A day in Ifrane

My days here start like they did back home: in the kitchen.

I wake up and the first thought that comes to mind is "what's for dinner?" The next is "how about lunch?" Only later do I think of what I want to have for breakfast. Only after everyone is taken care of do I begin to think of myself.

I put a pot of milk on the stove to warm it up. I add a little sugar and what is an inadequate replacement to my Godiva hot chocolate mix. I stir and pour it into a mug. It sits there until it gets cold. I get carried away with the washing and the chopping. I tell myself every day that this morning I will sit, enjoy my drink hot, and read or write or just sit. But that day is yet to come to me here like it had yet to come to me there. If I am lucky, the kids stay asleep past the early hour that wakes me up. Otherwise I am joined by two little ones and their chatter and requests.

Once the meal is put together and simmering, I move on to breakfast. Most day the menu consists of either hard boiled eggs or oatmeal. Some days I make raisin-apple couscous or even pancakes; but those days have been rarer. On the weekends there are omelets, lentils or chickpeas with lemon juice, garlic and olive oil or we go out for chocolate croissants and Moroccan bread.

If it is a "school" day (and I use school here with an immense stretch to the term), usually Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, JR's snacks are next. A Kiri sandwich with honey, three animal crackers in a plastic box, three gummy bears in another box, yogurt and a spoon, and maybe a fruit: an apple or banana. JR fills up her own water bottle and assembles the "lunch bag": a reusable Babies R Us shopping bag. In between I make sure Yousef is fed and changed and Jeff's lunch and fruit are packed.

 

The early morning activities are concluded with a load of laundry, hand-washed and line-dried. We have a line out on our balcony but over the weeks that I have been here I noticed the laundry taking days to dry there; we do not get any sun there. So I chose to carry the load down the stairs and around the building and make use of the communal line; it gets plenty of sun and I get my dry clean laundry the same afternoon rather than the next day. Of course it adds to my "commute" but we all have to make choices!

The sun has now risen and it is around 7:30. I sweep the floor and if Jeff is ready and has time to watch the kids I wet mop on my hands and knees (we have not yet purchased a long-handled squeegee). I open the windows to dry the floor and move on to another task. I take out the trash or bring it down with me when I take JR to "school", Yousef to the marché, or the laundry to the line.

I am almost done with housework. There is always more housework! Lunch needs to be prepared; diapers need to be changed; dishes need to be washed. The beds are hardly ever made; there is always someone sleeping or sitting on them and so it is futile for me to "make my bed." Maybe one day when the bedroom seizes to double up as a living space I can have attractive "made" beds with soft sheets and fluffy comforters and decorative pillows.

The day is now in full force. We meet up with friends, we take a walk, we play in the playground, we take the bus to campus, we hang out at the apartment. We wait for Yousef to wake up from his morning nap. We go to the neighbor's house. We Skype Teta, have lunch, take a nap, Facetime Grandma. If it is a Tuesday, we spend the afternoon at the university picking leaves and flowers and playing with the mud. If it is a Friday, we have lunch with Baba at the faculty restaurant. If a Saturday we go to the souk. On Sunday we get bored! We invite people over for dinner. I stress out over the cooking! Some days JR goes to the neighbor's house for play dates; some times I join her, others I just drop her off. Some days friends come over to our place to hang out; these are rare.

Some days I write while the kids nap. Other days I cook. Some days I nap. A handful of days I read a book. The days go by.

Jeff comes home from work. The table is already set and dinner is almost ready. I toss the salad, pour the olive oil and vinegar onto the plate, serve the main dish. We sit down to eat, alternating who eats with one hand while holding Yousef with the other. Some dinners Yousef joins us, other times he plays with the plastic spoon. Some evenings he watches us from his play mat. Dinner is over. The table is cleared. The dishes pile up in the sink.

Bath time is next, if it is bath day. Some days it is shower only, others it is straight to PJs. On bubble bath days, Yousef and JR share the fun in the tub. Hair wash days are still dreaded, but they are few and far in between. Pajamas, story time, a little more play time, a "show" on the iPad and then time to go to sleep. I nurse Yousef to sleep, snuggle with JR and then most days I drift off myself. Others I get up, spend time with Jeff, do the dishes if he has not gotten around to them, try to enjoy one last warm drink and head to bed.

I fall asleep almost immediately only to be awaken several times during the night to nurse Yousef, walk him around the apartment or pat him back to sleep. The other times I wake up are to take JR to the bathroom or use the facilities myself. Then all of a sudden it is another day and the cycle begins again.

The Story ~ The End, Part 6 ~ Candida and Beyond

At the same time as I was suffering from blood pressure issues, I was aching where it mattered most for Yousef: in my breasts. I had thought our breastfeeding relationship was established but one day, almost six weeks later, I woke up to massive and constant pains. It hurt when I nursed, it hurt when I did not, it hurt between nursings. My breasts throbbed, they burned. I cried when anything or anyone came remotely close to my nipples.

But I had to feed him, so I did; many time begrudgingly. Many times I tried to avoid feeding him. Many times I wished I did not have to. Formula feeding was looking very attractive. I debated the matter. I seriously considered it. I also considered going the exclusively pump and bottle feed route. I did my research and called around for hospital-grade pump rentals.

I played scenarios in my mind, looked at feeding an infant from many different angles, told myself I could muscle through it. I counted the days in my mind. “I can make it to six months through this pain,” I told myself. “I could pump and give him breast milk for another twenty four weeks,” I considered. “Formula feeding never hurt anyone,” I tried to convince myself. But I was not convinced. No matter how I looked at it, I could not bring myself to give up nursing and yet I wanted the pain to stop.

I reached out for support. I contacted a friend, then another, and a third. I fielded calls to lactation consultants. I went to breastfeeding support group meetings. I posted on my virtual support forum. I saw my OB. I researched online. I knew I would find an answer but I did not know how to pose the question.

The first thought that crossed my mind was a “latch issue.” I worked on that. There was no improvement. Then I thought he had a tongue-tie. That was not it either. Maybe the pain would go away once my body got used to nursing. It did not. My nipples were not cracked. My ducts were not blocked. It was not thrush. It was worse. It was candida, and it was ductal. It was diagnosed by every lactation consultant I spoke to, and confirmed by the one who visited me. Only my OB was not convinced; and he held the key to my cure.

My OB preferred to take the conservative route to my diagnosis. He agreed that I was suffering from something, but we disagreed as to what it was. He first suggested the APNO. I agreed to try it. There was only one place that composed it. The insurance did not cover it. It cost over $60. I hesitated. Two days later I broke down and bought it. It did nothing.

I went back to the OB. I called and emailed him. I sent him research findings. I waited for his response. He prescribed the medication, but not enough pills were dispensed. He was not yet on board with the suggested course of treatment. I resolved to ride the wave longer. I took the pills I had on hand and called around for assistance.

I found a lactation consultant who took my insurance. Within 24 hours she was in my bedroom helping me out. We discussed the treatment. We agreed on a course of action. I followed all the steps leading to the last resort: a 14-day supply of fluconazole in addition to the APNO, the grapefruit extract and the probiotics. I needed someone to prescribe the antifungal. The question was who.

My cousin is a doctor. I tried to convince him to dispense it. I knew NPs in other parts of the US, I reached out to them. I called my aunt in Lebanon and emailed my sister in Australia. I found a website that would ship internationally. I was desperate. If only my OB would write the script. Finally, I was referred to a lactation consultant who was also an NP. She agreed to dispense the required dose should my OB continue to refuse. She also agreed to see me at a discounted rate to call the medication in. Things were looking up.

I gave my OB one last try. I emailed him the progress I was feeling on just a couple of pills. He had a change of heart! I am not sure if it was my last email, my pleading, his compassion, his sympathy or a combination but all of a sudden a refill to the original prescription was called it. All was good with the world!

I religiously took the medicine, applied the grapefruit extract, waited for it to dry, aired out my nipples, applied the APNO, waited some more, washed my bras and shirts and towels and pillow cases and sheet and Yousef’s clothes daily. I sanitized bottles and nipples and shields. Anything that touched my breasts went straight into the dryer or microwave. Everything that had touched them was boiled, sunned, sanitized. The pain was gradually subsiding until one day I woke up “normal.” The pain was gone and the milk was still there. I was still nursing, happily now.

At the time of writing Yousef is over seven months old and still nursing like a champ. He is eating some solids but still prefers mama’s milk. After everything we have been through, I am glad I worked through the pain and arrived at a point of comfort. My last breastfeeding journey is looking good and I hope that it will continue as much. I may even be lucky enough to end it the way I had wanted to end the previous one: when we are both ready.

Our walk

I promised to take you shopping with us. But before we get to where we are going, we need to walk. Get dressed, put your walking shoes on, strap one kid to your chest, or back, put the other in the stroller and meet us downstairs. The time is not set in stone; it is often a range usually between 9 and 9:15 but sometimes the walk does not start until 9:30. But hey, what's the rush? It's not like there is anything else happening around here!

 

Everyone is here and ready, so let's go. Look up at the sky: it is sunny and clear, another beautiful Fall day in the "country."

Out the gates and onto the roads the first thing you notice are the young trees. There is not much shade, if any, on some streets in this town. Consequently, the kids and I spend a lot of time in the sun, much to my detriment. I try to remember the sunscreen but most often it is forgotten at the bottom of my backpack. Our family is probably the only one that uses it and so I seem to have gotten out of the habit of slathering it on. Fortunately for us, the sun is not very hot these days, as it is the Fall, but I wonder what it would be like during the long summer days. I will have to remember to use it then.

The other thing you notice is the sidewalk and crosswalk situation: some roads have them and some do not. More often than not the kids and I find ourselves walking amidst the cars and praying that we do not get run over. I make that choice at times because I find it easier to push the stroller on the paved street than having to maneuver it up the high sidewalk and down again every time I need to cross the street or dodge a narrow passing.

There are some sidewalks that magically disappear too; now you see it, now you don't. So I avoid the disappointment and just take the road. I honestly do not think that the urban planner had mothers with strollers in mind when designing the streets around here, but I could be wrong.

The crosswalks are a hit or miss and so again, the kids and I find ourselves pretending to be cars and making our way through them crossing sideways in the middle of the street to get to where we are going.

Our walk is rather short and usually uneventful. Some days we are accompanied by the stray dog, others we find ourselves alone: few people are seen around during the day and the roads are not totally busy with cars. We pass a corner amass with men; these are the day laborers waiting to be picked up.

Many times we meet up with other moms in the community and walk. Whether anyone needs something at the marché or not we walk; there is little else to do. Usually, however, someone is shopping for something. Sometimes we are offered a ride from a faculty member going to work late, we decline; it is the journey we are after not the destination.

Along the way there are a few construction sites. Some people like it here so much that they are building their own houses from scratch. The builders use mortar, concrete blocks and bricks here; there are no prefabricated wooden material and sheet rock. They use tree trunks to hold the ceilings up and orange tubes for electrical wirings. It will be rather interesting to watch these houses grow from the ground up.

 

 

There are also many abandoned houses; some complete and others left while still a work in progress. It makes me wonder why these projects are dropped. I hear it is really expensive to heat these houses up in the winter so I guess that either the people tried them out and thought better or just ran out of money upfront.

There is also trash and animal waste along the way. Sheep, horse and donkey leftovers can be seen on any given day. Entire bags of trash or just empty bottles, napkins, yogurt containers are strewn here and there. As you approach the marché, you can even spot a skull or a skeleton or two.

 

We are now halfway to our destination. It takes around 15 to 20 minutes to get where we are going. If I am "hustling" I can do it in 10 minutes but I am usually out for leisure. At this point in the walk, JR consistently asks about a landmark that seems to be consistently closed: a fair-type playground. You have to pay to enter the grounds but the gate is never staffed and the hours are not listed so it is difficult to try and plan an outing there.

 

 

A few steps past the playground JR yanks me out of my daze to point to something far up on top. "Animals," she points. I am not sure what she is talking about. Look up, though, and see what we see.

 

When you are done trying to figure out why someone would perch wild animals on top of a hill, look to the other side of the street and marvel at the carvings on the wall. I wonder how these came about but admire the work it took to leave a mark there.

 

We are now approaching our destination. Over the curb, down a step, and around the corner. Look for the ramp and stride inside. We are here. Next we will take a look inside.

 

Around and Behind

We live in a gated community.

There are nine buildings for faculty each housing a random number of apartments that range from one to three bedrooms. There is also a building for students, another that serves as the faculty club, which unfortunately is open for dinner by appointment only, a deserted hospital which has been turned into student dorms, random desolate villas, and a school.

the "hospital"

The faculty buildings surround a satellite dish yard, playground and a laundry drying area. On a good day, all the lines are full of neighbors' clothes and one would be lucky to find a spot for theirs. Line-drying is the norm here; I am not sure what they do in the winter days.

 

The playground is outdated. There are no baby swings, no age-appropriate climbing structures, and absolutely no shade. There is one lone tree shading one lone bench and that's about it for shade. Its functionality in the hot summer days is a major concern for me right now. It is in dire need of maintenance; the paint is peeling and some of the equipment has grown rusty. Some mothers even mentioned seeing cat litter being dug out by their kids.

 

There is also one trash can that stands as decoration; there is more garbage strewn along the parameters of the playground than inside the bin.

 

 

Although there is only one trash can at the playground, there is an abundance of them in the parameters. They stand open to the elements, and the cats. There probably are as many stray cats as there are babies in the "annex" and they love to play in the trash. Needless to say they are well-fed! JR keeps asking to pet them, and of course we keep saying "no."

 

The open trash cans also cater to the bees and the flies that constantly fly over the neighborhood. They fly through windows and doors and roam around freely. Once they realize they are trapped in the stairway, though, they meet their death. In the early evening hours, the stairwells become fly graveyards, and every morning they get swept away by the cleaning crew.

 

 

The playground is not only rundown, it is also underutilized. The preferred mode of children entertainment, I have noticed, is wheeled toys. It seems that everyone has a moving object to ride as soon as they are able. There are bikes, trike, and scooters galore. Roller blades are catching on. And for those non-walkers there is always the stroller. Those riding toys buzz around on the street, in between cars and around the block unmonitored and uninhibited.

 

 

 

JR still does not have a riding toy and some days she is the only one at the playground, either on the swings or in the sand.

The sand here is another story. While the sand in the US is nice and smooth and clean, here it is anything but that. Rough, red and dirty come to mind when I think of the times JR has had her hands, and feet, and hair, in it. It stains the clothes, goes under her nails and colors in brown everything around it.

Most children over the age of five are seen either alone or accompanied by older siblings on premises. Mothers are a rare sighting unless they have children JR's age and younger, and even then you are more likely to see those kids with their nannies than their parents. When spotted, mothers mainly supervise the children's activities rather than engage with them; I have not yet seen a mother "playing". Fathers are even a more rare sight, and yet in some families it is them and not the mothers who are seen with the children.

A communal grill and a couple of picnic tables stand not too far from the playground. It is not, however, a gas grill. It is charcoal. But before you decide you want to throw your food on there one afternoon, take a closer look. I am not sure when it was used last, or if it will ever be used again, but one thing I am certain of is that Jeff and I stand firm behind avoiding communal grills; if it is not in our backyard it is as good as non-existent.

 

This is where we spend most of our days. Thanks for coming along. Next, we will take you shopping.



Where we live

We made it to our new locale. Now, let me show you around.

First stop: our apartment.

Walk the length of the pathway to our building. It is building 6.

Look up to the right and see our apartment from below. It is the one with the shutters open on the last floor. It is apartment 9.

We have wooden shutters and curtains on these windows. They are, however, rarely open as they lack screens. Without screens and with open windows we would be living with the flies and the bees. I would rather just live with the humans I came from the US with!

Yes, that is someone's blanket hanging from the balcony.
On any day you have an array of household object dangling from there.
Some days you might see a mattress or two, as well.

 

You have made it to the front door. Come on through the double glass doors.

 

 

You are now in the foyer which doubles up as a stroller/bike/car seat/toy garage. Some days I even leave the kids down there for a quick run up to the apartment. It can get very tiring very fast getting up to the apartment with an 18 pounder on your hip and a toddler trailing behind.

 

 

 

Walk up eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor. On the way there, notice how the staircase landings also serve as garages.  



 

Other landings serve as storage areas for discarded pieces of furniture waiting to be picked up. It might take weeks for these items to disappear but no one makes an issue out of it.

 

 

Finally, here we are. Come on in. We have a door bell if you care to press it or you can knock. If unlocked from the inside the door easily opens from both sides. As a matter of fact some neighbors leave it unlocked on purpose and just summon us in when we come knocking rather than opening it for us.

 

 

 

Here is our living space. We have an open floor plan combining the cooking, eating, living, working, and playing aspects of our daily lives. We are also using it as our temporary storage area while we look for a car (notice the car seats perched high between the two couches).

 

The only sun we get in the apartment is that from the sunrise.
It beams through the window on the right and straight onto the table.
It is beautiful watching the sky change colors in the morning.

In the corner we have a fireplace. While it may be a "charming" feature of a house in the mountains, with two kids it is practically useless for us.

 

We are using an extra dresser as a "closet"
and the fireplace threshold for our shoes.



Look up. You will see wooden panels covering the ceiling. This is the local form of insulation. The ceilings are so high we are praying the heat will stay around for us when we need it most.

Look to the side walls and you will see radiators. These are our source of heat in the winter. And while the evenings get really cold here already, they are not turned on yet.

Here is the kitchen part of the space. I have a double sink and a gas stove. We also have a full size fridge that is bigger than the one back home. Granted we had to ask for it as the first fridge we received was both tiny and broken but it got delivered up eight flights of stairs!

 

 

Open the furthest right-hand side closet and you will see the butane gas that powers the stove. My greatest concern these days is running out of gas in the middle of cooking a meal in the midst of winter.

 

 

Leading to the one bedroom and half bathroom is a small hallway used for shelves and dressers.

 



 

Here is where we sleep. We are on the waitlist for a two-bedroom apartment but it could take years for one to become available. Luckily we are used to sleeping all together in the same room so we are making it work for now.

 

While we have a king-size bed, we have double-size sheets!
We are waiting for the right-size sheets to be delivered.

The bedroom opens out to a balcony. It is too narrow for chairs and even if it was not, we think it is risky to let JR out there so we mainly use it to air our towels out and to air dry what I hand wash.

 

 

This is our bathroom. We use a baby tub to collect laundry when our hamper is full in-between loads and a chair as a "stepping stool" for JR to reach the sink.

 

Our neighbor lent us their baby tub and luckily both kids fit in it at once.
It is fun watching them splash together in there.
 

Speaking of laundry, it is located down the stairs, across the street, around the corner and in the basement of another building. You use tokens to work the machines and bring your own powder detergent. When you are out of tokens like we have been for the past week, you are out of luck, unless you have your own washing machine as many do, and a housekeeper to line-dry your clothes, as also many do.


This is the "old" laundry room. Only one of the washers and dryers work.
The utility has since moved to another location
but seeing how far it is to get to I am yet to take a photo of it.

 Now that you have visited us, I will take you around town. Stay tuned!