They steal your underwear, too
Back here in Amman, it's difficult to escape the West Ammani soap opera of life with the help. Just yesterday, Samer told me he's already getting tired of hearing about how hard women have it here managing their maids and what misery they put them through.
Perhaps he forgot what a drama it is and how whenever there are a handful of middle-aged Jordanian women its usually the centerpiece topic. Nevermind that their maids are likely hanging out in the room next to them watching their children, cleaning up their crap, cooking and serving food--and probably hearing every word their "Madames" say.
And Samer did happen to be along with us the other day when we went to visit a good friend of mine who was having an Easter party for her son. Her son's pre-school classmates and moms were there and Samer (and I, for that matter) stuck out like a sore thumb. The visitors were all decked out in their finest stilettos and made up to the nines. Hairsprayed to bouffant refinement. Everyone sat rapt as one woman spoke about how she is "60% certain that my maid accepted money for sex" and how her maid is "sick--she pulls her hair out." To that, I said, "Haram, she's probably depressed." And miserable, no doubt, to be living with such a jewel of a boss.
One more typical conversation among the fabled elites which, I have to say, are part of the world I was happy to escape when we bailed for Seattle.
Samer's mom and dad have recently employed a lovely Filipino couple in their house. On the first day I met them, their eyes lit up as they told me about their daughter who is turning 8 in a few weeks. They're planning to call her for her birthday and, listening to them tell me, their expressions and excitement made it obvious she's the joy of their life.
Even thinking about being far from Issy for more than a week brings tears to my eyes (even though he is a twerp), and I had a similar reaction hearing them talk about their daughter and attempting to imagine what it must be like for them to think about being away for two years. So last night when Samer and I came home from dinner, waking Issy up with a crash of the door, and I ran into John carrying my crying baby--and not his--my heart nearly broke.