in between pumping

My first Monday I pumped twice and each time took over a half an hour.  I got five ounces in total.  Tuesday I brought pictures and pumped 10 ounces.  Wednesday 12 ounces, and from then on it varied between 8-12 ounces in total.

I would arrive around 9 am, pump around 11 am, eat lunch around 12, pump again around 2 pm, and catch the bus at 3:30 pm.  In between pumping I drank tea and washed my equipment.  It was hard to focus or care about anything else.

I was leaving in the middle of meetings to pump milk, as my timing was out of sync but I appreciated being able to escape.  I was constantly watching the clock.  Turkish law also provides a two hour leave - so I could come to work 2 hours late, leave for lunch, or leave early each day for the baby's first year.  Wow!

But for now, I was just trying to manage leaving Teoman at home, pumping at work, and working.  I never did get a desk, and I never did do any work.  I was starting all over in the new building - not knowing where the copy machine was, the kitchen, the bathrooms.  Not knowing the principals.  Not knowing what my department head expected.  I was teaching fifth and sixth grade, and the rules were changing .I was starting over here.

I only work with one other Native now, from Scotland.  In the first meeting I sat in, she offended everybody in the room with a smile - criticizing the death of creativity in our English program.  Our English Coordinator (also a Native) supported her, but she realized immediately no one else did.  She told me later,
"I'm too blunt."
"Maybe you just need to be more tactful," I said.
"But doesn't it depress you that our school magazine published an opinion article by an eighth grader - who writing about why she likes Starbucks coffee, used transition words like furthermore?"

Um...not really.  I'm more disturbed by her boring topic.

"She learned transition words, and tried to apply them.  It's all part of the learning process," I said.
"But she applied it wrong!  This is a good student, that we gave a formula and this is the culmination of our teaching!  Where's the creativity?  James agrees with me!"

Um...who's James?

"I guess I looked at it as she made a great effort considering English is her second language."
"But she did it wrong!  And it was approved by our department!"

This is where the tact might have gone a long way.  The people that put all the hard work into the magazine - teaching, correcting, providing feedback - it was being attacked.  I didn't know if she was right or not, but I surely didn't feel her passion.  I kind of wished I shared her passion and wondered if I was one of those bad teachers killing the creative process as well.

But I couldn't think too deeply about the problem - she was making me tired, and I had to pump some more milk.

first week back

We were all stressed.  Tolga was leaving in the morning for Kayseri.  It was my first week back and first week leaving Teoman.  It was my mother-in-law's first week with her grandson, alone.

I kept telling myself: It's only two weeks.  It's a good trial run.  It's only two weeks.  Just two weeks.  Two weeks two weeks two weeks.

The night before I tried to explain to Tolga directions for his mom about what to do for Teoman - but the translation didn't go very well.

I tried to explain about the life-span of breast milk: you can only warm it once, it can be out for 6 hours maximum, it shouldn't be put back in the fridge.  Try to warm up 4 oz at most and you can use the leftover for the next feeding if you don't put it back in the fridge.  Thaw the frozen milk in the fridge, not on the counter - unless you're going to use it . . . We had been working on it all week - but the night before my work started I made the directions as simple as possible.  I pumped what I guessed would be a days worth of milk and showed her the frozen milk as back up.  I only asked that she write down the time and amount of milk that he drank.  We'd deal with the rest as it came up.

I mean, she raised three boys . . . She's not going to do anything absolutely crazy . . . So she'll hold him too much, not be able to nap him, struggle with the milk, put the diaper on wrong, leave a trail of wipes/dirty diapers/dirty clothes in the changing room - but she'll learn, right . . . She's his grandma, and loves him as much as anybody in this family, so what was there to worry about?

She offered to write down his naps, and to call me during the day - but I said no to both.  I knew it was going to be harder than she thought, and when she called me - the only thing I'll assume she is saying is "Come home now!" - because I've found that when it comes to Teoman, I don't understand any of her Turkish.  She uses more difficult Turkish and speaks in an indirect way - so I've temporarily given up on communicating with her about Teoman because it makes me crazy.

So the first day, around noontime, Tolga called her to see how things were going.  Then he called me to say she didn't answer because the home phone wasn't working but he was sure everything was fine.

I was on my way to a taxi.

Tolga called his friend at work, and she stopped by the house then called me before I had even left - to say everything was fine.  She also fixed the phone problem.  When I got home, my MIL showed me he had drank 4 grams.  She kept calling it 4 grams because she doesn't know the word ounce even when we say it to her or look at it on the bottle.  There's milliliters there too, which she does know, but she kept preferring to count by "grams".

He had eaten okay, but not slept at all.  We both went to bed as soon as I got home.

The second day, Teoman didn't eat all day long.  My MIL called Tolga, but Tolga didn't call me because of my rule - only if I need to come home - to which I was really upset when I got home and found out he hadn't eaten.  (No one could win with me this week).  Tolga hadn't called me because Teoman hadn't cried.  When he fussed, my MIL offered (or more likely shoved) the bottle into his mouth and he gagged on it.  When I came home, I tested the milk and found it cold.  I warmed it some and then offered the bottle to him and he took it, but intermittently gagged.

I left out three bottle options - two different brands, two different nipple sizes.

I didn't want her to boil water to heat up the milk because it kills the nutrients.

She complained that it takes too long.  She had been warming the big bottle in a tiny bowl so I pulled out a big bowl for her to put it in trying to explain that it would work 

She used the big bowl as storage for the bottles all week long and I kept finding a pot of boiled water still hot on the stove when I got home. 

Goodbye nutrients.  

The third day, he eventually took the bottle and got a good nap in.  But we still both needed one when I got home.  

If I were to recap the week as to what I accomplished at work, it would solely be in terms of how many ounces of milk I pumped each day and how long it took.  

only two weeks - only two weeks - only two weeks

back to work

I went back to work with only 2 weeks left at school.  The first person I saw asked me,  "Why are you here?"

I don't know.

I didn't want to be there, but there I was and the only thing on my mind was where, when and how many times I would pump milk.

I had heard I'd been switched to the middle school, and since new teachers had taken my old desk - I wasn't sure where to go.  So I sat in the department head's office and drank tea and showed pictures of Teoman.

I sat down and was asked questions about the baby.  I must have been overwhelmed, or maybe its from being away from English speakers so long, or maybe being around the baby all the time - whatever it was, I was having a hard time holding a conversation.  I was out of social practice and I kept forgetting what I was talking about.

I was quickly excused for my brainlessness ("You're mind is on your little one now!"), and  I was told over and over how thin I looked.

Now that was a flat out lie.  Granted - 9 months pregnant and you begin holding water weight even in  your cheeks, but I was far from normal.  But, I appreciated the lies and chose to believe them.  Maybe it's my shirt that's hiding the pouch - maybe its not that noticeable and I was just being over critical of my body.  Maybe I'm actually thin - woo woo!


Eventually, I had another teacher show me where the middle school office was because I didn't know where to go.  I had already been given a hard time in the primary school office for moving to the middle school and I was almost regretting the decision.  My solace was that there would be at least four or five people that had made the switch with me.  And, I was kind of tired of all the Native teacher drama in the primary school, so in the other building there would be only one Scottish Native teacher.

But it wasn't a good start.  They had no desk for me, no locker, no place to sit.  And the Scottish teacher turned out to be a real downer.

Most my time was spent in the counseling office - the only room I could lock the door and work on double pumping my milk.

hospital malls

I have never been to the hospital or doctor or clinic so much in my life.  Granted, I don't go to the doctor normally, going in itself is a new experience for me.  Just before my last insurance ran out in 2008 I crammed in regular check ups from all types of doctors as a last hoo-rah - so that totaled about eight or nine visits, and two surgeries (I'm counting a mole removal as "surgery") - and that really was the first time I took initiative to even see a doctor.  

This past year I have been to the OBGYN for over 20 visits, the Pediatrist 7 times, the orthopedist 3 times, and the dentist 3 times.  I have had so many blood tests and ultrasounds.  Tolga has been going monthly as well for prescription refills and checkup for his hair infections/cysts.

It's kind of like going to a medical mall.  We are at the hospital at least once a month, and we try to schedule all our appointments in order to save some trips.  That's the convenience of going to the hospital for a regular check-up - all your doctors in one place, most of the labs are right there.  

Even a dentist and eye doctor is there - but my experience with the dentist was he looked at my teeth - said they looked fine and I could go.  

"Go where?"

"You're finished."

"But you didn't do anything."

"Your teeth look fine."

"I figured they were fine, but aren't you going to at least clean them?  Or X-ray for cavities?"

"No.  Plus your breastfeeding so we shouldn't X-ray."

"Tell that to the orthopedist."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

I highly doubted that X-Rays were a contraindication to breastfeeding, but I didn't fight him on it because if he believed that, than I didn't want him working on my teeth anyhow.

All three of us have government insurance.  Tolga and I also have private insurance.  His pays everything, mine pays 70% - minus pregnancy related visits.  (How's that for discrimination against women?)  We pay cash for Teoman's private doctor.  The government health office in my neighborhood calls me regularly to be sure I've completed Teoman's checkups - which is and interesting conversation that I try to hold in Turkish, reporting  his weight, height, length and shots received.  

Medical services at a private hospital are about 1/4 of the cost of what they would be in America.  My labor and delivery cost 4300 turkish lire (about $2400), and that was expensive compared to other private hospitals.  

I had to get an MRI as well for my shoulder.  In America it cost about $1400.  I know because I had one on my knee.  They first accepted my insurance, and then later rejected it because it was a New York insurance rather than New Jersey.  Here it cost about 500 TL (about $280).

I went to the hospital with Tolga for the MRI.  I didn't think it was really necessary as I was no longer in pain, but decided since I'd dislocated my shoulder so many times, it might be good to have it looked at.  

I had forgotten how scary those machines were.  All the same emotions came back to me when I was preparing to go into the machine as they had when I had my knee done.  The same emotions, that is, wild images of some hidden piece of metal in my body being superheated and sucked through my skin.  I can't help it. I see it on TV, an episode of House or something, and all I can think of is, did a doctor put metal in my body?  Maybe they did and I didn't know?  Can I get sucked across the room by the clasp on my bra strap?  They said no, but I'm not so sure.  Come to think of it, this isn't really necessary at all - I've changed my mind, I don't need an MRI.

And then there's the noise.  Because it was my shoulder this time, the machine was right over my head.  If I panicked I wouldn't have been able to get out because of the contraption on me - they had all sorts of fittings for different limbs and joints.  They played music over large earphones, but the jack-hammering of the machine drowned everything out.  Even my panic.  I couldn't even think.

The end result was without incident.  We saw an orthopedist who said they can fix my shoulder with surgery.  I didn't believe my shoulder could be fixed and said as much.  I don't know one person who has only needed one surgery because that's how unsuccessful shoulder surgeries tend to be.  But technology is always improving, and he says it can be done now - less invasive, faster recovery, higher success rates.  My injury isn't urgent, so when I'm done breastfeeding - we could have it done.  

But the doctor spent most of the time talking about all the places he's been over the world, the famous people he's worked with, and apparently his kids go to school where I teach.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

What I really wanted was the doctor to write me a standing prescription titled, "How to put this shoulder back in" so I could give it to any doctor and not have to suffer through all of their attempts.  

The doctor was unsympathetic, saying, "It's the risk you'll have to take until the surgery.  But here's my card - I always knock my patients out."

Great.

the weight of unemployment

My brother-in-law has always been asocial.  Partly because he stutters.  My MIL thinks he stutters because when he was three years old he was scared so badly by a dog that it permanently disrupted his speech.  She brings it up occasionally.

My BIL asocial tendencies have gotten worse this past year as he has been jobless.  Unemployment is perpetually high in Turkey, and those that have jobs, are perpetually underpaid, or simply not paid.  It is a frustrating and hard life.  For my BIL, it has made it hard for him to even socialize with family because of the embarrassment of not having work.

My husband has endless faith in his brothers.  He is proud of them and is never too proud to defer to their expertise in different areas.  Sometimes, he'll even ask questions he already knows the answer too just to build their confidence.  We both identified with my BIL's frustration and low morale at being unemployed.

Though, Tolga was more gracious than I.  My BIL's asocial tendencies made conversation with him exhausting as his quirks seemed aggravated.  Within a five minute space of time, he may discuss the military, a job interview, mention that life is hard, Ankara is better, Kusadasi's sea is great, going to the mall on the weekend, life is hard, a project he was working on, and swimming in Kusadasi.  It was hard for me to even have a conversation with Tolga because he was so quick to interrupt with off-topic comments.  When I would complain to Tolga about this, Tolga would say,
"Part of it is because he doesn't have a job.  It's hard to focus on anything when you don't have work."

Tolga can be a lot more sympathetic than me, but I knew he was right when he said this.  We both experienced it.

My BIL came back to Ankara in the middle of May for more job interviews.  He's been out of work for a year, even more if you count the jobs that haven't been paying him.  Since coming to Ankara, he has been getting lots of interviews, but no offers worth taking.  I couldn't even keep up with his job interviews because he would swing so quickly from being excited, to nervous, to depressed.

The last week in May, while I was in Kusadasi, he returned to Ankara for another interview.  (And complained that he couldn't swim in the sea, life is hard, a project, Ankara is better for work, etc.)

But, in the end, he got the job.  He has a salary.  He is working.

home not alone

Having a 15-day extension on medical leave, on top of my maternity leave was a perk to getting injured.  Teoman had to have is four-month checkup and shots, and I wanted to be home after this in case he had a reaction.

 But it was also letting some hysterical emotions live a little longer than they should.  I was dreading going back to work, and the more I thought of leaving Teoman at home with my mother-in-law . . . the more clingy and jealous I was becoming.

My MIL is a great person, but I have this growing discontent with her.  Our apartment is comfortable, but small.  There's not a whole lot for my MIL to do except watch TV or watch Teoman.  Or both.

We don't have a yard.  She won't go out on her own.  She's afraid to walk because of her leg.  So, she's at home with me, watching her favorite gossip channels during the day and dramatic shows in the evening.

I go for walks and half-heartedly invite her on my errands.  She offers to watch Teoman, and my stomach clutches and most times I took Teoman with me justifying it in my thoughts with we only have two more weeks together.  We walked to the mall, the post office, the bank, the market.  We met Tolga at his work in the evenings.

I think I am just getting tired of living with everybody.  Everybody only consists really of two extra people.  My MIL and BIL, and since my BIL got a job - its just me and my MIL at home.  Weekends, if Tolga is home, we may go out - but even then we usually take someone with - I mean, I feel like we have too because what else is there for her to do all week?

I have a friend who lived with her MIL and she went for full day walks to get out of the house, packing food and walking from park to park around the city.  Some days, I can see why she did that . . . 

workers comp

The SGK offices are Turkey's equivalent to social security.  When you are sick and cannot not come into work, Turkish labor laws require a doctor's note.  Even for one day.  If I were to not get a doctor's note, the day's wages would be deducted from my salary.  If you are sick for more than five days, the SGK offices pay your wages in full, a form of worker's compensation.

Once my maternity leave finished, Tolga had to bring my many papers to the SGK offices to show where I worked, my wages, and various reports from the hospital showing I worked up until the 37th week, when I had the baby, and so forth.  The papers were stamped by officials, and the salary compensation was approved.

Two weeks after the approval, I collected my money with my ID card from the post office, carried it straight to the bank and deposited in my school's bank account.  I'm not sure why we had to go to so much trouble, but my work still paid my salary while I was on maternity leave - so essentially, I had to pay them back with one exception:  I got to keep 89 turkish lire referred to as süt parasi, or "milk money".

I have no idea what 89 TL milk money is supposed to buy me . . .

At the same time, I had to file another claim for my shoulder injury.  I had gone to a private hospital emergency room, but claims from the SGK offices must be approved by SGK hospitals - that is, government hospitals.  Tolga had to bring the report to a government hospital for approval and signatures before filing the second claim.

Government hospitals are required for government claims to avoid corruption.  This is because as frequently as we are required to go to the hospital here and get reports, it is easy to get a report from your private hospital excusing you from work.  In my case, alls I had to do was ask.  So, upon returning to Ankara and getting an MRI, we asked my doctor for an extension on my medical leave, and he added fifteen more days.

separation anxiety

My MIL and I came back to Ankara on a Wednesday.  We took the day bus and it was terrible.  Teoman has passed the stage where he sleeps through everything, and he is awake longer periods during the daytime, so things started off great, but deteriorated when he got tired.  I was also trying to breastfeed him on the bus . . . which was awkward and still difficult with my injured shoulder.  He has grunting out of frustration and kicking.  In all, he probably only actually cried about 45 minutes, but it felt like all day.

To make matters worse, my MIL kept offering to take him.  She meant well, but who takes a crying baby from  his mother?  Did she think I was a bad mother?  Did she think she should be the one to comfort and soothe my son???

Actually, this is far from my MIL's intentions - rationally I knew this, rationally, I really did need her help.  However, my emotions have been out-of-control of late and it all has to do with having to go back to work.  Dislocating my shoulder gave me an extension on my maternity leave.  I thought it would help, but instead, I could only focus on how it separated me from Teoman.  I realized I was going slightly crazy, so I had forced myself out of the house - leaving Teoman with my mother-in-law.  I would be okay for about an hour, but then I'd start to feel on edge, borderline panic attack.  I'd rush home and find that my MIL had done EVERYTHING wrong.  Diapers were on the floor, outfits had been changed, he had been fed even though it wasn't time, and to top it all off, she was obnoxiously hovering over him swatting flies saying, "Bitanim benin!  Olum?  Nerede sin?"  (My bright, my son, where are you?)

He's MINE!

I don't know where this crazy came from, but I could see it.  And, the more I tried to temper it with reason and practice, the worse I seemed to get.

We went to the doctor on Friday for my shoulder check-up and he wrote a 15-day extension on my medical leave.

At this point I think we could call it a mental leave.

recovery

It had been over five years since I dislocated my shoulder.  That was a long streak for me.  I had regained a lot of confidence in using my arm over those five years, doing many things with only the slightest conscious reminder to be careful in my movements.

Re-injuring my shoulder, is literally, reopening an old wound.  The arm is loose and vulnerable, especially in those first 2 weeks after injury.  I have trouble pulling up my pants, cutting my food, sleeping . . . and for any independent person, this gets frustrating really fast.  But it is different this time because I have a 3-month-old son who needs me.

Tolga had to go out of town the next day for work, my father went on to Istanbul the following day, so I was left at home with Gokhan, my brother-in-law.  He had to bring Teoman to me, pick him up, burp him.  But in truth, no one could do everything a mother does.  A mom is "on" day and night, ready to pick up their child to comfort, or feed, or change.  It got frustrating really fast.  I couldn't manage it very well, and I don't think any help would have satisfied me.  I struggled with nursing, aggravating my shoulder with each feeding.

It seemed to take longer to heal, my hand tingled, my shoulder was tender and painfully slipping around in the joint with the slightest flex of the muscle and it was stressful.  I was worried the damage was more permanent this time.  The orthopedist thought I had done more damage as well.  I suppose he figured that as much pulling as he had done, something must have broke or tore.  We went to see him after ten days and the first thing he did was take Teoman from Tolga's arms.  Teoman sat in the doctors lap, looking at us, and for the third time in his life, cried in another person's arms.

Bad doctor.  Good boy.

The doctor ordered an MRI for me, which would be taken once the swelling went down.  I was supposed to be wearing my sling, but I had stopped wearing it after five days because I couldn't manage to not use my arm.

In the end, Gokhan and I went to Kusadasi.  Tolga had to go on another trip for ten days, and as helpful as Gokhan tried to be - he was a man, and men just don't know.  They don't realize dishes and laundry have to be done, meals need to be made regularly, babies get up in the night.  So Tolga packed us up in the bus for my Anne to help.

In Kusadasi I went swimming.  Or rather, I floated around in the water.  I called it therapy.

Anne was very helpful, but Baba was not.  His four-months in Ankara had given him renewed determination to tackle the garden.  He kept himself busy all day long between gardening, eating, and napping.  He seemed years younger and more capable.

He mended the storage room door, bought more cement and added two more levels of brick on the top.  Much to Gokhan's chagrin, he was up on the ladder calling for Gokhan to hand him this or that.  Later in the week, when Gokhan left, he had Anne helping him - handing up heavy stones in the rain to fasten his makeshift roof.  Baba worked on top of a three-step ladder.  I was pretty useless, but I did stand by and do a lot of head shaking.

Baba also spent a lot of his time moving things around.  He moved all sixty black cabbage plants outside the property where the sun beat down with no shade.  Baba loves black cabbage because it reminds him of Artvin, and I know there were sixty plants because Gokhan kept complaining about it.  He moved the apple tree to the front yard, and told me "Tolga said it was good."  He moved the olive tree outside the yard.  He bought four more trees and I don't know where he was going to put those.  And, finally he began planting the seeds from America - cucumber, squash, and peppers.  He has only to plant his flower bed - and for this he has been waiting with surprising patience for May 31st.

As industrious as Baba is in the garden, he is still being incredibly lazy and demanding when it comes to domestic matters.  This particularly irked me this time because Gokahn had gone back to Ankara, and so Anne was helping me and being called for by Baba unendingly.   Baba  would call his wife's name, and wait, then call her again until she came out.  She always came out.
"Necla!  Necla! (Anne appears)  Can you hand me that hand spade?" (He didn't want to get up from his stool by the weeds).  "Necla!  Necla!  Bring me my water.  Necla!  Necla!  My stomach hurts, I'm so hungry."  I just about had it with him when he came in from the garden, sat at the table on the terrace for Anne to serve his lunch, and asked her to bring some water out to him to wash his hands.  She did too.  She brought out a bowl of water and poured it over his hands so he wouldn't have to get up.

Baba kept telling me all the things he was going to do when Tolga comes . . .

be like me

When family comes - all those things you thought you weren't anymore, come out from hiding.  Even if one were trying to change, we are still judging one another on the person that we knew, never the person we want to become.  Provoked by annoying sisters, brothers, and parents - cycles of behavior and conversation that I still hope will change one day - but family, most families I think, don't allow for change.

My middle brother told me the other day that he started running two miles everyday for the past four weeks.  My brother is not an athlete.  In fact, I've seen him run, and its not pretty.  He also is a smoker, chews tobacco, and drinks regularly.  When he told me had started running, I was so impressed, but my reflex response was to tease him for his efforts.

And so, while I believe I am changing always (hopefully growing), everything my mother and sister did that made me cringe, I saw myself doing to some extent.  We are nothing like each other, and yet, we are the same.
They both love to travel and see everything.  I do too.  In fact, in this case, I'm sure that I am worse.  So, I can understand their enthusiasm.
They both can't stand bugs.  They both say "ISH!" and get strongly disgusted by things that they are actually afraid of. My mom was worried about sleeping on our third floor because of bugs, spiders, etc.  I assured her it was okay, but in truth, I didn't want to sleep there either.
They were grossed out when I didn't take a shower for two days.  (My sister actually called me a "grease ball").  I used to be obsessed with this too.
They both are afraid of sea creatures and asked if there were sharks or jellyfish in the water.  I had asked Tolga the exact same thing when I came here.
I also forgot gas was in liters.
I also compare Turkey to the places I've visited.
I also second guess people's motives.

 As worldwide travelers, they both seem to have altered their world view very little and their actions and conversations crammed me, my husband, his family, and all of Turkey into what they wanted it to be.  My sister, by imposing herself on everything around her, my mother through her imagination and commercial phrases.

I've always thought of myself as easy-going, flexible and open.  But, from living in Turkey, or maybe from getting older, or maybe from being around my family . . . I am seeing how I want everyone to live as I see fit.  I am, to my dismay, very much like them.

I too have begun cramming those around me into what I am comfortable with.  I want everybody to brush their teeth, shower and change their clothes daily.  I want them to make the bed and use a top sheet AND a bottom sheet.  I want to clean up our haphazard garden in Kusadasi.  I want my brother-in-law to stop with his unfinished project ideas.  I want to control EVERYBODY'S spending so that we can stop shelling out money.

It starts small - wanting to "influence" those around me so that they use deodorant for example, and then - left unchecked - grows into this monster where my kingdom is everybody is doing what I say.  There is no more choice or freedom or personal preferences.  Where everybody is like me, or how I've wished them to be . . .

And that, is the most frightening to picture - because who knows better than your ownself what an actual mess you are?

So, for my own good, I am hoping the only one who changes around here is me.

my thorn

On some level, I have accepted that I will always have to be careful about my shoulders and at the same time, forget about it because things sometimes just happen anyway.  Putting on a coat, stretching, reaching into the backseat, towel drying after a shower - these are all the least impressive ways I've dislocated my shoulder.

Some people can pop it right back in.  I'm just not one of them.  In Lethal Weapon, Mel Gibson pops his shoulder out as a party trick, then slams it back in.  I can't do that either.  Some people go to the hospital and doctors can pop it right back in.  But for me, the way it goes back in, isn't easy.  In fact, I can think of a lot of things I would prefer over this experience: getting shot, a bat to the shins, delivering a baby - bring it on.  But this is my thorn in my side.

Tolga dressed me and brought me to the hospital - I had on my dress shoes, red sweatpants, a blue satin night shirt, and dripping wet snarly hair.

We went to a private hospital that was empty and quiet, until I arrived.  The first step to putting the shoulder back in place is to relax.  I wish I could say I found my Zen-like place or that I was stoic, but I wasn't.  I was a tightly wound ball of pain and fear, hunched over, twisted, clutching my arm with every muscle taut and contracted in pain and in spasms.

Some people faint from pain - I've almost fainted from pain.  But not this kind of pain, maybe its the adrenaline, or nerves being hit, of that fight-or-flight instinct that all combine and seem to make pain medicines impotent.  And, if the pain medicines don't work, my muscles don't relax.  If my muscles don't relax, my shoulder seems to lock the bone out of place.  But that doesn't stop some doctors.

Orthopedists are usually men.  Jocks that try to out-muscle me.  They slung a sheet under my arm to pull in one direction, and the doctor took my hand to pull in another direction.  They have to pull it out farther to get it unlocked, and back into place.

He pulled, and pulled and pulled.  He turned my hand out, I screamed.  They pinned my legs down.  He pulled some more, and kept telling me:
"Just relax!"  To which I'm sure my eyes bugged out.  I  finally spit out:
"I can't!"  I wished I could.  I was shaking with exhaustion.
"Just relax!"  He repeated.

They gave me more medicine and my body was quaking between muscles that wanted to relax but fear and pain that kept everything clenched. They opened the window because we were all sweating and a cold breeze blew through the room.  He tried again and I writhed against him.
"Think of Teoman!"  He cried out.
NOT HELPING!  I screamed in my head.
 "I don't think you've done this before!"  He said, frustratedly. "Because you would know you have to relax."

"How'boutIpunchyouinthefaceandyourelax!"  

. . .Not one of my finer moments . . . 

It is a terrible sensation to have so much pressure built up on your bones, and then to have some more pressure to the point where you can only conclude something has to give.  Something is going to snap or shatter or tear.  The doctor was a pudgy man, and in one last hoo-rah, he lifted his leg awkwardly up, putting his foot in my armpit for counter pressure, throwing all his weight into the pull.

I don't know how much time had passed, but they were not able to give me anymore medication and finally sent me to general anesthesia.  I was still taut with pain and crying out off and on.  The doctor said defensively,
"I'm not even doing anything!"  I was gritting me teeth.
"I know.  Not you.  Muscles spasming."
"You can relax now, I'm not going to pull anymore."
"Trying to.  Can't."  Hadn't we already gone over this?

The brought me to the surgery room to knock me out.  At that point, I didn't believe anything could knock me out, but next thing I knew he was showing me the X-Ray because apparently I was telling him in my drug induced stupor that I didn't think it worked.  I realized while looking at the X-Ray that I was wrapped up in a sling and swath, and they had put it back in. But it sure didn't feel much better.

It was four-in-the-morning and we spent the rest of the night at the hospital to be sure I recovered from the anesthesia.  I couldn't sleep because now all I thought about was feeding Teoman.  Tolga called home to be sure my father or his brother was awake to warm the milk that I had (thankfully) stored in the freezer.

My father said Teoman woke and drank the whole bottle watching my father with his big half-moon eyes full of love.

And that was all I wanted to get home too.

plans change

I never got to say goodbye to my sister and mother.  But that was their fault.

Our plan was to stay in Ankara for a couple of days, then go onto Istanbul.  Monday I just wanted to rest, and Tuesday, Tolga would have the day off.  I just wanted to hang out in my home, with our son.

My mother wanted to go shopping for rugs, and my sister had been wanting a latte since she got here.  I offered to take her to Starbucks in the evening, but she was going Monday morning with or without us.  I offered to show her on the map where it was, but she used her phone to map out the route and didn't need any help.  I should have helped her though, as there were two Starbucks - one was easy to get too, the other was hilly and tiring.  My mom and her made it there, but by the time they returned, they were hungry and now wanted to go out to eat.  Tolga and I rarely eat out, so I had no suggestions.  They ended up returning to the same area to find something to eat.  In the evening, I walked to meet Tolga - as I usually do - and my sister announced: I am not walking there for a third time today!

I wished I could show them more of Ankara, or more cool places - but our lives here have been pretty simple thus far and we most of our days off are spent at home with the family - and my sister was unimpressed.  She made plans that evening to take a bus to Istanbul with my mother in the morning.  My father would follow with me a day later, and Tolga would follow on the weekend.

So, Tuesday morning, Tolga brought my mother and sister to the bus station. Tolga's brother, my father, he and I hung around the house that day.  In the evening we ate fish, packed our bags, and Tolga's friend came over with a cake.

Then, that night, I took a shower before going to bed.  I towel dried my hair, then attempted to dry my back but instead I dislocated my shoulder.  It may sound ridiculous to have dislocated your shoulder towel-drying your back - but I have an unstable shoulder, and I should have known better.  About one month earlier I had down the same motion and almost hurt myself then.  I had thought to myself: Yikes! That was a careless move, I better not do that motion again.


Lesson not learned.
But now, lesson learned.

So, the night was spent at the hospital.  I never did go to Istanbul, they didn't get to say goodbye, and two nights later were crying over dinner (and probably a couple glasses of wine) that they couldn't say bye to Teoman.

to the cotton castle

When Anne and Baba prepare to travel.  They are up, ready, and breakfast is prepared an hour before we have to leave in order to enjoy our tea.

My family, we are upstairs getting ready until the very last minute.  Breakfast, if there is time, is in a rush.  

My sister, impatient with the slower pace of Kusadasi, picked up Teoman - forced everybody to say goodbye, and loaded him in the car.  My father was waiting for me as I picked up the tail.  Baba's "eyes were wet," as Tolga would say.  So were my father's.  My Anne cried too, kissing my mother saying "We are waiting for you to come again."

We were driving back to Ankara.  My mother was still riding my sister about going further up the western coast.  They would have to split off because I needed to return the rental car, and we would all meet up again in Istanbul.  Aside from the fact that they would be choosing tourism over spending time with their nephew/grandson, and not seeing Tolga at all - I'm not sure my mother realized how costly, time consuming, and tiring it would be to take several buses to the city, figure out bus schedules, taxi to hotels and sights, and so on.  My sister was a more experienced traveler and aware of the trouble it would be - but she also prided herself on being independent - so she left the option hanging in the air to show that she might at anytime, decide to go another a direction . . . maybe even Greece.

For the time being, they both decided to ride part of the way to Pamukkale.  I told them both I thought they'd really like it.
SISTER: Why?
MOM: What's there?
ME: It's a surprise - trust me.
My mom and sister promptly opened my guidebooks to find Pamukkale, and decide for themselves whether it was worth seeing.

We stopped at a gas station to fill up first.
SISTER: Wow, gas is cheap here.
DAD: No, it's not.
ME: It's in liters.
DAD: That's about $9 a gallon.
(My father had a conversion app on his phone and liked to get exact comparisons of the metric system).

My sister offered to help pay for half.  I followed her in to add the points to our gas card.
SISTER: I'm not sure what pump number we're on.
(It amazes me how she operates exactly like she would in America.  I stepped passed her and handed the cashier the receipt I had collected along with my gas card.)
SISTER: Are you paying?
ME: No, just a points card.
SISTER: Ohhh, using us for your points, huh?  MEOW!
She over her credit card.  My father started to give the cashier lire as well, but my sister stopped him.
SISTER: I'll just put in on my card.  I almost have enough points for a free trip to South America. MEOW!
ME: I thought you were just making fun of me for getting points.
SISTER: I hardly get any points for it.

Ah, okay.  And so our road trip begins.

We left at Kusadasi at nine in the morning, got in Pamukkale around 12:30, checked in a hotel, and went to the National Park.  We were stalled a little as I had to change, nurse, and eat.  My sister wasn't happy about this - and kept complaining that the place was going to close at 4:30.  I'm not sure where she came up with this time as the place didn't actually close until 7pm.  It was a huge complex though, and could easily take the whole day if you were really wanting to see all things ancient - but heat can take out all ambition.

Pamukkale is travertine pools set on the hillside.  Up top there is the ruins of Heiropolis and a place to swim in the ancient mineral baths.  It turned into a beautiful evening - but I think we were all dehydrated.

travertine pools

travertine cliffside

                                        

ancient mineral baths

Pops taking a nap at the ancient baths

Part of Heiropolis

dinner at the hotel

The next day, my father and sister decided to paraglide over the travertines before we continued onto Ankara.

Paragliding over Pamukkale - the "cotton castle"

things my sister says and does

My parents made it back from Patmos with sun and wind burn.  It seemed to be everything my mother had hoped for . . . and Turkey the exotic adventure she could share with all her work friends.  With my sister here, my mother seemed to have renewed determination for sightseeing.

I honestly didn't think my sister would come to Turkey.  She is always telling me she'll join me - but has never come through.  When I went to the family reunion in Scandinavia, then onto Russia and Turkey - she first committed to coming to Sweden with me, then a week before I was leaving she was going to go to Russia with me (when I said you needed to apply for a visa two months in advance, she said, "I can get it in a week."), and when I left she said maybe I'll meet you in Istanbul "but I'm not making any promises".

Ah, okay.

Now she was here and I saw what a dangerous combination my mother and sister were.  My mother was using my sister as an excuse to travel everywhere: "But your sister hasn't seen it yet!"  My mother also relied on her to strike bargains.  My sister is notorious for out-haggling hagglers.  In part, because she doesn't trust a soul.  She assumes everyone is dishonest and trying to deceive her.  This happens to be her own modus operandi - a habit that much to my bewilderment, her friends actually appreciate.  They've nicknamed her "Sneak" as an endearment.

And to think, she's a bank manager...

So the two were already planning from the first morning:
Mom: Rachel, we should take your sister to that Ottoman hotel.
Me: Maybe.
Sister: "What Ottoman hotel?"
Me: It's an old hotel, built in the Ottoman style with a pretty view.
Mom:  And then we can buy some rugs from that guy Hakan knows.
Sister:  What . . . is Hakan getting a percentage? MEOW!

My sister now says "MEOW!" to punctuate sentences.  I'm not sure why she decided this would be her trademark, but I think she subconsciously uses it to deflect anything offensive she's said or done.

Me: No, Hakan's just helping.
Sister:  Then why do we have to go there?
Me:  We don't.
Sister:  (Squeezing Teoman and sucking her teeth and cheeks) Hubba bubba!
Me: Be gentle . . .
Sister:  I AM!
Me: I've seen you do that to your dog and make her yelp.
Sister: I've never hurt her, you're just making that up. MEOW!

We went into the Kusadasi center the first day.  Kusadasi is a port town for international cruise ships, so you can't quite call it Turkey.  The main strip has been built on tourism.  Shop owners now enough of a few languages to sell to anybody.  My sister continued with her sweeping judgements.
"This reminds me of Mexico, there's a bunch of Tchotches here!"


That's another thing my sister does.  She makes up, or mixes up words.  I doubt she knows what a tchotchke is, but she'd be too proud to admit this.  She projects a lot of herself on other people, and whoever she suspects of being tricky or slick is a "Tcotch".

Tchotch!

Tuesday we visited Ephesus.  We parked, and my sister said,
"Dad, are you sure we can park here? We might get towed."  (It was a field).




Wednesday we visited the National Park.
"This reminds me of Oman!"
And Priene

at Priene

And Thursday we drove to Izmir

Izmir - I wish someone in my family would
have told me to fix my hair.

Friday, we packed and spent time with the family.  Hakan, and his wife's family visited to say hi and bye.
Sister: When are we going to the city center.
Me: After they leave.
Sister: When are they leaving?
Me: I don't know.  They came to meet you.
Sister: Well you told me we'd go to the city center.
One hour later
Me: We can go now.
Sister: Well its too late now.
Me: Okay, Pops and I are going.
Sister:  For how long?
Me: About an hour.
Sister: Fine, I'll go then.

thus our trip goes so far . . .

and more family

not an easy job . . .

After three four months in Ankara and blood sugar consistently over 200, my Baba was a new man in Kusadasi.  He was busy in the garden every day - sometimes doing useful things like planting and trimming, sometimes making trouble (like buying MORE trees), and sometimes just doing things because he's bored.  He weeded the area across our road, sawed off a branch, burned the grass, and relocated the olive tree.

More Baba's pace

I thought I would get a chance to rest with my parents off to Greece (or Egypt, depending on whether they got on the right ferry), but this was not the case.

I had a car, for the first time every in Kusadasi, and I good advantage of this . . . and so did Baba.  I did grocery shopping, took Baba on his errands, went for coffee with my sister-in-law, and worked around the house at my father-in-laws bidding.

My parents were coming back Sunday night, and my sister was also arriving Sunday night from America.  The times conflicted, so Hakan picked up my parents.

I hadn't been driving this whole time living in Turkey, and especially after having a baby - I wasn't trusting my focus.  I brought my Anne with for support.  The airport was a little over an hour away, but I was tired of my sister before we even left the parking garage.  It was not a good start . . .

I never realized before how much my sister needs to manage EVERYTHING.  First, it was her suitcase.  It was huge.  It was a problem because the stroller was huge, and our trunk was bursting at the seams on our road trip to Kusadasi.  I paused looking at the trunk, wondering what we would do.

"What are you doing?" my sister asked.
"Thinking about how everything will fit."
"It will be fine."
"I'm not so sure about that - mom and dad have a lot of stuff too."
"Well, let's not worry about it now."
We loaded the stuff in.  I took the car seat out and strapped Teoman in the center seat. "Aren't you not supposed to put babies in the middle?"
"I think its okay."
"I thought you weren't supposed to," she said.  "Does Anne want to sit in the back with Teoman?"
"She'll sit wherever you don't sit, she'd rather you be comfortable."  Sherah took the front seat, while I sat in the car, debating whether to nurse Teoman now, or just go.
"What's wrong."
"I'm debating whether to feed Teoman now or not."
"Feed him now."
"Except we've been here almost an hour."
"Don't you have any money?"
"Not that I want to spend on a parking lot."
"Why?  How much is it?"
"Seven lire an hour."
"How much is that in dollars? I have dollars."
"I don't know how much that is in dollars.  I don't make dollars anymore."
"Let's just go then, he'll be fine."
Yes'm.


We pulled out and I scanned the signs for the way home.  It was dark and everything looked different.  Not to mention my mind was on the little one and being pestered like a gnat at the same time by my sister's incessant questions.
"What are we looking for?"
"The road to Selçuk.  But not the toll road."
"Why not?  Don't you have any money?"
Yes.  We established that.  "No, I don't have the pass card."
"Can't we just buy one?  I'll pay."
With your dollars?  "No, we can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know why not, they just don't sell them at the booths."  While we were driving, I followed the wrong sign, and saw the sign for the toll road, which meant I missed the turn for the parallel road.
"Let's just stop at the gas station and buy one."
"They don't sell them at gas stations."
"Are you sure?"
"No, but this is what Tolga says.  This isn't America."
"I'm just asking.  Let's stop at the gas station anyway and ask."

Just ask.  Like its that easy to ask in Turkish how to get to Kusadasi without taking the toll road.  I don't know how to say that in Turkish.  I pulled over at the gas station and checking the map and calling my husband about directions.  I was worried my sister would distract me into getting into an accident, so I decided to take care of my other worry and nursed Teoman.  We continued down the road, a different and slightly longer way home.  I have no idea if I was following the speed limit, which is problem because its all computerized - the catch you by camera and mail you the ticket a month later - but I was  so distracted . . .

"This reminds me of Mexico."  (She doesn't really like Mexico).  "Watch out for the cow. This reminds me of Uzbekistan."  (And then later . . . ) "This reminds me of Oman. (She likes Oman, it's exotic).  Look at all these cute cafes.  I want a beer."

Get me home, get me home, get me home...

Kusadasi and the family

It was nice to slow down again.  Tolga had to leave Monday morning for work, but the rest of us were staying in Kusadasi.  There are many things to see in the area, and having a car created all the more freedom.

The problem again was my mom was torn between wanting to shop and wanting to see everything.  Monday was simple, because we just went into Kusadasi to see the town.  Tuesday my father went with Hakan to his work, and I took my mothers for tea on the pier.  Later we met up at Hakan's hotel where my dad was checking the teeth of a Welsh pony.  (I'm not sure why).  Wednesday we were back into town to finalize some tickets for my mom and dad - but between the rain, and errands, we really didn't see much.  That's because a lot of our time was taken sorting out my mother's trip to Patmos.

She had it in her head that she would visit the Seven Churches mentioned in Revelation and the Greek Island of Patmos, where John wrote Revelation.  She's mentioned this almost every day.  I looked into the ferry schedules - from Kusadasi they would go to Samos, the main entry point from Turkey to Greece.  The Samos ferry runs daily as it is only an hour trip and many tourists had back and forth solely to lay claim that they've been to another country.  They nail you on the cost for it as well at a 55 Euro round-trip ticket.  My parents would then take a taxi across the island to a second port and take a 3 1/2 hour ferry ride to Patmos.  This ferry only cost 15 Euro round trip, but the Patmos ferry was on a very limited schedule as summer season hadn't opened yet.

I had been island hopping in the past and while the islands are idyllic, the ferries are intermittent and all island schedules vary with the weather.  I couldn't go with them to Patmos because I had no passport for our son yet.  I was looking forward to the break, but I was also worried they would end up in Egypt.  I even tried discouraging my mom from the trip as it didn't appear the museums would be open, but she was so determined to go I don't think even telling her the island was sinking would have stopped her.

Thursday morning I dropped them off at the ferry - their ferry wouldn't return until Sunday evening, so we waved good-bye, and I sighed relief at my break that had finally come . . .

parents

We've been married only 3 1/2 years, but our parents are meeting for the first time.  I was going to video record the moment and take lots of pictures - but I got too excited, fumbling with the camera and decided to just leave it because I didn't want to miss the moment.

The front door was open.  It usually is during the heat of the day or when we are waiting for someone.  Baba is usually waiting on a stool, whistling his airy tuneless tune - but we must have caught him during a bathroom break.  Anne came out first, then Baba, as well as Gokhan.  They all hugged and kissed and then we all cooed over Teoman.

Both of our parents have gentle hearts, and while communication was limited - it didn't stop neither of my mothers from showering each other with greetings and general chit-chat.  We sat on the terrace and drank tea, because this is what we do in Kusdasi.

The grass was cut, the walls were painted, and the kitchen was redone (and almost completed).

We put my parents up on the 3rd floor.  Potentially the nicest room with its own bathroom - but currently it's a room with a low ceiling, a rotting bathroom door, and we learned that night, a leaking roof.

Hakan and my father looking for our telephone line

Our home is far from perfect, and that is why we had the first night - my father, husband, and two brother-in-laws working on the phone line.  They somehow found the source of the problem down the street, their line out of hundreds, and were able to reconnect it - and only one person got mildly electrocuted.

The next day they were patching the roof with a torch and some aluminum.  A cheap and quick fix for now...

It wasn't long before Bubba had employed Tolga to some yard work and my dad jumped in to help.  Pretty quickly we had three stubborn men jockeying for control have how to tie up the roses climbing wildly up our walls.

the cook

dinner on the terrace

We had a barbecue with everybody - celebrating both Anne and Baba's birthdays.  Their real ones.  The both have a real birthday and a legal birthday because their parents registered them on different days.  Anne turned 66, but she kept saying 68 because while she was born in '46, her I.D. card says '44, and in Turkish when someone asks you how old you are, you say how old you will turn that year - so its always hard to clear age out of anybody.  Tolga's dad turned 70 . . . I think.

dutifully wearing our t-shirts

My mother brought gifts for everybody: Minnesota t-shirts, wild rice, and honey from my aunt.  She wanted everybody to where their t-shirts at the barbecue . . . and some of us did:


This also happen to be the first time the cousins met each other.  The cousins are 6 1/2 months apart and they were decidedly unimpressed . . . while the new grandparents were more proud of their grandchildren then they were of their own . . .

old and new generations

along the coast

From Antalya, we drove up the southern coast - for the week, taking our time sightseeing on our way.  We saw a lot, but it is surprising to me because we also seemed to take a long time to get going in the mornings.

Part of that is due to the Turkish breakfast.  Hotels always come with breakfast and my parents love to eat breakfast.  While Turks will separate everything, eating slowly and neatly . . . my mother represents all of America's gluttony.  She won't refuse a taste of anything, and will prepare her self several plates in order to get a piece of everything.  And she loves sauces, jams, butters . . . any sort of topping that can drown the food and drip from the corner of her mouth.
"Juice? Coffee? Milk?"
"Yes."
No "please", Sometimes a "thank you".

So our mornings were slow getting going: slow to get up, slow to get ready, slow to eat, pack, but it made it easier for me to manage getting Teoman up and ready . . .

From Antalya we drove 3 1/2 hours along the coast to Kas - our favorite spot in Turkey.  A small town, on a small peninsula with good shopping.

Breakfast in Kas

Evening in Kalkan - view
from our room

From Kas we drove only 45 minutes North to Kalkan and stayed at a beautiful and expensive hotel.

Patara beach

We stopped at Patara beach - one of the longest beaches in Turkey, where Paul the apostle had stopped.  There is an old Lycian city here too.

Gates to Patara

Then onto Olüdeniz where mom which mom wanted to see because it was on House Hunters.  It turned out to be a ghost town because it was still early in the season.  While the beach is beautiful, we didn't even drive out to it because we were too busy looking for a hotel as nice as they last one we stayed in . . .

Instead we found the trailhead to the Lycian Way.

Entrance to the 500km walking trail - the Lycian Way

We ended up staying in Fethiye (and no, the hotel wasn't nearly as nice).

our cute hotel

Then we drove to Bodrum, a hopping party city with celebs and good shopping.

shopping around Bodrum

Mom hadn't packed many nice going out clothes, and so was constantly on the hunt for clothing she could say she bought from Turkey.



Then to Kusadasi . . .

the many of contrast of Turkey and my parents

Tolga took a week off to tour with us.  I was looking forward to my parents seeing Tolga in his natural habitat, but it just isn't the same with my dad around.  He kind of throws a wrench into everything.

First, he couldn't get over how long it takes a person to answer a question that he thinks should be simple and direct.  Tolga would ask where a particular road or hotel was and he'd have a three minute answer.  While Tolga would be speaking, my father would be trying to mimic the sounds.  "babgowro bah? skado bado ba..."  Eventually, in response to Turks, my father would resort to the Swedish phrase "ska vi leysah" or the city name "Kusadasi" ...to everything.

When we'd be bombarded by hawkers selling items - Tolga would always say "Thank you."  I thought they left us alone because he was Turkish, but I've since realized that saying thank you puts a very direct and polite end to the conversation as well.  (In Turkish, when you say thank you in response to a question, it means no).

My father started speaking in tongues.  As a teenager, I was never embarrassed about my parents, but I'm finding myself more and more embarrassed by them... .  I am all about blending into my surroundings - but my mother and father quite stubbornly hold onto their cultural ways.  Most annoyingly is their clutch on the hard a sound like in "and" versus the softer a sound as in "awning".  One month later and my mother is still saying "Is-stANbul" and "Anne" instead of "Is-stawn-bul" and "Awnnah" and her "a's" grate on me ears.

He got up to leave at four in the morning, and did well by getting out of the door by five.  We weren't in a hurry, we just wanted to make leisurely drive down to southern Turkey, possibly making some stops on the way.

It was supposed to be an eight hour drive, but we had some mixups about which route we were taking, and ended up backtracking some and making different stops.  There are so many things to see, yet we could only choose so many in one day before the day is already over.

We stopped in Egirdir for lunch - fish from the lake where the men throw their nets in the evening and collect them in the mornings.



We stopped along the road to take pictures of shepards - Turkey is full of shepards, it is the poorest work of all - yet I find the most beautiful.



We went over the Taurus mountains, and just before Antalya, we stopped at a park with waterfalls.




We spent the night in Antalya to meet up with a connection of my parents through the church.  A couple living in Turkey and we attended their church for Easter Sunday.

the tourists

My parents have come to visit me before in foreign places.  Jersey, New York, Rome . . . I was their ultimate tour guide, planning everything down to even bathroom breaks and naps.  This time I didn't, and I didn't really care.  I had some ideas, but what I didn't know was whether I'd be able keep up with them - physically, emotionally or financially.

the best sight

A baby changes everything, and I'm glad for this.  Mornings are long and slow, evenings are early, and days in the most amazing of sights carries very little significance because the best sight in the world is this small creation in our arms.  It was a good self-check for all of us.

But it wasn't enough for my mother.  She's never been an either/or sort of person - you would never hear her say, I'd like to visit the Roman ruins or walk around the lake.  She's always been a both/and person: I would like to visit the Roman ruins, walk around the lake, go out to dinner AND scour eastern Turkey along the way - with me and my two month old in tow.  She came to see her grandson AND Turkey.

Ankara isn't nearly as exciting as Istanbul, but it is the capital city and where we live.  Modern, hilly, populated.  Spring was only just beginning so everything was brown.  They only rested for two days in Ankara before we took off out for Capadoccia.  It is an area three hours south of Ankara where a volcano had left the ground soft and porous.  It has a long history of cave dwellers, and most famously during the time of Christian persecution where whole cities were built underground.  The area's erosion is a thing of beautiful pinks and tans.  Hotels are built into the caves for the tourists' sakes and the area boasts wine, pottery, hand painted ceramics, and kilims - traditional Turkish carpets.

We had rented a car and my mom kept wanting a map.  I love maps too, but I'd kind of given up on the idea in Turkey.  I had several guidebooks that my mom was reading and she came across a note that you could find a map at a gas station but the roads lacked the detail we needed.   My husband's a geologist, so you'd think I'd have access to better maps of Turkey, but road signs and maps are hard to come by.  Tolga was away on business, and we were on our own.

We had a late start.  While Tolga's parents on travel days are up and ready in the wee hours of the morning, my parents kind of amble around.  I amble around.  And preparing for our first trip Teoman was a task in itself.  It was my first time traveling with him and it was hard not to pack EVERYTHING.  It was like a trial outting - we'd only be gone for two days, but as a new mom I felt stress when thinking about when, where and how I'd feed him, put him to sleep, change him, and so on.
I didn't really care about maps.
I cared about how long Teoman rode in his car seat.  (Is it bad for his back?  Will he starve, get stuffy, get too hot?)  He had rarely cried - two short cries the day he was born, on sad cry at his one month checkup for the shot, and once when I accidentally scratched his leg while change him - and I wasn't ready to have him start crying now because of tourism.

Teoman turned out to be an excellent traveller.  He slept all the while in the car seat, and it may even helped with his gas.  We stopped twice for me to feed him, but mostly cause I wanted to pull him out of the car seat and make sure his back wasn't permanently molded to the car seat.  When we arrived in Göreme, we hadn't booked a hotel and wondered around the small streets looking at the different hotels.  I wore Teoman in my carrier, and the weather had gone from the low 60s in Ankara, to the low 70s here in Capadoccia.  We finally settled on a hotel over our budget - set in a cave with a separate sitting room and fireplace.  I was determined to keep my parents in the budget frame, but when I saw English books, an armchair, and wood in the fireplace - I lost all resolve.

breakfast at the hotel with
overbearing Turkish mom

A young sweet woman was our receptionist and host.  Her mother kept taking Teoman and fussing over him.  By the next day, she actually made him cry with all her fussing.  We had a traditional Turkish dinner in the town and watched the sunset over the valley.  We reserved the following day for the museums.  The first was an open air museum.  Crowded  even in April.  We walked around slowly with the stroller, going in and out of the caves.  At one point, I waited at the bottom of the stairs for my parents and Teoman started crying - I walked him in the stroller, but it soon became clear he was just plain hungry.  I couldn't help feeling a bit of panic.  Where would I feed him?  In a cave?  But there were way too many curious tourists in every good and cranny.  In the bathroom?  In the car?  I didn't have the key...

overlooking the valley of Capadoccia

I finally just left the open-air museum, and sat under the shade of a tree near the dirt parking lot and nursed Teoman like a goat and her kid.

The next museum I didn't go in.  I waited out in a cool tea shop and made sure I had the car key.

"fairy chimney" cave hotel

Goreme Open Air Museum