

    It’s my opinion that if you can’t figure out how facebook works, you shouldn’t be teaching.

    Since becoming a teacher, any headline about the profession catches my attention and it seems like every week I read another article about a teacher getting fired or put on probation for an inappropriate tweet, blog, or facebook posting.  Out of curiosity I searched “teacher fired facebook” and got 3,490,000 hits.  “HS teacher loses job over Facebook posting” “Teacher Fired After Candid Facebook Comments”  “Teacher Sues after being fired for Facebook Pics”  It goes on and on.  One teacher took a picture of a student’s hair, posted it on facebook and added a comment making fun of the girl’s hairstyle.  Ultimately the girl’s mother saw the photo and the teacher’s comment.

    Even if I accept the fact that American culture seems to no longer have any problem with adults insulting and tearing down kids (see: the entire Internet v. Rebecca Black), I can’t accept any educated adult expecting tweets and blogs to be private.  The whole point of twitter is to communicate with many people instantaneously.  This is not the place to discuss hiring a hitman to take care of your students.

    I’ve only been teaching for four months but that is more than enough time to understand every teacher has days when she needs to vent.  Venting is healthy.  Venting fosters sanity.  Venting should NEVER be done on the Internet.  Unless you are Bill Maher and people follow you on Twitter specifically for the insults you hurl in 140 characters, do not post rants about your students, their parents or your administration online.  Talk to your partner over dinner.  Talk to your friends over drinks. Write it in a diary and save it for the bestselling memoir you’ll write when you’ve retired.  Don’t update your Facebook status.

    I agree with commenters who think teachers are held to unfairly high standard.  The Georgia teacher fired because of a picture of her drinking Guinness at the Guinness factory is an example.  Teachers are human and should not be fired for being such.  I’m just waiting for the moment my pregnant and gassy body lets one rip in front of an entire class of teenagers.  I hope it doesn’t get me fired.  The experience will be scarring enough as it is.

    However, typing and uploading your darkest thoughts in a fit of frustration or getting a few laughs from buddies at the expense of a child is unprofessional at best.  Exerting some self control is a defining characteristic of an adult.   And don’t argue an expectation of privacy because honestly, if you think something defined by the term “network” is an intimate forum, you should not be teaching.

    So I just realized I followed up a post on not judging other parents with one judging other teachers.  Hmmm.  Oh well.  No one’s perfect.  Gosh, it really is hard to keep opinions to yourself.

  • Live and Let Parent

    Live and Let Parent

    This morning my husband was walking past the bookshelf and spotted a recent addition amongst the rainbow of spines. (Yes, he is that observant.)  “Breastfeeding,” he murmured out loud, taking a closer look.  He turned to me and said “Do you really need 200 pages on breastfeeding?  Isn’t it pretty straightforward?”  A few months ago I would have thought the same thing, but then I started reading pregnancy sites and the endless stream of personal anecdotes in the comment sections detailing difficulties with everything from breastfeeding to nose clearing.  Now, I’m pretty sure 200 pages is not enough address all the ways breastfeeding can go wrong.

    It’s complicated.  I’m not just talking about breastfeeding.  I’m talking about raising a baby.  Last night, I spent an hour researching diaper creams.  I’ve looked at swaddling blankets versus sleep sacks.  Pacifiers before she’s one month old?  What temperature for the bath water?  Do visitors need to wash their hands before holding her or is hand sanitizer enough?  If I give her peanut butter before she graduates from high school will she die of an allergic reaction?  And these are only the questions about physical development.  Never mind the ones about intellect and character.

    As I develop an appreciation for how complicated raising a person is, I find myself becoming more and more tolerant of other parents.  Recently Salon featured an interview with the creator of the website “Too Big for Strollers.”  The name is literal.  The site is a collection of photos of kids who are probably old enough to send text messages from their own cell phones being pushed around in strollers.  From the tone of the site, its creator (clearly the Salon interviewer too) thinks putting a four-year-old in a stroller is what terrible parents do if they want to raise a lazy, entitled, and self-centered human being.

    When I saw the pictures, I thought “Isn’t an older child in a stroller better than a lost child?”

    The majority of pictures on the site seem to be taken in crowded amusements parks or cities, places where strapping in a kid perfectly old enough to walk but young enough to distractedly wander away is not a bad idea. Maybe overboard but not a terrible lapse in judgment.

    I have also been in the presence of a hot, tired, and hungry kid.  If they haven’t used this creature at Guantanamo, they’re missing a out on an extremely effective torture method not banned by the Geneva Convention.  I have dreams of being the parent who looks at her child after the 80th complaint of tired legs and serenely says, “You are too big for a stroller,” but I know they’re just dreams.  I’ll cave.  I can only take so much whining and screaming.  I have a breaking point.  Be it a day out running errands or a 9 hour plane ride, I already know there will be circumstances in which I will cater to any demand as long as it keeps her quiet. And mommy sane.

    Turns out the woman who created that site and the one who interviewed her are both childless!  Figures. It’s so easy to think there’s a clear “right way” when you are not the one who has to do it. I’m a pretty critical person but I’m now trying to give other parents a break.  As long as someone is feeding his child and not bathing it with bleach, I’ve got his back.  At least I’m trying to, because parenting is complicated.

    So to the Mom I passed on the street holding the hand of a 4 year old using a pacifier, I understand.  Maybe it was the only way to get through your errands without constant screaming.  So no judgment without context.  That leopard print unitard, though?  That’s just tacky.

    UPDATE May 2015: It looks like Laura Miller, the creator of the tumbler site Too Big for Strollers, gave it up shortly after her interview in Salon.  Apparently, there were A LOT of angry parents who didn’t like someone without children passing judgement on them.  And on a personal note, I recently tried to get my 3 1/2 year-old daughter to start walking the five blocks to school. It lasted two weeks. Dang, that girl can put up a fight.  She’ll overthrow a dictator someday.  We compromised on a tricycle that I can take over and push if necessary.  I’ll try the walking again on her 4th birthday.

  • Blog Upgrading: Brynn in Brazil’s Coming of Age Tale

    Blog Upgrading: Brynn in Brazil’s Coming of Age Tale

    My new job has done the impossible.  I have been made to feel like a computer guru.  My husband, brother, stepmother, and any other family member I have recruited as tech support over the years, will marvel at this development and immediately question the quality of teaching staff at my school.

    I’m not particularly good with computers. I know I could get better, but I have no patience for them.  The slightest thing goes wrong and I get a knot between my shoulders and a seriously cranky attitude.  One complication and I shutdown faster than my MacBook. This assumption I have that anything beyond word processing will make me want to cry, is why I continued to put off upgrading my blog.

    Back when I started writing,(I think this is probably true for most expats) my blog was a simple way to keep family informed about what I was doing in Brazil.  It’s so much easier to write a single blog post than 20 emails. I got a Mac with iWeb and realized I could have a blog with pretty pictures.  Oh, and a cool black background.  And no code!!! I never had to see rows of letters and symbols ever! My needs were simple, and iWeb filled them.

    Last year, we moved to Cachoeiro de Itapemerim. I was without work and started putting a lot of energy into the blog.  I found a whole world of expat communities online and started registering my blog on their sites.  One day, I got a comment from someone I had never met, spoken to or heard of.  A complete stranger who found my blog, read a post, and liked it enough to spend her time leaving a comment.  My sense of validation only increased when I discovered the commenter was a gifted photographer, cook, writer and blogger.  Only her blog, named after a brine soaked sea fish, was a hundred times more sophisticated than mine. (Really, you should check it out.)

    I rediscovered my love for writing.  By writing regularly, inspiration came more easily. My blog soon had a ton content and some regular readers.  The quality of my posts improved. (At least I think, do you all agree?)  This was the point when iWeb started to let me down.  It’s still hard to admit because I’m a Mac worshipper but iWeb, in the words of my husband, “really sucks.”

    He’d been telling my this for years and I had ignored him.  This made acknowledging the need for a better platform, all the more difficult.  Not only did I have to betray my Mac and face headache inducing computer stuff, but I also had to admit my husband was and had been right all along.  (Honestly, I’d rather try writing software code.)  The other major hurdle was that now I had three years worth of content to move and no idea where to start.

    Fortunately, my parents put me in touch with a guy who would do everything for me.  He’d get a new domain name, host site, and move all my content. This was back in December.  Due to various delays that included him being stranded because of blizzards and me having serious stomach issues that had me postponing every Skype call, it took two months to get everything set up.

    Thus, the two month silence at Coconut Water (UPDATE July 2015: Now officially Brynn in Brazil).

    I’m glad I did it.  WordPress is so much better.  Not as simple, but I think I’m ready to use real blogger tools.  In the end though, no one could figure out how to transfer all my content, because, cue husband, “iWeb sucks.” Yes, I know.  I’m now copying and pasting old posts into the new site a few at a time.  50 down.  70 to go.  I’m still glad I moved.

    I hope you all like the new site and design as much as I do.  I’m in love with the banner, which was also the result of someone generously donating their time.  Turns out I’m neither a coder or designer.  That’s ok.  I just want to write.

    Oh, and the reason I’m the computer guru among my fellow teachers?  The school has started moving to Macs and no one knows how to use them.  I wonder if I should talk to them about iWeb.

  • Coolest extracurricular activity ever!

    Coolest extracurricular activity ever!

    I’ve spent the last couple of days editing essays.  I’m drowning in essays.  During a break, I watched a clip of the Daily Show where they showed a commentator ranting about how teachers are paid too much for a part-time job.  I envisioned ramming a two-inch stack of ungraded essays down his throat until he chocked.  It made me happy and reminded me that I still had about 20 essays left to grade.

    When not being used as a weapon, my student’s essays are also an endless source of amusement.  I fill entire dinner conversations relating what pearls of wisdom my kids have come up with.  The essays are also helping me compile a list of potential extra curricular activities available in Vitoria for any future Brazilian-Americans I have in my house.

    It’s fascinating to see what activities teenagers in the US and Brazil share and what activities are unique not just to Brazil but to Vitoria.

    It’s no surprise a kid in Vitoria can be a soccer player but I also have competitive basketball players, skateboarders and surfers as well.  Judo is pretty popular.  There are ballet studios and acting lessons. With my guitar players, drummers, pianists and singers, I can supply any event in Vitoria with a band.  One of my students has taken cooking lessons and runs a small business catering desserts for parties.  Another is a financier in the making, having taken classes on the stock market and started his own investment portfolio.

    But I think my favorite hobby, of all the hobbies I’ve read about, is competitive oceanic fishing.  It’s not my favorite because it’s anything I’d like to be proficient at myself but because it is such an utterly foreign activity to the suburban, Atlanta culture where I grew up.  Competitive oceanic fishing!  Maybe there were some kids in my school who regularly caught trout from the Chattahoochee River but nobody was heading to Australia to compete catching marlins.  Which is exactly what one of my students did.

    I mentioned this to my husband and he said “Oh sure, Vitoria is one of the best spots for oceanic fishing along Brazil’s coast.”  Huh, a new fact about Vitoria thanks to my students’ essays.  It seems one of the perks of being a teachers is that the learning goes both ways.

    Oceanic fishing is a skill I would never have thought to offer any of my future kids.  It wasn’t part of my childhood and I would not have made it part of theirs.  Now I know.  And if the kid doesn’t like fishing, there’s always surfing, sailing, samba dancing, cooking, judo and of course, soccer.

  • 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.

  • Learning Brazilian History at the Dentist

    Learning Brazilian History at the Dentist

    Something I enjoy about living in a different culture are the little reminders, even after years, that you’re not from here. Usually it’s a small thing that catches you by surprises and causes a double take. These cultural surprises are often trivial matters that you didn’t even anticipate being different, such as how socks get folded or the absence functional seat belts in the back seats of taxis.

    I wonder how long a person must live in a place before the little “Wait, what?” moments taper off. I’ve been in Brazil for four and a half years but just last week I was thrown by a simple question on a medical history form.

    At the dentist recently, I filled out a new patient form. I’ve become accustomed to routinely answering what I feel are very personal question such as marriage status and profession for everyone including the woman who sold me my bookshelf, but this question stopped me.

    “Cor:_____________”

    Cor in Portuguese means color. A medical history form handed to me by the dentist’s office asked for my color. I blinked in disbelief. I double checked with my husband. “Does this say color?” He told me it did. I asked “Ok, color of what exactly?” even though I knew the answer. He looked at the receptionist who said simply “skin.”

    For an American, an American from Atlanta, Georgia who heard about slavery, the civil rights movements, and racial tensions every year in school and was in high school during the ridiculously overdue process of getting the confederate flag off of the state flag, a doctor’s office asking for skin color is shocking.

    Four years in Brazil and I can still be shocked by a single word on a form. A simple piece of information that would never be asked for in my own culture. Or would it?

    How often is a person in the states asked to designate her race? Isn’t the same question just phrased in what, for Americans, is a more comfortable way? Sure, we’re usually told that question is “optional” and for “statistical purposes only” but the question is still asked.

    In talking to my husband afterwards, I learned that there are actually some Afro-Brazilian groups that are lobbying to get “color” included on forms. When Brazil first became a republic any mention of race was outlawed under the argument it would prevent discrimination. The result, however, was that millions of Brazilians who had been enslaved based solely on their race had no way to receive any programs targeted specifically  to help them overcome circumstances created by race, thus locking them into the lowest levels of society. Now, certain Afro-Brazilian groups want “color” on forms to have data about color and race in Brazil.

    So much history from a form at the dentist. That’s why, even though each cultural surprise is a clear reminder I’m living in someone else’s culture, I welcome them. Each one is a learning opportunity. Not that I always appreciate them. Learning takes energy and often I only have enough energy to be annoyed and call whatever is different stupid. (Both creativity and tolerance suffer when I’m tired.) But on good days having to pay for bottled water leads to a discussion of sewage infrastructure and a dentist’s form opens a dialogue on racial history.

  • My Dentist, My Sadist

    Today, I met the world’s friendliest dentist. Hmm, maybe I should rephrase given that dentists have not traditionally set the bar high when it comes to amicability. Today, I met a dentist who could not have been friendlier had she been inhaling her own laughing gas.

    It was my first trip to the dentist in Brazil. It was my first trip to the dentist in a decade. Maybe not quite that long. It’s hard to remember.

    Anyway, the last dentist I liked had video games and Disney movies playing in her waiting. Since the age of ten, every dentist I’ve had has been competent but distant and all business, in the way I imagine disembowlers must have been.

    My dentist today greeted me with a huge smile and flattering yet oddly enthusiastic declaration of how pretty I am. I think complimenting might be office policy to hook new patients and if so, I was sold. The smiling and over-the-top-compliments were such a welcome change for a dentist’s office; I thanked her and introduced myself to Doctor Gabriella.

    Brazilians use first names right away, even in professional contexts. It gives every encounter a personal feel. In Brazil, I don’t have bankers, dentists and doctors. I have a large network of personal acquaintances with a diverse skill set.

    Gabriella and I chatted about all the obvious first meeting facts: where are you from, how long have you lived here, which country do you like better. (There is no way to answer that last question honestly without offending someone. I just go with “Wow, that’s hard. They’re so many good things about both.”) Right before we got started I mumbled something about how long it had been since my last trip and then I waited for the shaming to begin.

    I’d always assumed that dentists are taught that shame is the only way to make people floss regularly. A patient must be told whatever she is doing, it is not done frequently or well enough and ultimately not sufficient to keep her teeth from falling out of her head. And toothless people go to hell.

    It was quite a shock then when Doctor Gabriella gently plied my lips and cheek away from my teeth and assured me they were very clean. When she spotted a cavity she called it a “little thing” that we can fix quickly. No lectures. A cavity and no lecture. I wonder if this woman knows what a disgrace she is to her profession.

    When we were done she walked me to reception area, asked me to come back for a cleaning and cavity filled, then she gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek. A Brazilian that hugs. A dentist that is genuinely pleasant. I was completely thrown. I didn’t know how to react. I did know I liked it. So I’m going back for more next Tuesday at 9am.