The Poop and the Pony

A group of scientists wanted to know whether optimism in children was inherited or environmental. To study this question, they found two children with polar opposite perspectives. One boy always unhappy. The other was always cheerful. The scientists placed the unhappy boy in a room full of the newest, best toys they could find. The boy looked at them miserably, then sat down and sulked. 

The scientists asked the boy why he was so glum. He responded, “These toys aren’t mine. When the test is over, you’ll take them away and I’ll go back to the same stupid toys I’ve always had. What’s the point of getting excited over something that won’t last?”

The scientists then filled a room full of manure and placed the optimistic boy in the center of it. The boy looked around for a minute, taking in his surroundings. Suddenly, a big smile spread across his face and the boy enthusiastically began digging through the dung. After half an hour, he was still at it, having the time of his life. When the scientists pulled the boy out of the poo, they asked him why he was smiling. He said, “Well, with all this poop, there’s gotta be a pony in here somewhere!”

I don’t remember where I heard that story, but I told it to Ruyman shortly after we arrived in Tenerife. He’d just finished shoveling huge piles of dog crap from in front of our bedroom and found the joke both funny and poignant. Since then, the tale of the boy in the poop has become sort of a metaphor for our time here. 

As we know perfectly who is responsible for all the literal crap we deal with on a daily basis, the “pony” we’re looking for is the reason why we both strongly felt that we needed to move here in the first place. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t cabin fever or a one-third life crisis. There actually is a reason we’re here. We just don’t know what it is yet. 

Hardly a week goes by without one of us turning to other and asking, “So have you found the pony yet?” Inevitably, the answer has been “No.” After eight months, it’s becoming a bit  painful. Yesterday, however, we finally produced a new answer.

Maybe the baby is the pony. 

Even though we make about half of what we did in the States, our jobs here have been very accommodating to doctors’ appointments and tenacious morning sickness. In moving here, I cut my working hours in half, allowing me the luxury of sleeping in till 11 AM on a Tuesday morning and the freedom to cancel a class when the only thing I can do is puke. There’s no way that would fly as a public school teacher in the US.

On top of the work situation, there’s our amazing shrinking pharmacy bill. Life’s pretty expensive for a diabetic and a severe asthmatic in America, even if they have decent health insurance. Our monthly pharmacy bills used to run anywhere from $300 to $500. That didn’t include co-pays for doctors’ appointments and labs, either. Our medical costs here? About 10 euros a month. (I am in NO way saying that socialized medicine is all rainbows and sunshine, but I do appreciate the price difference.) 

The unavailability of the bad-for-me foods I crave constantly has also been a mixed blessing. Real chocolate chip cookies, Mexican food, Wendy’s Chocolate Frosty’s, and Cinnamon Life cereal are all totally inaccessible, thus circumventing any chance I’d have to OD and blow my blood sugar all to hell. (The food depravations are causing some really funky dreams, though. In one of them, I keep sitting down to a breakfast of Belgian waffles with maple syrup and homemade raspberry jam, only to find someone else eating them. I’ve actually woken up screaming, “You pig! I’ve been waiting eight months for those waffles!”)

So despite all the hardships and privations we’ve suffered by relocating, maybe, when we hold a healthy little girl in our arms, it will turn out to be worth it. Maybe then, we’ll look back at all we’ve been through and understand why. I don’t know for sure. But there is one thing I’m certain of: with a newborn on the way, we won’t be short on poop anytime soon.