Fringe benefits of being human

Another beginning

2012-01-31T13:05:00.000+01:00

I've started a new blog!

I know what you're thinking - because it's what I'm thinking. "Why would someone who can't keep up with their own blog start another one just as they've become the leader of the local writers group and need to start working as well?!"

I'm hoping the overload will be the motivation to do everything fabulously.

So see you soon here and there!

RC

Let's talk. Yes, let's. Spoiler alert

2012-01-31T12:59:00.000+01:00

I was thinking the other day - walking alone through the city - that it's not only time without kids that I miss, but time alone, completely alone. The time I used to use to discuss with myself all the shit going on in my life. As embarrassing as it might (or might not) be, I talk to myself. Or at least I used to, before the children came.

So SOME would say I've become more sane.

But no. These, like many other forms of communication, are necessary for sanity and well-being. We all have to talk it out. With someone.

It was weird to hear those voices contemplating the stuff tumbling around in my mind. Strangely, I didn't even realize their absence before they spoke up. They just weren't there - and neither was a part of my problem-solving task force. No wonder I've been so lost!

This morning, in a 25-minute stint of solitary time while M&A were trying out the day care, I realized that I haven't heard those voices because I start my alone time just enjoying the silence. I don't start any conversations with myself because I'm taking a break from talking altogether. Knowing the screamer who inhabits my body most of the time, it's nice to just hear nothing, for a while.

Then, in the midst of my enjoyment of silence, I was approached by an older man who asked to share a Biblical quote with me. I wanted to tell him as politely as possible to share with someone who cares, but given that I was apparently still on mute, I just let him go for it. He proceeded to tell me of the promise of the meek inheriting the earth and how lovely it would be to be around for the coming changes. The world is not looking good at the moment, but that's alright, the Bible tells us how wonderful things will be in the end and only the meek will be taking advantage of the gifts of god. Or something like that.

Me: Yes, the meek are quite a convenient following for the powers that be. God wants you to follow, not me, no. Do it for god.

Me again: I don't want to disturb this guy's peace. Just nod and smile.

Me: He won't stop. I think I may have to say something.

"Well, I have my own opinions on this," I said.

"And that's fine. At least you have something to think about today," he said. "Have a good day." He smiled and walked away.

And so I did get to think about something other than me and my kids for a little while. Had a little chat with myself and smiled a lot, enjoying the banter that one can only have with someone sharing their brain. Incomplete sentences, disconnected thoughts, discovery of multiple tangents. It all made so much sense. Again.

So next time you find yourself talking to yourself, tell yourself a joke and both of you can laugh and then discuss something that's been weighing heavily on your shoulders and see if, together, you can find a solution. Along the way, appreciate the thoughts you share and the all the ways you can help yourself find the path it's time to take.

That's my plan.

An Utterly Autobiographical Rant About Motherhood and Other Stuff

2011-12-08T23:03:00.000+01:00

"I understand how you feel. All of us are overwhelmed sometimes. We are all stressed out sometimes."

YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE HOW I FEEL.

Sometimes I can't breathe. Sometimes I can't move. Sometimes I can't bear the touch of tiny hands on my arm. Or any other hands anywhere else.

Do you know the weight of three small children on your shoulders? 35 kilograms. 77 pounds. It's the weight of a universe. A helpless universe waiting to learn from you how to live. It pushes you into the ground, gravity's innocent helper. Am I grounded? Fucking A. Not that I want to be.

I am begleitet. Accompagné. I am never alone. They haunt me but are not ghosts. They are real. Calling the exorcist will not help.

Personal space? ...huh?... Not a real thing. They hover, they cower, they scrabble, they strangle. They insert and they expect. I don't know how long there will be room for me in this space.

DO YOU FEEL THIS OFTEN? Then maybe we can sit down and talk about it. If not, shut the fuck up and mind your own business.

Seasons of change

2011-11-08T23:21:00.000+01:00

Some autumnness for my friend who wishes for it. You can also look back at Falling from last year. It IS a gorgeous time, especially when the sun can shine and make the earthy rainbow glow.

Birthday cupcakes.

A sea of leaves.


Feathery tree.

Colors and VINO.

VINO.

Colors.

Melon Street.

Misty church.

Misty barn.

Chloé, trees and leaves.

Playing in the leaves.

Don't fuck with my leaf pile!

Gold abounds at the playground.


Leaf half crown. Fail.

Me and my red cup.

2011-10-20T08:58:00.000+02:00

Yesterday's casualties of hands-off parenting:

1. couch upholstery after milk was shaken from bottles,

2. bright green comforter cover and pillowcases, orange fitted sheet after early childhood artistic expression involving old peach-hued lipstick inherited from my mother,

3. old peach-hued lipstick (see above),

4. container of chocolate powder,

5. "Leo & Popi" DVD (very annoying kid's show, so this is more of a blessing),

6. bathroom rug after toilet brush was used to clean the toilet, the floor and the walls (I assume, I wasn't there),

7. my sanity.

On the other hand, during the periods between moments of destruction, they:

1. had tea together,

2. did puzzles,

3. looked at books and

4. played cars in the toy garage.

So although the destruction sum is higher than that of peaceful activities, and my sanity is a precious price to pay, I think we've got a good balance here. They've learned how to entertain themselves and that's going to last. Eventually they will also learn NOT to play with the toilet brush, lipstick, chocolate powder and milk. Or at least they'll hopefully learn to clean up their messes before I find them.

Out of order

2011-10-08T20:54:00.000+02:00

I love public transportation. I love that somebody moves me greater distances so that I can walk the shorter ones. I don't have to drive, sit in traffic, or find a parking space. I get to be outside, get some fresh air. Nobody is strapped in a car seat and Aidyn gets to ogle the other trains, tracks and cars passing by. It's a gaggle of fun for everyone.

Sometimes, though, a piece of the transportation system breaks down. This could be a strike. Very annoying but at least you can know beforehand not to venture out to the train or bus station because...there are no trains or busses running!

Or, your home train station could be renovating ALL the elevators between the end of August and the end of October. With a sign saying that for our convenience, we can use the handicapped-friendly and (presumably) elevator-functioning train station in Ludwigsburg. Which we get to with the...train. Huh? Or, more precisely, What The Fuck?

What made it worse the other day was that a completely different station had elevators on the fritz. The first one, going from the street level to mid-level, had the white-bar-on-a-red-background "out of order" sign but the elevator came and the doors opened and closed so we took it. Mid-level to train, on the other hand, also had the sign, but there was neither door opening nor movement. Good, I thought. Children are awake, we walk down. But then Aidyn wanted to take the up escalator, sending Chloé into near hysterics. Then I had to calm Chloé, lure Aidyn to the stairs, catch up with Mia speeding down the stairs and navigate said stairs with an empty (of children, at least) double stroller.

Finally, in Deutsche Bahn's Best Move Yet (fortunately not on the same day), as we (aforementioned three children and I ) were entering the train, the conductor decided to close the doors while I was half in the train and my son was COMPLETELY NOT IN the train but standing on the platform between two doors. Heaving of doors, yanking of small boy, two crying little girls and one incoherent scream in English later, everyone was in the train and by the time we'd reached our destination three stops later, I had forgotten to go yell at the driver. Of course I was also maneuvering the entourage toward and then down the stairs since the elevator was not working...

So perhaps the lesson here is not to trust public transportation. Or no one cares about kids? Or elevators are for wimps? Or just shit happens.

Vorbei

2011-10-04T18:06:00.001+02:00

About three weeks ago we started to feel the chill and smell the crispness of autumn. The season stalled, though, and today, finally, we're experiencing the true end of the end of summer. It's been beautiful and I am grateful for this Indian Summer following the cold and rainy roller coaster of a summer. We've done our best to live outside these warm sunny weeks, and today we will say goodbye to the sun outdoors: we will dance and play in her rays and we will dream in the night of vitality and try to remember when we wake tomorrow that there are seasons of both life and death, and rain is as important as sun.

The flowers are dead

But the leaves are blooming

Fall rainbows.

2011-08-17T23:22:00.000+02:00

I think it's so funny that there are so many blogs out there by parents with one child. Totally frustrated with their lives. Often unable to cope with the stress of having a child.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
I mean, there is sometimes some good writing, and they're not always talking about being stressed by their offspring - sometimes it's something political regarding raising children, or help for stressed parents or it's just fantastically funny and so we don't care what it's about since we get to laugh about shit we experience every other day as parents.
But I can't help but think, SHIT, wait until you've got another ankle biter (or two, or three, simultaneously or otherwise)...biting. Let me see how crappy you think your life is THEN.
Indescribably, probably. That's why no one writes about it.
Just kidding. It's not that no one writes about it. Of course people write about it. At 11:20pm, desperately hoping that their 2+ kids are going to sleep through the night, or at least until 5am.
It's a tragic life.
Really, though, the other bloggers are right about at least one thing: we should stick together. Burgeoning writers, all of us, we need to support others in the same position. Use our popularity to draw attention to others who need same.
So, in my off time, I'm going to look for said parenting blogs, read them (and not just the most current post!) and give them a link on my unread blog page.

Diary of a Night

2011-08-10T22:27:00.000+02:00

It's just a dream.

8:30pm. Those first two hours were fantastic. We sat on the couch. He caught up on his work e-mails on his work computer. I caught up on my Facebook. We watched Flashdance in German.
Maybe "fantastic" is an exaggeration. But at least we didn't have to worry about any children screaming, spilling on the couch or beating each other with a mini broom. Plus alone time with the spouse.

10:30pm. He went to bed. I wasn't tired so I watched the last episode of True Blood. And fell asleep. Because I WAS tired.

Midnight-10minutes. Chloé woke up. I told her to go to bed with Daddy.

Midnight. I went to bed. I spent the next three hours fighting for my place and pillow. I think Chloé just wanted to cuddle, but her cuddling was ... invasive.

3:30am? Mia came in the room whimpering. Crawled in beside Daddy (there was absolutely no room on either side of me, anyway). A few minutes later, Aidyn arrived. He wanted space beside me, but, as you know, there was none. I tried to comfort him but ended up passing him over the other two towards Daddy. He was having none of that. Daddy got up to get milk for the newcomers.

4am. After Aidyn expressed his discontent at having no room in the bed, I went with him to Chloé's bed. To no avail. He just cried and tried to escape. So we went to his room. Same. So I decided to give up and go into the living room and wait for him to get re-tired. A few minutes later we were joined by Mia and Daddy. Milk was doled out again. We were shortly joined by our first born. I sent Daddy to bed, since I knew that's what he wanted, and I'm better at having less sleep. I'm also more likely to kill the children in the night, but I thought we'd just have to risk it. Shortly after Chloé joined him.

4:45am or so. I took the annoying small people to Chloé's room. After at least 15 minutes of intense hair kneading and invasive cuddling (again), we all fell asleep. I proceeded to dream of a large bed with only me in it. It will apparently remain a dream for a long, long time.

7:40am. We are drawn out of the room by the light of day and threat of spouse to leave the house soon.

7:50am. Mia wants something and starts crying. Aidyn cries out of sympathy or because he wants the same thing and both feel the injustice of the world. Or at least the injustice of their parents. The day has begun.

The Moment

2011-08-10T16:10:00.001+02:00

This afternoon I was coloring mandalas with Chloé. Miraculously we were left alone by Mia and Aidyn for most of the time; apparently quality time spent with their sister is acceptable time away from me. Until they got hungry, then something else had to be done.

We colored to Cecilia and Colorful, Daddy I'm Fine and Drops of Jupiter. Phil Collins wrapped it up just before we had to cut pear and serve up some yogurt as a snack for colorers and pre-colorers alike.

I was thinking while coloring with all of these different pencils and crayons what a leap of faith it is to color a small space with a fat pencil or crayon. You put the utensil approximately where you think it should go and do your best to stay in the lines, only hoping where its bulk blocks your vision. And then when you do go outside the lines because the pencil was too fat or you were too impatient, you have to forgive yourself and find the beauty and uniqueness in the mistake. Faith in your own particular artistic genius.

It was a moment. Now it's over and they're screaming and crying in terror, I don't know why, maybe Aidyn is sitting on Mia's head, or maybe Chloé has forced Aidyn into the chair to have tea with her. Or maybe they're just frustrated and we'd better get the hell out of the house before we all implode and take the whole neighborhood with us.

Little Girls Lost

2011-08-07T23:47:00.000+02:00

Once we lost Chloé. One Saturday in Ikea. It wasn't really surprising: we'd been so remiss about keeping an eye on her for so long and she'd never disappeared, it was inevitable that at some point we would lose track of each other.

I used to get lost regularly in Ikea. Only recently have I memorized the flow: sofas, tables, shelves, dining, beds, desks, wait, is it beds then desks, or desks then beds? Well, anyway I can follow the arrows. And I stay away from the shortcuts.

We were looking at something for the kitchen. Maybe she didn't see us and thought we had moved on. So she moved on. When we finally looked around to check on her, she was gone. Not standing next to us, not in the next aisle. Not in the next section. I started to panic.

Luckily a couple in the mattress section (two over from the kitchen) wondered about the little girl wandering alone and asked her her name so they could announce it over the speaker. This I heard and ran to the mattresses to find my first lost child.

Yesterday we lost Mia. But not in Ikea. In Stuttgart. At our favorite restaurant with a closed (haha but not completely!) courtyard where the kids can run around a bit and play in the sand ("Strandbar") and parents can enjoy their lunch.

I was talking to a friend and her husband while Gaetan was off with Aidyn somewhere. Chloé was climbing around on my lap and on the bench. When Gaetan came back, I realized we hadn't seen Mia for a few minutes. "Where's Mia?" I asked. "I don't know," he responded. That's the kind of parents we are. We care, but, based on personal experience, sometimes we don't know.

Now our experience has changed.

We looked in the sand.

We looked on the stairs. On the other stairs. Under the tables.

We looked in the bathrooms and inside the restaurant. I started calling her. "MIA!"

I went out of the courtyard towards the street and subway entrance. "MIA! MIA!" Around the corner. My mind filed the fact that there were no police cars, ambulances or fire trucks marking an accident involving a very small person crushed or thrown by a car.

I ran back into the courtyard. "She's gone," Gaetan said. Cool. Calm. I wanted to scream, "WHAT!? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "she's gone"?! SHE'S NOT A BUCKET THAT'S GONE MISSING FROM THE SANDBOX, SHE'S OUR DAUGHTER!!!" but instead I walked through the courtyard to the other side, the square with the antique market. Nothing.

I walked back in to the restaurant calling her name. I swear I heard her whimpering at some point but it must have been an other kid because she wasn't there.

I ran back around the other side of the building, constantly calling her name. Into the subway station. Out of the subway station. A couple asked me if we were looking for our daughter. I said yes and she was very small and wearing a purple shirt.

I went back through the courtyard to the other side. "MIA!" I cried to the antique market. "MIA!" I heard called back. Heh? Some kid joking around? "MIA!" I called again. "MIA!" I heard again.

"MIA!" I screamed and looked in the direction of the returning call. "HERE!" yelled a woman waving her arm. SHIT, I thought, she was yelling "here!" not "mia!" and please please please let that be her.

I ran over, leaping over any obstacle that got in my way and there was my mini Mia. Not crying, not even looking worried, just standing there, holding this woman's hand. I grabbed her and fell on the ground with her and kissed her and held her and told her I loved her.

And meanwhile the woman who found her was telling me how good she (Mia) was and how I did a good job and I wish I had asked her what the hell she was talking about because either Mia was good because she trusted a total stranger or I was good because I let my child wander away. I don't know. I just wanted to take her back to the rest of the family and be on our way so I did and we were.

I suppose the morals of the story are:
A courtyard isn't closed unless it's closed.
You can't talk to friends when you have almost-two-year-old kids.
If your child tries to escape the playground, they'll try to escape a Biergarten. Or they may just be trying to pet a dog. Either way, they're gone.
My children definitely have at least one and possibly twelve guardian angels. But I don't know how reliable their charity is.

Out with the old, in with the new?

2011-07-11T15:28:00.000+02:00

I'm going to be 40 next year. I left the town I grew up in 22 years ago, and my home country 11 years ago. Almost everyone from my past is gone, and the ones who weren't gone are drifting [in a different direction than I am - or so it seems]. Everyone who is new is missing the past. They have no background info about how I tick. We share nothing but the present. How can they know me in such a short time? How can I know them?

I feel like I have nothing to hold on to. I slide up and down the the time line and watch the faces roll by. But none of us stops.

I went "home" - although the whole time I was there I referred to Germany as "home"- and all of my homesickness and yearning seemed to dissolve. Not dissolve -> disappear (through fulfillment, for example). Dissolve -> be absorbed into the environment, and myself. They weren't fulfilled at all, just decayed into tiny molecules that could hide among the atoms of everyday. And they're still there.

All of my prospects and memories are trapped in the past. I can't resuscitate them or reanimate them. They are no more. And all the music and dreams that call them are just futile shocks to my soul. I can't go back. I can't pretend to go back for a nanosecond. I can't even visit. The world has become new and and all that I have known and loved exists only in dismembered, scattered drops.

If I were to read this written by someone else, I'd likely tell them to stop whining and move on. But sometimes we are reminded of our losses and it helps to recount and mourn them. Don't you think?

Of cribs and beds

2011-07-05T23:57:00.000+02:00

After they spent three weeks of sleeping on beds without bars, we decided Mia and Aidyn were ready to move out of their cribs and into tiny beds.

Since then, we've questioned this decision.

Bedtime stretches from 8 to 8:30 and there's screaming involved: "AIDYN, go back to bed!" "MIA, what is WRONG?! Lay down and go to sleep!" Nobody wants to go to bed in the new bed.

The first night, Aidyn cried out at 2 am. I found him standing between his bed and the wall, screaming at the giraffe he couldn't see. Mia I almost stepped on trying to get to Aidyn. She had fallen out of her bed and not waken up, just continued to sleep on the floor between the beds. I felt terrible.

The past two nights have been the same story: Aidyn cries, Mia's on the floor sleeping. Aidyn does not want to sleep in this "new" (it's the same bed, just without the crib slats) bed when he wakes in the night, Mia does not want to go to sleep in the evening. (This may also be because it is pretty much daytime here at 8 pm when they are scheduled to go to sleep. Nighttime in Colorado looks different... Not to mention that we didn't exactly enforce the 8 pm bedtime on vacation.)

I hope they will get used to the new beds. Soon.

Looking back, I realize we did the same thing to Chloé: we returned from vacation and less than a month later we put her in her own room. New experiences, jet lag and insecurity issues be damned. Bad parents.

I don't know, maybe living through all the change, we feel inspired to change as much as we can. Take it to the limit. Live on the edge. Take charge of something in the chaos.

I'm sure they'll get through it, with a little time. My kids are trained at adapting to change. I do it to them everyday.

In the meantime, I'm practicing not sleeping. Again.

Alone

2011-04-27T16:56:00.000+02:00

Struggling away at my 23 in-progress posts, I realized that I had real news:

I'm ALONE. COMPLETELY alone. All three children are on a 5-day vacation with their grandparents 630 kilometers away from here!!

I can wake up whenever I want (which, unfortunately, is still 6:30am; old habits die hard), take a shower for as long as I want (which can be VERRRY long, hours even), wander aimlessly around town at 12 noon, have wine with lunch - and be able to enjoy it, walk out of the apartment to: get something from the cellar, buy wine next door (it's a wine shop, no worries), or just sit on the stairs if want, just like that.

Right. I don't know what to do with my time.

But that doesn't matter. It's MINE. For 3 years, 9 months and 29 days I haven't had time that belonged solely to me. And the last, let's say, 2 years and 2 months (counting the pregnancy in this one) have been fucking demanding on the time that used to be mine.

Don't get me wrong. I love the shit out of those kids. Pretty much every 1.7 minutes I think about one or all of them (happily these thoughts aren't bound to juice retrieval, diaper changing, yelling or similar). We skyped yesterday and it was great to see them. Aidyn launched himself at the computer (he really loves me). Apparently the grandparents had all three of them sitting picturesquely in front of the camera while their camera froze. Bummer. But it was fun and there were no tears here or there.

Let's face it, we all love each other and we're all enjoying our separate vacations. They get cookies every afternoon and Tractor Tom every evening and I get freedom. Oh, right, and don't forget the quality time with spouse. We went to a crêperie last night at the time we're usually tiptoeing down the hallway to keep the sleepers sleeping. And the night before we went to rent a movie from the 24-hour place, which we haven't done since...well, for almost 4 years. We can turn up the volume! Ignore the cat bouncing onto the door to get out in the middle of the night! Well, no, I can't. I am still getting up to threaten him with bodily harm and, finally, feed him.

Oh well. Life isn't perfect. You can't always get what you want, but sometimes, you get what you need. Like Mick sang.

Angels and demons

2011-04-13T03:35:00.000+02:00

Every time I post a picture of my children sleeping, everyone says something about how these are the moments that make us love our children. I understand this sentiment completely. While awake, these little devils can make our lives a nightmare: screaming, fighting, refusing to eat, taking everything out of the kitchen drawer, strewing dirt all over the balcony, hanging on us when we just want a brief moment alone, the list goes on and on. When they sleep, they do none of these things. They are magnificent in their silence and stillness.

But I think my favorite times with my children are when they are awake. When Mia and Aidyn are playing hide and seek with each other; when Mia walks into the room in her overalls and I realize she looks just like her cousin Asia when she was little - and like me; when Aidyn laughs out loud from being kissed on the neck; when Chloé says, doing her determined strut next to the stroller, "I can walk, Mammée (this is how she says it), reeeaaallly far. I can." And she does. When any of them looks at me and smiles. It's cliché, but true. When they're lying naked on the changing table and I can lean onto them and kiss their tiny lips and round cheeks and give them raspberries on the belly and yell "Naked baby! Naked baby!" and watch them squirm and hear them squeal.

My life in spring.

2011-04-03T22:21:00.000+02:00

Taking a break on the middle floor of the playground tree house.

Windows to my soul.

So beautiful, even in a bike helmet.

Up close with the Mia monster and her pink hat.

My Tiny Man.

There are tulips just growing on the side of the path. Just like that.

A chartreuse tree in front of an azure sky. Maybe this is my favorite season. At least on days like this.

Magnolia. Do these even exist in Colorado?

Just one magnolia bloom. They fascinate me. So big, so tough, so fuchsia.

Somebody's reading my blog!!!

2011-03-31T16:28:00.000+02:00

I was just reading the stats page. I feel inspired! Somebody gives a shit about what I'm saying! Or at least, somebody's accidentally calling up my blog, which gives them the opportunity to care about what I'm saying...

I'd better get working.

Parallel universes

2011-03-13T22:28:00.000+01:00

I was joking when I claimed to my dad that we couldn't live in multiple parallel universes simultaneously.
But now I think we can. Because I do.

Everything that happens in my brain cannot fit into this reality. It just can't. There are inconsistencies. Time lines change. The children are young, then old. The same event has different results. Do I live in a 3-bedroom apartment, or a 4-bedroom house on an acre of land?

THIS is why I can't throw away those bottles that Chloé didn't like and the twins are too old for. Or the clothes size 3-6 months. Or the half-dead plant. Or all those scarves. Someone somewhere sometime might need them.

I suppose this is my effort at not moving on. I am generally obsessed with moving on. I say, if it's in the past, it's done. Continue into the future with another lesson learned.

Except where I can imagine an existence with some object, I can't let it go. It's become a part of me. A carcinogenic parasite with claws. Together and apart we live as mothers and writers, happy and sad, here and there, alone and the center of the universe.

So in the end I can't move on. I can't even take a step. Not even a baby step. I trip every time. I'm surrounded by clutter and treasure and dust and gold and laughter and sorrow and sweet dreams and nightmares. They stall my passage.

But in which reality? All of them? Or just one? Is it my denial of the multiplicity that hinders me? Should I close my eyes and allow my hands to move whatever obstacles are identified by my mind in whatever world it ponders?

Maybe. It's disheartening to imagine so many futures in so many lives and nothing in this one.

Beloved Reader,

2011-02-27T23:02:00.000+01:00

I just want you to know that I am working on several posts. They mean a lot to me and I can't wait to share them with you.
But my life keeps getting in the way. I can't find the time (and when I find the time, there's no energy) to get it written. The children, the cats, the laundry, exercise, organizing the family trip in June, Facebook (I admit it, it gets done first, but it's quick and low quality), the curtains (still not hung) and housework (only the bare minimum) have come first. And 25th.
It's killing me. I want to write. I MUST FIND A WAY.
Until then, I remain,
Your RC

Those pesky thoughts

2011-02-05T06:05:00.000+01:00

It's 3:30 again. Oh, no.

I had a thought yesterday that maybe I was at peace with my life and myself since I was able to sleep through the night after my last 3:30am wake up (or, as through the night as is possible with three small children and two asshole cats). But I guess I was just really tired.

Because here I am again, kept from sleep by these pesky thoughts.

I can't even imagine summer. A time when my feet and hands aren't cold, when I can slip on my flip flops to go outside, when I don't have to struggle Mia and Aidyn into four layers of clothing to leave the house. When the sun will bleach out the carrot and tomato stains. When I don't have two hours of dark in the morning (or five on an early day like today). When we don't have to readjust the car seats every other time for coat volume.

I've discovered what "blog" really stands for. It's an acronym: Baggage Left Online (un)Guarded. This is where we leave those briefcase bombs waiting to go off in our psyche. Our issues, problems, scars from the past, we shove them into a box and hope they won't escape. But now, with blogs, we can open the box in cyberspace, freeing ourselves (hopefully; those issues have a funny way of finding home no matter where you leave them), assuming that our past isn't hazardous to others.

Today is writer's group. I wanted to rewrite the crap I wrote for last time and continue the story. But I haven't done it. Nor have I finished reading the story I'm supposed to critique. Guilt all around.

I want to write. But after a day of being a mother my words seem to hide. Or I'm just so tired I can't find them. Sometimes something inspires me, but usually my evening is just writer's block and Dexter or The Mentalist.

Waah.

Frustration

2011-01-27T23:40:00.000+01:00

I always love listening to my 80s music. I am transported.

Nostalgia.

But every time, I ask myself, what do I miss? The 80s? My life? Me? What do I wish I still had from then? Is it the music? The friends? The innocence?

I think it's the simplicity. But not the simplicity of the time; the simplicity of our age. We were teenagers. No, I don't mean to say that this is an easy time. It's a horrible time: full of change, uncertainty, fear, emotion. We're so overwhelmed by life, and by ourselves, everything seems like a huge hurdle, and we either want to cower before it or destroy it. That's the simplicity: it's all about me. MY fear, MY emotion, MY hurdle. And although I don't know what to do with these things, I have a certain power. Teachers, parents, adults want to make up my mind, but in the end it's ME and I decide.

No, it's not simple then. But it looks simple now, looking back.

*Although it's hard to say, really. Because we always remember good times, even when the times weren't good. Especially when there are enough years between then and now. And between now and the 80s, there are a lotta years.*

We just watched The Big Chill, whose German title is The Big Frustration. The title seemed appropriate, watching it as an adult. The Frustration of Now. Now vs. Then.

As teenagers, and much more in college, we discovered ourselves. We chose who we wanted to be. We fought for our new-found identity. We were sure that we knew who we were.

But then, some years later, we found ourselves in relationships. It was no longer about ME. It was about US. And we said NO! We are not WE. I will always be ME. I am not US. And then he left. Hmph.

So we gargled the WE and then found ourselves parents. No discussion there, it's no longer about ME. It's not even about US. It's about THEM. Shit. So we ask ourselves: Who the hell am I?! I was going to change the world. I looked at the man in the mirror. I was, I was.

But now all we do is keep everyone else happy. Not at our own expense, maybe, but we've put all of our wishes, our hopes, our dreams, our EARTH-SHATTERING GOOD INTENTIONS on a back burner so that we could have a family. So where does that leave ME?!

Stripped of our privacy and without a world to save. Okay, maybe we don't want to save the world, but we'd like to relax a little. Have a drink, dance to some 80s music. SLEEP. Have an opinion that has nothing to do with feeding, raising or tolerating a toddler. ENJOY LIFE. It can't all be about self-sacrifice.

Optimistic me is sure that it's not. But I'm still not sure who the hell I am or what the hell I want to do with myself. And I DO know that I don't have time to figure it out at the moment. Maybe next year...

The Light

2011-01-15T20:38:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, instead of again trekking the main shopping strip here in Stuttgart and eating at our semi-comfortable regular restaurant, the wee ones (the two wee-est since Big Sis was at school) and I walked an extra, I don't know, kilometer (after walking about 2 kilometers), to eat at a café which was listed on the web as "child friendly." I'm pretty sure they claimed the existence of a play area and high chairs.

Was I disappointed? No. Mia and Aidyn ate a good lunch in relative peace. Because of the high chairs they made available to me? No. Mia sat on my lap and Aidyn sat on the bench next to the table. I don't know, maybe they were just hungry. My food was great - and I was able to eat it in relative peace. Because of the fantastic play area with all the latest toys for 15-month-olds? No. No play area. But since the café was EMPTY and we were sitting on a step that they could go up and down (and up and down and up and down) and near a ramp which they could go down and up (and down and up), they were occupied long enough with little effort from me that I could enjoy my food. My only regret is that I didn't have a glass of wine with lunch. But I always hate when things deteriorate into chaos (which is not unusual) and I'm sitting there sipping wine. What a mom.

But all in all the café experience was a good one. I also learned that they have Sunday jazz brunch, which sounds intriguing. But given its real-life non-child-friendliness, I think we'll have to wait a few years.

The moral of the story? We're not at the end of the story yet. But the moral to the first part is maybe: Don't believe everything you read on the internet.

What I loved most yesterday was that we took a new path. I love new paths. Even if the stuff there is not terribly different from stuff I've seen before, it doesn't matter. It's SOMEWHERE ELSE. And this was really different. I have no problem with window shopping and wishing for material things, but at some point it gets old. I left the shopping zone to find streets lined by monster stone buildings from the 19th century. Of course, I knew those streets and buildings were there, I'd just gotten so used to looking at books and clothes and shiny jewelry that I wasn't aware of all the little businesses at the bottoms of those finely carved monoliths. (Okay I'm sounding like the shallowest of the shallow but this is where habit gets you.) An ad agency, a shop selling a local artist's jewelry, an art gallery. It was inspiring! This was where people were sharing their creations with the world. And I realized that I wanted to create things and share them. I want to create, forge, build, launch! Take my ideas and make them real, then display them for everyone to see.

I realize the naiveté of these thoughts. But honestly when you feel like you're drowning in the obligations of your life, whether they're job or children or friends or whatever, it feels good to get lost in inspiration and see the illumination of your buried passions.

I was so hyped when I got home, I just wanted to talk about it all evening. But of course I got derailed by bath time and dinner and bedtime stories. And he doesn't get it anyway. He's got the job he likes and the family he loves, and and that's enough. He's not pursuing a dream, he's enjoying what he's got. The dreaming is my job.

Yesterday's little adventure was my light. Now I see where I want to go. It could be my New Year's resolution but instead I'm just going to do it.

The secret life of blogging?

2010-10-18T11:28:00.000+02:00

A friend and successful blogger told me this weekend that a blog is not a diary: it is not where you share your most personal experiences with everyone, his brother and his dog (if his dog happens to be online). In a blog you have something to offer, something to teach, the reader can walk away enriched in some way by your words.

I'm not so sure.

This morning I was confronted with an ad for [another!] reality show. Bret Michaels, Life As I Know It. You know, the guy from Poison? So I moused over the ad to see the preview and thought, Why?? Who cares about this guy and his life? Because he was famous, I assume. We see people in the news, on TV, on stage and we want to know more! But at some point we lose interest in their faces, bodies or voices, and they (hopefully for them) realize this and either get out or do something new. Maybe they recognize the demand from our voyeurism and start a reality show!

Fair enough.

But what about Big Brother? Or The Biggest Loser? Or The Hills (etc.)? (I don't know if this last is considered a reality show but it looks like one and has had the same effect.) Some Nobody exposes their personal life on television and gets famous.

Now I'm not prepared to do an analysis of the sociopolitical effects of reality shows in the second decade of the new millennium. But I'd like to know: is this what we want? To root into people's personal lives, know their secrets and their failures? Why? To feel better about ourselves? Or is it just curiosity? The insatiable desire to know things just because they're on the internet or television?

I do not know. But with this I come back to my friend's statement. Are blogs the proper venue for discussion of our personal lives?

Why not? It seems to be where the audience's interest lies. Sure, they should be well written, since reading is so more work than watching (therefore we are more willing to watch crap than read it). And it can't hurt to have a moral or informative aspect so that readers can apply this intimate knowledge to their own lives.

But I think that in the end, we just want to know about other people's lives. Hopefully not just out of Schadenfreude, but so that we can learn more about our own.

And besides, we bloggers love to write - and our own lives are our best source of material.

Fall festivity

2010-10-11T21:39:00.000+02:00

It was kids' day yesterday (but isn't every day?). We went to another Fest, this time the Jugendfarm Kastanienfest. They did it all: pony riding, paint spinning, bread baking (over an open fire), climbing of insubstantial constructions, the ever-present Wurst, and lighting something on fire so that they could put the fire out.
It was fun.

There was a tiny spider on the back of the saddle. I barely got her off the horse.

International Velvet.

Looking down from one of those insubstantial constructions. I don't know if there were nails and garbage up top, I never went up there. But there was plenty underneath.

Fire! Fire! First we got smoked by all the manure and garbage they put in, then we were nearly charred by the flames. Finally a light shower, just in case we were also alight.

All in all a fun day. Fun with friends, fun with food, fun with fire. What more could we ask for?

Falling

2010-10-10T22:50:00.000+02:00

This is the park near our house. There are still flowers blooming amidst the changing leaves. So we have green grass, yellow tree, red bush, purple and yellow flowers. I love when it's colorful.

Chloé in the park. Not colorful, but the falling leaves mark the season.

The dying leaves have taken up residence on the steps.

The church next door. With lamppost, Chloé and dying leaves.

Downtown Kornwestheim, metropolis that it is. But that doesn't matter since they have chosen such fantastic fall trees for this walking street.

I loved this picture in the camera, and I love it even more on the screen. A park bench, a brilliant yellow tree, a lamp on a path in the park. Such beauty surrounds me.

Eat, Pray, Love. Please.

2010-09-27T17:41:00.000+02:00

I went to see the movie "Eat Pray Love" the other day and it's taken me a couple of days to realize that I'm completely dissatisfied by it.

First (and maybe least important). Why was she blond? Was it important to the story? I didn't understand any reason for her to be blond. Maybe the real Liz is blond, but does that affect the story? I felt like I didn't see the character, just blond Julia Roberts. If she had been brunette, I would have accepted her as the character, but she remained the actress for me.

Second. "I don't have to love you to prove that I love myself." Okay, I can understand reluctance to start a new relationship when she's spent so much time and energy learning to NOT be in a relationship. Ultimately it's her decision - that's part of that learning-to-love-yourself. But she doesn't make the decision to be in love with Felipe. She decides to go back to New York and be miserable with herself (I guess). It's not until she's two hours from her plane and she's saying good-bye to Ketut that HE tells her, essentially, not to be stupid and go be in love. I thought the lesson here was empowerment, not look for your power and then hand it to someone else once you've found it.

Third. She's in a taxi driving madly through a dirty, hazy, overpopulated chaos that is India. She sees children digging in garbage and begging at her window when the taxi stops. Then the taxi drives through a gate into tranquility - the ashram. This is where she can sit in peace and quiet to reflect and meditate. So she finds peace...in an oasis of peace. Wow. Well done. I'd be more interested in a peace won in that chaotic world. That's the peace we have to fight for every day.

One thing I DID like about the movie were her no-sex male relationships in the first two parts. I find this a significant part of her search for self-awareness. She was not pursuing a relationship and did not fall into one. For someone who "has not been out of a relationship for more than two weeks since [she] was 15," (loosely quoted) that's not an easy accomplishment. I loved that she made friends and discovered new interests. A great start.

Caught!

2010-09-23T10:00:00.000+02:00

Mia and Aidyn already know when they're doing something wrong. I hear them giggling in the hallway and so go around the corner to see what they are doing. I'm greeted by two screeches and two babies suddenly scrambling on all fours in two different directions. On the floor I see the two spoons from the diaper bag, a toy from the diaper bag and a jacket. Hmm...What were they doing? Nothing seems amiss. I'm left wondering.

I just caught them eating a page from one of Gaetan's comics. They didn't seem at all phased that I found them doing this, even after my cry of "NO!".

Maybe their sense of guilt isn't refined enough to know what's illegal and what's not.

Wiedersehen

2010-08-30T14:05:00.000+02:00

I've been thinking of the first time I saw Chloé after Mia and Aidyn were born. It was in the hospital after I hadn't seen her for four days. I felt like someone had teleported six kilos (13 lbs) out of my belly and just left everything else inside to find its way back to its normal position (which is pretty much what happened). My belly felt heavy in all the wrong ways. I could walk but not far and my two babies were being cared for on the other side of the hospital. I was pumping milk every three hours hoping to avoid a Milchstau. Even at night, although I'd been sleeping poorly for months and was so tired that I sometimes felt like I was in a fog.

She came in slowly, holding her best friend Benno's hand. I imagined they had told her she would see her mommy but she wasn't sure she believed it. She seemed to hesitate, let the grownups come in first. As she came through the door, she saw me, but remained shy, and took another couple of slow steps, still holding Benno's hand. Then she seemed to decide that I was real and she ran up to me.

I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her into my lap. Her grandmother tried to scold her but I just shook my head. Then the tears came. Feeling her skin, her hair, her weight, I couldn't stop them. I looked at her face and smiled to reassure her. I kissed her cheek and hugged her head to my chest. "Oh, my Chloé. My Chloé. My Chloé. I missed you." I smiled at her again. I kissed her again.

But she was so BIG. A GIANT. Her head was huge. She was tall. Her hands were nearly as big as mine. Was she this big when I left on Saturday?? I thought. But of course she was. I'd been looking at two brand-new people for four days. And even their three kilos were, thankfully, tiny bodies. Compared to this little girl of two years and four months, they were minuscule. Or she was a giant.

I wish I had a picture of her on that day. To remember this feeling. But a picture wouldn't capture the feeling. She didn't really look any different from the Friday before I left, or the Saturday I went home from the hospital, or the Thursday the babies came home. And I have these photos. It was one of the most emotional moments of our lives, and we can only capture this in our minds and our hearts and, hopefully, our words.

Ausgesperrt

2010-08-25T15:31:00.000+02:00

OMG.
Oh. My. God.
OH MY FUCKING GOD.
My ever-well-behaved three-year-old just locked me out of the apartment.
Obviously it's turned out okay and the "just" implies that I didn't have to wait for Gaetan to come home in the evening to discover me still shaking with rage on the balcony. But it was an alarming five minutes.
I suppose my mistake was telling her NOT to close the door. Presumably she wouldn't have thought of it if I hadn't alerted her to the opportunity.
Let's back up a little. Our balcony has two doors, one from the living room and one from Chloé's room. Normally in the summer (when the weather acts like summer, anyway), both doors are open and the air and inhabitants of the apartment are free to move about between indoors and out. But at the moment the balcony is off-limits because 1) the babies are not allowed out on the balcony because they a) dig in the flower pots and b) eat every bit of garbage, leaves and dirt they can get their hands on, and 2) one of the cats fell down a hole in the roof yesterday...right, that story doesn't belong to this post. At any rate, there's a hole in the balcony that we don't need the cats to jump into. So the balcony doors remain closed.
The door from the living room was tilted (open from the top - the only way to open the door is from the inside, close it and turn the handle) and I left through Chloé's room to hang the laundry out on the balcony. "Do NOT lock this door," I said as I pulled the door closed (but so that I could push it open from outside). As I hung clothes on the other side of the balcony, I heard the soft clunk of the handle being turned into the downward, locked position.
I didn't panic. This had happened before. I walked over to her closed and now locked door.
"Chloé," I said loudly (since the door was closed - I wasn't yet angry) and firmly. "Open the door."
She shook her head.
"Chloé." More firmly. "Open the door NOW."
She shook her head.
Now I was starting to panic. "Chloé! Open the goddamn door NOW!"
She shook her head. Calmly. Went back to looking at her book.
I breathed, loudly. Paced twice to the other door and back, possibly to be sure that it was really not open.
Not open.
I pounded on her door. "Chloé! Open this door!"
She shook her head.
"I can't get in! Do you want me to wait out here until Daddy comes home?!"
A nod.
Fuck.
"What if something happens? If the babies fall, I can't get to you!"
Stare.
Try another angle. "Okay, if you want your door closed, open the other door. I don't care. Just open a door."
Shake.
Scheisse. Fuck.
I paced a few more times. Wondered what I was really going to do if left out on the balcony in my pyjamas all day.
I went back to the door. I was about to lose it. "Chloé, if you open this door now, I won't be mad. If you don't open it now, I'm going be FUCKING PISSED and you're going to be in BIG FUCKING TROUBLE later!" At the periphery of my fear was what the neighbors were thinking of me screaming curses at my kid.
Shake of the head.
Breathe. Breathe. How do you reason with a three-year-old?
"Listen, Chloé, I'm serious." I tried to sound calm and, you know, reasonable. "Something could happen and I can't help you if I can't get in." Pause. "I mean it, if you open the door now, I won't be mad. Just let me in."
She stared at me for a few seconds then put her book down and came to the door. I could see in her face that she had conditions she wanted met but didn't have the language to voice them. Just as well.
She turned the handle and then threw herself back onto her bed. I took a few deep breaths and sat down next to her. "Chloé, like I said, I'm not mad. You let me in and that's what's important. But if you EVER do that again and try to lock me out, I'm going to be VERY mad. And I'm going to fix the doors so that you can't open and close them like that. Big girls like you are able to open and close the doors but if you can't let me in when I ask you to, then I guess you're not big enough. Okay?" I waited. "Do you understand?" She glared at me but didn't say anything. Close enough. "You know, if the problem is that you want to be left alone, you can tell me that, and you can shut your door and sit by yourself for a while. Okay? Just let me know."
Who knows what I might be letting myself in for with that last offer, but I felt like I needed to give her a little support as a "big girl." I don't know precisely how to fix the doors but I have friends who (apparently) can't trust their children and they've changed the handles so that they aren't tall enough to turn them. I had thought (or hoped) that I wouldn't have to do that, that I could trust Chloé not to be stupid. But she IS only three. How much can we expect?

What I learned today

2010-07-18T21:50:00.000+02:00

When the 3-year-old tells you she washed her hands, don't wait for water to pour out of the bathroom before making sure the faucet has been turned completely off.

A foot can be a very long distance for a potty learner.

Two quiet babies could be ...
..emptying the bottle of sunscreen on themselves, the floor and the contents of the diaper bag.
..under the table contentedly tearing apart and chewing up a kleenex.
..eating kitty litter (thank goodness I just cleaned the box).
..discovering the tactile joy of digging in the flower pot. And discovering the flavor of marigolds.

Bibs are useless with babies who stick their fingers in their mouths and then grab their pants, feet and hair. And then chew on the back of the chair.

Even a fall of two centimeters can be fatal for a juice bottle.

It takes 3 minutes and 23 seconds to put all of the DVDs back on the shelves.

Fuchsia crepe paper turns little wet fingers and lips fuchsia.

The sun bleaches out carrot and tomato stains. But you still have to wash them first.

Toddlers understand everything you tell them, they just don't want you to know it.

My daughter is manipulating me with her little round baby eyes.

My son has his father's puppy-dog eyes. And he's manipulating me, too.

What did you learn today?

Mom

2010-07-12T21:00:00.001+02:00

I'm a mom.

But that's not all I am.

At least in theory. In reality it's difficult to be much else. Like the workaholic who defines his life by his job, the mother has a job that becomes her life - the fullest-time job, a job that she loves without limit despite the pain and anxiety it occasionally brings.

Maybe I should specify that I am a mother of small children, and possibly mothers of older children would claim that because of the reduction of their working hours they find the time to be something more than a mom. To find their selves. The rest of the self that got left behind with the birth of their children.

I mean, their children can walk, feed and clothe themselves, go to school. So much!

But what happens after that - when they start dating, driving, drinking? Then the maternal anxiety returns.

If it ever went away. Because that is the hardest part of being a mom: the worry. We worry about what could happen. We worry about what the children are doing, and what they're not doing. We worry that we're not doing enough, or that we're doing too much. The responsibility is the proverbial weight on our shoulders, and even the most caring of husbands and fathers aren't able to carry a part of this weight.

So who are we moms? Is it different for the stay-at-home-mom than for the working mom? You know, you Rabenmütter, abandoning your children to pursue your own interests (right, or the survival of your family). Sometimes I envy you. But not too often. You have the job that ends at 5pm, but you still have the job that never ends waiting for you at home.

Is it different to be a mother of one? Two? Four? Twins? Triplets? What about when your children are 30 and getting married and having their own children? How are we moms then?

I guess I'll have to wait a few years to find out.

Chloéspeak

2010-07-05T20:46:00.000+02:00

Just a few Chloé-isms (keeping in mind that this is her speaking to me, not to her dad):

Est-ce que daddy's coming?

Benno hurt sur le doigt.

I want auch juice dans my cup.

Maman auch. Maman too.

I cannot.

I too.

Mommy auch is big.

Qu'est-ce que tu mach?

Est-ce que tu fais des courses? Est-ce que tu fa- go shopping?

Poop de chien.

Lunch

2010-06-12T21:49:00.000+02:00

Ahhh! Ahhh!
I'm so hungry! It feels like my stomach is slowly disintegrating due to an overabundance of acid. But all I can say is 'ahhh!'
Look! She's getting the spoon. And she's going to the frig. We should get something soon.
Yeah at least this time she didn't just put us in these chairs and leave us here.
Well, you know, all she hears is 'ahhh!' so I imagine it's hard to tell what we're saying. Even I don't know what I'm crying about sometimes!
I've started chewing on her chin between screams when she picks me up. That's a clear sign of hunger, I'd say.
Good idea! I'll have to try that. Ahhh! Where's the goddamn food?! How long does it take to heat up a bowl of carrots?
She's still making milk to go with it, so it takes longer. I was drinking it just to make her happy but I think maybe this time I'll pass. Eventually she'll get the picture. We don't want milk, just FOOD!
Okay! Here she comes. She's sitting down...Hey wait! ME FIRST! Aahhh!
Ahhh! One spoon?! Come on! I said I was HUNGRY!
Ahhh! I've got carrot stuck in my throat! Drink! I need a drink! NO! No more carrot. Drink!
Oh yeah. I love this orange juice. Way better than water.
Where the hell is MY orange juice? Ahh!
Damn, it's hard to keep this stuff in my mouth. My tongue just keeps rolling it out the front.
I know! Open your mouth a little wider. That helps.
Hey, lady, give me that spoon. I'm taking over. GIVE-ME-THAT-SPOON. Ahh!
No! Don't wipe him off! Feed ME! He doesn't care if he's got carrots all over his hands and up his nose!
Of course I care. But I'd rather eat. And SOMEONE needs to take over that spoon. She really doesn't know her business.
Okay. I think I'm about done. I'm feeling very heavy...and sticky. How about another drink? No, bleh, bleh, no more food. Drink. YES. Thank you.
And now the milk...No thanks, lady, I'm done.
Yeah, I don't want any milk, either.
Now what do we do? She's looking at us like she doesn't know what to do..
I don't know...Smile at her? That usually works.
Okay!

Mom: Hey my happy babies! Are you done?

Thank you

2010-06-12T21:21:00.001+02:00

Dear Writers Group,

Thank you so much for your support and enthusiasm. I've had (for me) a very productive day today. This afternoon we discussed what we needed to do around the house to help me reconnect with my environment. Then I promptly went about removing cobwebs and organizing my vanity. He cleaned out the cupboard so that we can find the baby food without undue search and stress. Tomorrow we'll continue with the decluttering of the living and baby rooms.

And just as important as my conquests in the tangible world, I wrote today. So special thanks to Liz for giving us those minutes of free time to write about ANYTHING. It might be crap, but it filled a few lines of paper and released some words stuck in their [imaginary? at any rate protean] box.

I'm crying now.

But that's alright. My emotions rarely stay in their box. Maybe my words should take a lesson...

With love, your
RC

So now I'm off to write some more stuff for you, fair Reader, and for me. So stay tuned.

2010-04-09T13:54:00.003+02:00

This is the third time I've accompanied Chloé to her room, pulled down the blinds halfway and told her she could play a little but to go to sleep for a while. And it's worked! She played for about 3 minutes and then went to sleep. Wow. It makes me wonder if I could have spared myself all those times I held her in my arms in a dark room singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" over and over - or did we have to go through that to get here?

Generally, though, Chloé is a good sleeper. The first year of her life she woke up every two hours in the night and only slept for brief intervals during the day, but once we established a single day nap, she slept, wherever we were. Even at a friend's house, much to the despair of the other mother whose son wouldn't sleep a wink and would kick and scream until let out of his room.

Mia and Aidyn seem to be following the same pattern: a few mini sleeps a day now. Unfortunately by the time they've established their afternoon nap time, Chloé won't be sleeping at all anymore. Luckily I don't need much sleep...

Mobilization

2010-03-25T16:44:00.002+01:00

Mia has started rolling. Unfortunately she only rolls in one direction and so is a victim of Newton's First Law: an object will continue to move in the same direction unless acted upon by an outside force (the DVDs, the couch, Aidyn's head).

The two of them kick each other, steal each other's toys, hold hands, hug. But it all seems unintentional, good or bad. Either way I want to foster friendship. Right now they're looking at each other and cooing enthusiastically. That's encouraging.

Mia is also getting her first tooth. As I probably mentioned in posts about Chloé, this is VERY early for our family. But at any rate, I don't know whether to attribute her periodic discontent to teething or just general infant grouchiness. So I give her the homeopathic sugar balls [placebo??], a cuddle and her binky. She calms down for a few minutes and she's off again.

Interrupted

2010-03-09T08:08:00.000+01:00

This was my night.

"Waah!" Baby #1. Alarm clock says 1:07.

Then "Waah!" Baby #2.

Milk all around.

Back to bed. All four of us (daddy included).

"oooaaaiiihhh." Baby #1 is...singing.

Love-love-love. Baby #1 is sleeping.

Baby #2 is coughing.

Into the baby room. Salt water in the nose. Seems better. No need for cough medicine.

Back to bed.

Sleep!

Am I asleep? Possibly.

Door slamming. Pitter-patter-pitter-patter. Our door opening. Slamming. Pitter-patter-pitter-patter. Toddler into the bed.

I am no longer sleeping.

I might be sleeping.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. On the bed. The cat.

Oh-my-fucking-Christ. Someone's gonna die. Felinicide (?) is probably not a crime, relatively speaking.

Instead the cat gets thrown out of the room. Door closed. No cat, no crime.

I might be sleeping.

"Wehn, wehn." Baby #1. Not a cry, just a whimper.

Binky to the rescue.

Baby #1 is sleeping.

I'm sleeping.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. On the door.

FUCKING CAT.

Cat is thrown into the hallway. Door closed.

Again. And again.

I am sleeping.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. On the door. Alarm clock says 5:45.

Daddy gets up.

I am sleeping. Until 6:15.

The day has begun again.

Now is Now, Part 2

2010-02-21T15:44:00.003+01:00

I know what I'm talking about here. Two and a half years ago I tried to have my first baby "naturally" and she just wouldn't come out. Labor failed to progress.

Four months ago I experienced the same thing. After about twelve hours of what I felt were fairly uncomfortable contractions, the midwife and doctor told me again that labor wasn't progressing and we needed stronger contractions. My mind said, "Uuhhh, stronger?" My head nodded and my mouth smiled and said, "Okay." A few hours later we hadn't come very far (a centimeter?) and decided on an epidural. A few hours after that I had a fever of 40° C (104° F) and the doctor said, "Okay, let's take them out." So much for natural.

Not long after that I was lying on the operating table looking over at the two babies they had surgically removed from my body. Neither was moving or crying and they were pumping air into the first one and bouncing the other around. The first one had blue feet. I thought, "Yeah, blue is not right." But I had a high fever and was numb from the waist down, what could I do? After a few minutes they put the little girl on my chest so my attention was focussed on her. She seemed okay to me. But then they were both taken to children's intensive care and I went to operative intensive care because we all had an infection of some sort and they weren't breathing properly.

They let me go to the maternity ward later that day but the babies stayed in intensive care for two and a half weeks. Not because they were too small or too young like many twins; they were each three kilos and it was two days before the due date. Because they got sick in the womb. He breathed some baby shit [meconium] and needed a while to get it all out and get his lungs in shape. She needed a little care but mostly stayed because he stayed.

I was wheeled down to them the first few days and sauntered over the next few to bring pumped milk and visit for minutes or hours, depending on the state of things there. Then I moved into a room near the ward for a week and a half to easily visit and nurse. And bond, assumably.

But it was very difficult to find my place in their lives there. The nurses are the moms, making the decisions and giving the care. Like I said, I nursed. And not always. Half of the time they were fed before I got there. And nights were incredibly difficult since they were uneasy at night, eating often and not sleeping well, and I was so tired from the last months of twin pregnancy and the 24 hours of labor (not to mention the subsequent illness) that I fell asleep some nights at 7:30 and let them feed them until early morning.

Now four months later we're a big mostly happy family at home. One baby has slept through the night several times, the other sleeps in at least three hour intervals. We nursed well for two months. Then I got lazy (honestly nursing twins is not the picnic that it is with one baby...but more on that in another post) and now they're getting mostly industrial milk and some breast milk.

They smile and laugh. They kick and grab and roll. They only cry when they're hungry and when they're frustrated. They are good, happy babies. In spite of all the "unnatural" influences and the intervention of modern medicine.

The new me

2010-02-01T20:46:00.003+01:00

Actually it's the same organizationally-challenged me as before, but with a goal. That's right, I've got a Goal. An Objective. A Plan.

Well, "plan" is going a little overboard. Just ask Gaetan; he thinks the words "plan" and "I," spoken by me, don't belong in the same sentence.

But I digress.

In our writers' group a couple of weeks ago, we set goals. It was great. Little goals, big goals, near goals, far goals. Realistic goals, unrealistic goals. You get the picture.

So a few of my goals were about blogging. This blog. Writing something, ANYTHING, in this blog.

Thank goodness someone has taken charge and kicked me in the butt.

Thank goodness that person was me.

Again, digression. But really, as the title states, this post is about ME so we'll all just have to get through the digression and babbling.

My first goal is to inform you, Reader, that I will be posting regularly. Of course, "regularly" could be once a year, but I'm going for at least every two weeks, hopefully every week. Really I have enough stuff to write every day, but my organization and time-management dysfunction restricts me.

I'll be writing quite a bit about my family life with three children, two cats and one husband. I'll try to get some cultural commentary in. And I'll try not to be too positive, too negative, too hostile or too kind. Or I'll be all of those.

I look forward to sharing with you! So much has happened recently, I hardly know where to start. Probably in the middle. I'm sure it will be soul searching and soul soothing for all of us.

If you should feel compelled to comment at any time, please do! We'll interact. It'll be great.

Til next time...

Now is now

2009-10-20T11:25:00.000+02:00

I've been reading a lot about giving birth lately, and I find it funny to hear again and again how disappointed women are to not be able to give birth "naturally" (and this refers to everything from painkillers or epidural to induction to c-section). A new opportunity for disappointment with twins is to not have the chance to bond with the first baby before the second one comes (or even if the second one isn't imminently on the way, and the doctor takes the first quickly to do all the necessary health checks).

And I have to say, "Huh?!" I'm sure it's lovely to have that first bonding session, to attempt nursing, to just check each other out, but isn't the health and safety of the baby priority? I had my first by c-section and although they were so thoughtful as to put her up next to my head for about 10 seconds, I didn't see her again for 2 hours. And we seem to have bonded alright. Nursing went fine. So I have to say that although those first few minutes can be an emotional and relaxing time, they are a luxury that you may not get depending on the circumstances.

Women should be careful of disappointment because it can easily lead to depression. If the birth hasn't gone as you expected, it's important to accept the outcome and enjoy your baby as you would if you'd pushed him out yourself. It's not "unnatural" birth. It's modern. Live in the now. We're lucky to have so many possibilities to get through this extreme situation without (or with very limited) danger to us and our babies.

Nine months ago

2009-10-08T13:47:00.006+02:00

Nine months ago we thought, "Hey, let's have another baby. It's what we want. We can do it." Chloé was a year and a half old, that would make the age difference two years and three months, the same as between my sister and me. Chloé was a good baby: happy, healthy, more or less agreeable.

So we did what we had to do to instigate this plan, and low and behold, we were instantly (well, within one month) successful! I pretty much knew I was pregnant when I didn't get my period, and a pregnancy text confirmed it, albeit with a weak positive. I also started to feel other common symptoms. But one didn't strike me until later: I was incredibly hungry, and I had to eat all the time, or else collapse in energylessness. They say, though, that every pregnancy is different, and you can't compare the second to the first. So I figured, that's how it is this time. Okey-dokey.

So I made an appointment with my gynecologist, for two weeks later. During those two weeks I somehow managed to instill in myself the fear that I wasn't pregnant at all (recalling the home pregnancy test) and was just having a freak month. Looking back, I have no idea how I did this. I was so nervous at that appointment that I checked the pregnancy test in the garbage in the lab to make sure that my doctor wasn't going to laugh at me in the next few minutes. Alas I saw a firm positive. Whew!

So into the doctor's office I went, was congratulated and then brought to the dignity-eradicating stirrupped chair to allow the doctor to search for a tiny embryo implanted in my uterus. I have to say: my doctor LOVES ultrasounds. In the books I read, they try to document pregnancy without ultrasound unless there's some problem they don't understand. Not so for me. I'm ultrasounded every time I walk into the exam room. Maybe it's because I have private rather than state health insurance..?

At any rate, on we went to the ultrasound - internal, of course. Still relatively innocuous compared with some of the stuff done in a gynecologist's office. She's maneuvering her wand around (yikes) and we're both watching the screen. As a layman I don't feel particularly comfortable reading and commenting on what appears on that screen, and I know that with every movement of the wand, what you see changes. So when I saw two darker areas about a centimeter in diameter, I thought, oh, shit, two?! and then, no, it's just the same one twice. Until I saw her looking at me with a funny little smile as she asked, "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" and I thought again, shit.

Apparently it was two. At that point I started to feel a little suffocated. But I was stuck on that table fixed by a wand attached to the machine with the screen displaying those two dark areas. Trapped. So I tried to breathe. "There are two. Congratulations," my ever-considerate doctor said.

Breathe, I reminded myself.

"This is good - here you see they each have their own amniotic sac and Dudelsack," she tells me. Dudelsack? Did she say "Dudelsack?" German for "bagpipe?" My two new dark spots have their own bagpipes? So I can expect some hardcore Scottish tunes in the next months?

"Is it okay that the white areas are different sizes?" I asked. They were. I was trying to concentrate. Surely she didn't say "Dudelsack."

"Yes - you can see the Dudelsacks are the same size, so I think that won't have any effect on the embryo." It still sounded a lot like Dudelsack. Focus. "This is good. They both have their own environment and their own placenta, she continued. "So there are fewer complications and a better chance for survival for both."

So definitely two sets of bagpipes?

Later I had the chance to look up this word. It's "Dottersack," or yolk sac. Pretty close to Dudelsack.

And now we're 39 weeks pregnant with twins, waiting for them to make their move.

Multilingualism at age 2

2009-06-20T14:41:00.000+02:00

Continuing on the linguistic theme, here's some data on how an almost-two-year-old learns three languages. Straight from the baby's mouth.

At first, we had words from both languages (see posts from Feb. 1 and Feb. 22), with a little bit of overlap, then we had some verbs and the indefinite article.

In the middle of March, Chloé's cousins and grandparents came for a weekend. The results: we had new door trimming (her grandfather is very helpful around the house) and Chloé was singing "Lapin, lapin" (lapin=rabbit) and grabbing every chocolate Easter bunny in the supermarket screaming "lapin!" Among other words, "chaussure" (shoe) and "chaussette" (sock) became very popular around the house. In short, her French vocabulary exploded.

Over Easter we spent a week in France at Gaetan's parents' house.
la sit
par la
merci

and from the depths of sleep: C'est un cookie, Maman.

Sometimes I have the impression that there's more French in there than English. I find this not only disappointing, but surprising. I talk to her all day, everyday, in English and she seems to prefer her dad's language. How cool is that??

But on the other hand, I'm glad that the French is "taking." It's important that she speaks both languages, at least to communicate comfortably with both sides of the family.

2009-05-06T16:25:00.001+02:00

I'm just sitting here at the laptop looking out the window to the balcony. Chloé is crawling around in her diaper and a t-shirt on the new-and-not-yet-completely-painted-trunk. She just ate a pear and I'm afraid her sticky fingers will stain the one coat of paint I managed this week. "Cecilia" is playing on the mix-CD on the stereo, and Chloé is singing, maybe "Cecilia." The sun is shining but the clouds are rolling in with the wind. It's at the same time too hot and too cold to be running around without pants on.

An indefinite article

2009-04-02T13:45:00.003+02:00

It's been a while.

Here's an update on Chloe-speak:

Among other things, we have the indefinite article. You know the one, "a" (or "an" depending on the noun in question, although not in Chloé's case). A sheep. A car. A juice.

We have lots of verbs. Sit, wash, walk, go.

We seem to have some confusion with "Chloé." She understands that it's her name, and she uses it appropriately to tell us what she wants (or to remind us that something is hers). Chloé sit. Chloé walking. Chloé cookie. But she also uses it to express her frustration (she wants to, say, get up and run around during a diaper change and we won't let her): Chloé! I'm assuming she's just repeating what we say to her when we're frustrated with her - her name. So I'm trying to explain to her that her name is not a word which generally expresses frustration, it just expresses our frustration. She needs to say, "Mama!" in that same whiny tone instead.

And, still, we have sentences, paragraphs, and lengthy monologues of indeterminable meaning. Often I can guess from a word here or there what she might mean, but sometimes there's nothing, nothing at all, and I have to react to something out of the environment that she might be commenting on.

Just when you thought you were getting the puzzle pieces put together, someone gives you a new puzzle. Or a child.

Ich bin kein jelly donut.

2009-02-28T14:27:00.001+01:00

I always liked the theory that Fasching (in Germany, although within Germany there are many other variations on the name), Carneval (more generally known internationally) and Mardi Gras (what we Americans know of the holiday from the celebration in New Orleans) was a pagan tradition carried over into Christianity. It does look like it could be, with all the animal, devil and witch masks we see in the parades. And as it (or rather, the high point and grand finale) takes place sometime in February - actually the week before Lent, so roughly 40 days before Easter - it could logically be a time when ancient people donned masks and lit fires to chase away the winter. Like Halloween, where people dressed as ghosts and monsters so that they wouldn't be recognized as one of the living by the evil spirits roaming the world on the night before All Hallows' Day.

But apparently this theory is no longer the standard. It's really just a Catholic tradition of celebrating before the long 40 days of fasting. There are loads of fascinating aspects of this holiday - particularly the etymology is fantastic, although probably only to a linguist, so I'll spare you that - but this blog post is not a history lesson. I wanted to tell you about enjoying the holiday as a foreigner.

Last Sunday we went to the parade here in Kornwestheim. Now, Kornwestheim is no Dusseldorf or Cologne; really it's a small town. Yet there were more than 40 clubs, bands or other performers involved. It was quite a show. Chloé loved it (except when there was suddenly a giant animal mask in front of her face - then she seemed to be unsure whether to smile or scream) and we got loads of candy (for her, of course!). Gaetan got some red and black ink smudged on his face by a couple of cheeky witches. Just like the rest of the [German] inhabitants of Kornwestheim, we called "Narro!" after their "Narri!" They threw candy at us. They admired our beautiful little girl. We sat back and enjoyed being a part of the German culture.

Another fun event in Stuttgart is the Cannstatter Wasen or Frühlingsfest (basically the same event in the fall or in the spring [Frühling = spring]). This is a giant carnival - with beer tents. The carnival part is pretty straightforward and you can easily imagine the rides that spin and spin and spin, the throw-a-ball-win-a-stuffed-animal stands and German versions of various fast food - sausages and more sausages and heavy noodles with sauerkraut). The beer tents, though, are a world unto themselves. Almost the only thing to drink is the Maß (1 liter of beer in a very sturdy, thick glass), brought to your table in the hands of strong men and women. Just getting the glass to your mouth is exercise for your biceps. After several sets of this bicep training, you're ready to take the next step: onto the bench. There you sway back and forth, arm in arm with your neighbor (whether you know him or not), to semi-folk/rock remix music - often live. Now I realize that my students while I was teaching English claimed that they NEVER did this, but I'm not afraid to admit that I had a great time! Okay, it's probably not too funny without the beer, and getting drunk and dancing on tables isn't something you do for a huge part of your life, but again, it's a social thing. It brings people together.

I guess that's my point. Get people together. Happy. Sad. Celebrating. Helping. I seem to be the quintessential American; I never joined groups, I never asked for help, I come from a small family with almost no contact to its extended part. I've never been a part of things, and I always assumed this was American, although of course not all Americans are like this. Still, in another context, when you ask an American about, for example, "socialism" they become hostile and claim that government control is BAD but I think really they don't want to help others - and for the most part, don't expect to be helped. Maybe the geographic isolation of America has rubbed off on the individuals who inhabit it and they've become human islands without a boat to take them across to the other shore. Finally, this "American culture" is spreading throughout the world, and I don't know if I can say this will be a positive development.

In the end I'm saying that a huge benefit of being an expatriate is not only to see and learn how other people live - but to live with them! It's not automatic, though; you have to open yourself up to the differences and join the parades and sing the songs and drink the beer. When in Berlin, do as the Berliners do. I'm no Berliner, but I'm not just an American anymore, either. And I like it that way.

The bad example

2009-02-28T11:10:00.000+01:00

Here in Germany you find a sign at intersections with stop lights:

Be a good example! Don't walk on red!

Every time I see this I want to look left, right, left and cross to the little red man.

But the Germans are serious about this. Especially older people will stop you (when you get to the other side, of course) and tell you how that's not right and we have to be good role models for children. I just smile and keep walking. I'm not here to ruin their day, I'm just living my life.

Are they wrong, though? Certainly not. It's a great idea to be a good role model for children. If we could know that everyone would only walk when the pedestrian light was green, we wouldn't have to worry about our children crossing against the light. They would consistently see how the others do it, and if they didn't, there would be someone there to remind them.

In Germany it might work. I'm starting to wonder if Ordnung is in their genes - but it's certainly a part of life (nature vs. nurture? a little of both probably) and they definitely feel the need to conform to this practice. But still there's always someone who's flouting the rule, a rebellious teenager, someone in a hurry, me. It's just not something we can control.

And outside of Germany, forget it. Usually I think of the other extreme: Cairo, where crosswalks are apparently just decoration and the cars, drivers and pedestrians exist in some indefinable symbiosis. But all along the spectrum, there's just no guarantee that people will follow the rules. In the end they do what they want. (Wow. I think I could really take this somewhere, but in this post I'm just talking about crossing the street.)

So back to the role model. My kid's role model is me. It's my job to show her not to cross against the light. Just me. Not a stranger on the street. Honestly I don't want to leave something that important to just anyone.

And as for the other kids, they need to learn that not everyone follows the rules - and that they need to follow the rules of their parents. So I'm the bad example (when I'm not being a good example for Chloé :-)).

Blasted by the past

2009-02-23T16:14:00.000+01:00

It's still happening. Facebook. Those names that haunt. The past haunts us.

Am I a coward for not going there? I don't think so. I like the idea of looking back and smiling. But if I need a smile, I can find one here, in the present.

Yeah, there were great things. But life has only gotten better, bigger, broader since then. I've discovered so much - and incorporated those discoveries into my life. So I can look back and smile, knowingly.

But go there? The question is: go where?? There's nothing there. Stephen King drew us an eerie picture of the past in "The Langoliers": it's a grey, inert place lifelessly waiting for the sharp-toothed pac-men to come and eat it up. And if you're there when they come, they'll eat you, too.

Traditionally spirits are the rope that hangs us from our painful memories and exorcism is the only path to freedom. But can ghosts be helpful? Can talking to ghosts of high schools past be the exorcism we need to lay that putrid past to rest and move into the future? Or are the ghosts just teasing us, manipulating us into believing that holding on is the only way to keep from getting lost?

I say that we have control and the ghosts only have the power we give them. We just have to be aware of the tension existing between them and us, between the past and the present, and try to keep a balance. That can be hard to do, though, as we're being blasted by the past during our cutting-edge tour of the World Wide Web.

Wash?!

2009-02-22T16:05:00.000+01:00

This is one of the newest words bubbling out of Chloé.

"Wash?! Wash?!" Wiggling her red, greasy hands in my direction after a mostly fork-less meal of spaghetti bolognese. Rubbing her yogurty shirt (there was a spoon involved but it's just not reliable in the hands of a 20-month-old). Standing in the bathroom trying to pull her pajamas off.

Everything gets washed - even the dishes, with a little help from Daddy.

It's so indescribably cute to hear these earnest words. "Wash?!" "Chat!" "Popi?!" "Snowing?" which sounds just like her version of "Soleil" and "stroller" so you have to be aware of the context...And one of our personal favorites, "Kaka?!"

What else?

moap (milk)
names: Daddy, Mama, Chloé, Mami, Papi, Caillou, Soleil
up
down
open
cup
nice
sowi (stroller, snowing, Soleil)
hopla
sheep
caterpillar
moon
duck
poulet

And surely some more stuff that didn't occur to me while typing.

It's coming along.

A reminder

2009-02-03T08:24:00.001+01:00

I was walking to the train station all by myself yesterday evening (Gaetan was watching Chloé so that I could go to a reading organized by a member of the writers group - we've tried Chloé at readings and the two just don't mix) and I was thinking how easy it was to be alone. No pushing, carrying, dragging, chasing, explaining, worrying. Just walking. My little messenger bag over my shoulder instead of three bags with diapers, juice, cookies, fruit, and extra clothes (actually I usually forget the extra clothes, and luckily we rarely ;-) need them).

Then I thought how cowardly it is to not have children. To not be up to the challenge of changing your life. To stay in your safe bubble of monotony and predictability. Because having children means relinquishing control, accepting that you're not the only force directing your life.

In our double-income-no-kids world, that's a scary thought.

But I can tell you that letting go can also be fun. Yeah, you're chasing and carrying and explaining, but you're also seeing the world reinvented. And when you're struggling to get home, repeatedly calling, "No! This way!" and you turn and see her walk up and down two steps all by herself and then grin proudly at you, you realize that great things can happen while you weren't getting what you wanted.

More babbling (me or the baby?)

2009-02-01T09:41:00.000+01:00

The words are starting to come.
English:
cow
hossey (horse)
ti boo (for cats or all small animals)
moo (cow sound)
maa (cat sound)
woo-woo (dog sound)
qua-qua (duck sound)
shoe
juice
wawa (water)
nose
mouth
eye
choo-choo (for trains and big trucks)
bye
cookie
appie (apple)
mama
baba (banana)
ba (bag)
baou (ball)
baby
poon (spoon)
keys
coat
petze (pretzel)
ca (car)
ha (hat)
popi (people, or "Little People" the Fisher Price toy collection)

French:
auto
voiture (or Arthur?)
chaud
chat
au revoir
mami
papi

German:
tschuess
hallo

And lots of strings of unrecognizable words comprehensible only as questions, statements or commands.

Interesting, the French is 1/3-1/4 of the English and the German is 1/3-1/4 of the French.

I also find it interesting that she doesn't seem to have a fixed expression for "milk" (or "lait") since that's a pretty important and constant element in her life. I wonder if there's confusion between the languages...

Sometimes I really feel for my daughter. She hears me give names to objects, she repeats them like a good 19-month-old, then her dad gives the same things new names, and I swear I hear her thinking "What the hell?" (or the 19-month-old equivalent). Generally she doesn't repeat what he says, and sometimes she repeats the English.

But I have faith. She's getting there.

Three babies, cont'd

2009-01-25T13:19:00.000+01:00

I've found my love for my two new babies (the kitties) but I have to admit that they have tremendous potential for driving me nuts. It's great that they're curious, playful and active, and I love to see them paw at little things - Legos, pens, the cap to the milk that I set on the counter for 20 seconds...Sometimes I want to, well not only want to, sometimes I do scream at them to just stop! Don't touch anything! I mean, aren't cats supposed to sleep 20 hours of the day?? Now Soleil is regularly in the wall cupboard in the bathroom, randomly tossing Q-tips, combs, and jewelry (no one's supposed to be in that cupboard!) into the sink below. So now the bathroom door just stays shut. Pretty soon the cute kitties will be spending all day, every day in their room with their litter box.

Sometimes I wonder if I really need another baby - since I already have three. I spend my days telling Chloé not to play in the litter box, Soleil not to drink the water from the sink, and Caillou not to chew on the plants. I've got my hands full.

Wanted

2009-01-11T23:25:00.001+01:00

This evening we watched the movie “Wanted” and I knew halfway through the movie I had to write something about it.

It's a movie full of clichés and borrowed ideas. “I'm your father...Wesley.” The good guy is the bad guy and the bad guy is the good guy. His girlfriend's fucking his best friend. The secret society “the weavers” reading code from a loom. The traumatized daughter of an assassinated man becomes an assassin. Honestly, any amateur screenwriter could've written this. Exciting concepts like the assassin that can bend the tragectory of a bullet (useful!), great blood-splatter effects and flying cars give it a bit of a boost. But it's not surprising to see these things in a comic. Good thing they were kept in the screenplay!

Every time someone did a curve shot (and since these were always in slow motion, they were hard to miss), I thought, it's like every gangster's dream of throwing their gun arm around their body and shooting a curve bullet. Fun.

Angelina Jolie – a horrible choice for a super-assassin. She looks frail when she's just walking across the screen, she's so skinny. Yeah, she looks tough and beautiful, and sitting in the train with James McAvoy she looks positively dangerous, but a few burgers would do her good. Her name is Fox. Because she's a fox. A scrawny, skeletal fox, but a fox nonetheless.

Some things to look forward to:

Morgan Freeman says “motherfucker.”

Angelina Jolie on her back on the hood of a moving (well, racing, really) car, her crotch in James McAvoy's face, steering with her knee and shooting at the car behind her.

Corpses for target practice.

Flying letters of a keyboard spell “Fuck you” in midair – and the “u” is the roots of a tooth from the guy who got hit with the keyboard.

I have to say I liked the end. “This is me taking control of my life...What the fuck have you done lately?”

Good question.

Sleeping baby

2009-01-04T16:57:00.000+01:00

I'm very happy to share with you, Reader, that Chloé continues to sleep through the night. Most of the time.

It truly is heavenly. The only [tiny] problem is that I've become used to continuous sleep, so that when she wakes up and I have to comfort her I'm unable to fall asleep, although it generally doesn't take long to get her back to sleep. A small price to pay, I suppose.

We have friends who are still fighting to keep their son (who is the same age as Chloé) asleep through the night, and I definitely see similarities with what we were doing before. It seems these kids are just taking advantage of what we give them. Fair enough. They figure, I cry, they come. I keep crying, they don't leave. Yeah. I have total control. We apparently didn't mind being manipulated - until this manipulation was helping no one. She wasn't sleeping alone, in our arms, or even in our presence. At that point, something had to change.

I'd like to tell my friends that at this point, they may have to let him cry a little. I didn't like the "cry it out" theory when she was 2 months old, and I know parents whose children at such a young age responded very badly to this method - screaming until they puked, for instance. But at 18 months, our kids can do and handle a lot more. And unless you've chosen to have your child sleep in your bed with you (and if this is still working for everyone involved), they probably need to learn to sleep and fall asleep on their own.

And I think this was the most important lesson. After learning that she could just lay down in her bed and sleep without mommy's or daddy's shoulder, everything became simpler. Going to sleep in the evening, and staying asleep in the night (which is often waking and going back to sleep again). She still cries a little, of course, but if she's tired, she sleeps.

Now if only I could sleep...

The Changeling

2008-12-13T20:06:00.000+01:00

Omigod! Someone has swapped my child for one who sleeps at night! For more than a week we (three) have been sleeping without interruption until 7am. Holy s?*/$! The baby I gave birth to a year and a half ago has never done that. So whose child is this?!

Fortunately the days are the same as they were before and Chloé is still the bright and energetic daughter I know. So something must have changed.

It could be that she realized she was driving me crazy waking up and not going back to sleep at night. She is very sensitive to my feelings: when I cry, she instantly stops whatever she's doing and gives me a hug. But still, I think she didn't feel the sadness, more the anger, because that was certainly right up there on the surface.

Or possibly it is just the age. For Chloé, 1 1/2 years of broken sleep was enough. She's discovered that sleeping 10 or 11 hours in a row leaves her refreshed and happy and she's decided to continue the habit for a few years. I hope.

Between babbling and voting

2008-11-04T11:14:00.000+01:00

I'm baaaack!
At least for one post.

Some updates:

Our babbling baby has proven herself to be one of those babies who start right off with complete sentences with distinct intonation - but no discernible words to those of us listening. Many of the other babies (they're almost a year and a half old; I don't know if "baby" is really the right term) already have a vocabulary of (relatively) clear words. But they communicate with just those individual words and there's no rhythm. So with these minis we know what they're referring to; with Chloé we know that she's asking a question or making a statement. Fun either way.

I've decided that I'm ready to live in a climate of perpetual summer. I found my three years in San Diego meteorologically monotonous, but that was then, and this is now. Cold weather is for the birds. Or not. Let's say I'm like a bird and I'm going to fly away before the snow falls. Or not. At least not until I write my bestseller and become financially independent and buy a villa on a Caribbean island. I will fear no hurricane. I will try to eat fish. And I will dream.

Also climate-related: It's uncommon in Germany to own a (clothes) dryer. Given the low temperatures and humidity, I'm surprised by this. In my (dryer-less) house, I have to zig around the drying racks for three days before my clean clothes are wearable. The pro: increased shopping opportunities.

I'm being haunted by names on Facebook. You find one "friend" from high school and suddenly more and more names are appearing on your screen, names you thought (or hoped) were lost to time. Sometimes it's exciting to be reunited with these names, but then you have to ask, what role can ghosts play in my life? Especially ghosts 10,000 miles away...

Like a good American, I voted. Small print: for the first time. But better late than never. And better when it might actually make a difference.

Also election-related: A German woman (a cashier in the supermarket; needless to say, I don't even know her) asked me who I voted for, and then indicated that McCain was the wrong answer. Apparently the wonder didn't show on my face because she continued to look inquisitively at me, but I thought, wow! Is she really asking me this question? Is politics no longer a taboo topic? But then I remembered someone (another German) launch into a lecture about the malfeasance of George Bush (this was a couple of years ago). Then, as well, I was shocked to hear this man (who I also barely knew) being so imprudent with his intense opinions. I happened to agree, but I knew of a number of people who didn't, and what would happen if this guy talked like that to them? Anyway now I wonder if the issue is a German one (they, and the language, are generally very direct, much more direct than Americans and the English language), or that people feel they have the right, even the obligation, to disagree openly with the policies and attitudes of the American government? I don't know.

What are friends for?

2008-08-19T15:45:00.000+02:00

She asks herself this question as she wipes black streaks from her eyes onto a tissue.
Is it the music? Or the weather? Or the loneliness? Really she's not lonely; she went for a walk with a friend just this morning, and had a friend over for the afternoon yesterday.
But I use the term "friend" loosely.
What is a "friend"? Someone you know? Someone you care about? Someone you tell everything? Someone who cares about the everything in your life? Someone who thinks like you? Someone you have a history with? Someone you have a future with?
Damn good questions.
Her "best" friend has almost nothing in common with her, but has the history. Her other friends are all new - no history, but a connection of presence. The baby, the time, the location. But who can she talk to?
No one.
That's why we cultivate long relationships. To build something stronger than the everyday bullshit.

Three babies

2008-08-04T14:55:00.000+02:00

Wow, it's been a REALLY long time since I wrote anything here. Sorry about that. But I AM essentially a lazy person, with the additional (and previously mentioned) handicaps of time-management dysfunction and a now 13-month-old baby. Probably I should stop apologizing for that and just write or not write, but writing is truly important to me and my apologies are as much to myself as to my (one or two) faithful Readers.
As you can see in the photos on the right, this post is not about triplets as a result of hormone treatments, but the new additions to our home: two 10-week-old kittens, two brothers, Caillou (the grey one) and Soleil (the orange one). Unfortunately they ended up with French names...I suppose it just seems more unique and exotic to me. If we went with English, they would be Pebble and Sun, now how cool would that be?
Chloé is in non-stop pursuit of the kitties, as you can see in the photo. At first, Soleil was quite frightened of all of us and stayed more or less hidden, and Caillou seemed to understand that he should let Chloé chase him around but stay just out of reach. Now they're both being fairly lovey and seem to think that they have to sit there and let the baby grab them around the neck and pull their legs...I wish they'd run away or scratch her or something so she'd figure out that what she's doing isn't okay. My stern "Chloé! No!" isn't really going very far.
I'm über-happy to have these kittens, since I've wanted a cat since...well, since I left all of my semi-adoptive street cats (they still lived on the street, I just fed and loved them) in Cairo. But what surprises me is that my feelings towards them are totally different from my feelings towards previous cats. Because of Chloé. I feel like I only truly love her, my baby, and I have no room left for anyone else. With the cats it's become clear, since I've had cats before and I know how I feel about them. But even with Gaetan it's hard. I love him, but I feel like I've got my head so far up Chloé's butt (to put it really obnoxiously) that I can't send any love anywhere else.
Someone told me recently that a mother's hormones are so overdosed and confused after having a baby that it takes a couple of years to get back to yourself. This sounded like a good explanation to me, and I'm holding fast to it although it also sounds a bit like an excuse. But something really has changed, everything feels different. I was always someone who didn't have a lot of friends; I saved everything I had for just one or two people. Now I'm finding it hard to fit two people and two cats into my emotional ventricles. Has anyone else felt this way in this situation??
Crap. Someone started drilling somewhere and woke the cats. And then the baby. Gotta go.

Blog ohne Thema

2008-03-28T20:30:00.000+01:00

Well I seem to be suffering from blogger's block. Don't know what to say.
Chloé's being clingy so it's hard to write an essay while she's climbing on me and I can't leave her on the floor crying. She usually sleeps about half an hour in the mornings and then half an hour in the afternoons, so that doesn't provide much opportunity to write.
But now it's evening, the baby's in bed, my husband is cooking dinner...I have time. But still no topic.
I was just looking at a website for a shoe store. I was looking for these Spanish shoes I want to buy (just a note - I've found several pairs of FABULOUS shoes from Spain recently, I think I may have to go there on a shopping spree), I don't know why, they're right there in the store in Stuttgart, but I wanted to see them online for some reason. But anyway this website advertised their "shoe parties." Wow. They deliver about 250 pairs of shoes to your house where you and your friends can try them on while sipping champagne (their suggestion was prosecco, but at my party we'd definitely have champagne...). I'm ready! Let's do it. I even have friends I could invite. And I get a discount based on what the others buy. What a deal.

Making strides

2008-03-16T16:52:00.000+01:00

My eight-and-a-half-month-old (do I need all those dashes?!) daughter wants to walk.

She seems to feel that crawling is an unnecessary phase in achieving mobility. She's been turning in circles for about two months, pushing herself backwards for a month. In the last two weeks she's started launching herself forward with one foot to reach a toy that's not too far away. But apparently she finds pulling her knees up and sticking her butt in the air too much work for too little progress. Why stand on all fours rocking back and forth, not moving anywhere and unable to reach and grab a toy (or piece of fuzz)? Pointless. Better to stay on your belly and scoot in all directions. Hands are free and mobility, within about a five foot radius, is assured.

Until last weekend, when, while sitting on the floor in front of her daddy playing with the colorful wooden blocks, she reached out, grabbed the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and pulled herself up onto her feet. Then she smiled, as proud as any eight month old could be. (Daddy smiled pretty proudly, too.) Those first moments were very unstable, since balancing en pointe takes years of practice which she just hasn't had.

Meanwhile she's standing (usually) on her whole foot. The wobbling continues, as does the proud smiling. Frustration (not only for Chloe) is an issue because she can't stand herself but wants to do it all the time.

This morning standing in front of her, I reached down and grabbed her hands. She pulled herself up. I moved a step backwards. She took a step forwards. Wow! I said. Great! Take another step? I stepped back again. Four steps she took. Relying completely on my supporting hands, still the initiative, the steps and the pride and confidence were all her own.

Besides the literal strides, Chloe's also become quite dexterous. She picks things up with thumb and forefinger, and is interested in everything smaller than one square centimeter. She pushes tiny pieces of paper around the floor, grabs the string attached to the beach ball (and knows that in pulling the string the ball follows), and bangs any two objects together to make "music."

It's really funny to watch her in her high chair at the table, playing with the sippy cup lids: they aren't quite cylindrical, so they roll around randomly like weeble wobbles. This is fascinating but confusing. Now she expects everything to roll in all directions, so she pushes any given toy (say, a little plush giraffe) and looks surprised when it moves a couple of centimeters but then just lies there. She shoves it again; same thing happens. I have to laugh.

But sleeping is not one of her strong points. Or to express it optimistically, she's an outstanding non-sleeper. I call her a nano-napper: during the day, she generally takes two or three half-hour naps. Unless we go for a walk in the stroller, and then she might sleep for as long as an hour and a half. Nights, we are currently enjoying what, if it were a sport, would be called extreme sleeping. Gaetan gets her to sleep pretty well, around 8, and sometimes she sleeps until 11 or even 12. Then the fun begins. I nurse her, and she falls asleep right away. I fall asleep right away. I could sleep until 6 or 7 in the morning, Chloe might wake up again an hour later. I don't want to nurse her so soon, and when she realizes that there is no boob in the offering, she cries. So we go into the living room, where lately she's been falling asleep within a few minutes. Before (and, as it happens, last night) it was half an hour (or an hour) of Chloe crying, swinging her head from one side to the other like one of those crazy bears in the zoo, followed by sleep that could easily be interrupted by placing her back in her bed. By the time she slept again, I was wide awake and wouldn't get back to sleep before it all started again (in an hour). But, as I said, this seems to be getting better, and I tend to quickly fall asleep. When she wakes again, I nurse her, she falls asleep, we're all happy. When she cries again, I'm pissed off: at Chloe, for robbing me of my sleep and making nights a nightmare; at Gaetan, for not waking up; at myself, for supporting this. This goes on, every 2 hours if were lucky, every hour if we're not. Mornings, either she sleeps until 6:30 or 7, or Gaetan gets up at 5:30 or 6 with her (he has to get up for work anyway) and lets me sleep until 7. Thank goodness.

So those are a few of the latest infant developments. Don't get me wrong - she's a great baby and I couldn't be happier. Well, I'd probably be happier if I could sleep, but who needs sleep when there's so much life going on?

Internet friendship

2008-03-07T11:00:00.000+01:00

I love the internet. I can find information about anything I want in any language. Okay, I may spend hours reading through a bunch of stuff that I'm not looking for in order to find what I'm looking for, but the information is out there somewhere in that digital world, and I don't have to leave home to get it. I can buy books, clothes, or airplane tickets, rent movies, get film developed (digital, at least), read movie reviews on films that haven't even been released yet in Germany. Apparently I can also download pirated movies, watch child porn, or order assault rifles from some country out east, but I haven't taken advantage of these possibilities.
Also I no longer have to buy pen and paper to write to my friends, I can e-mail them: it's quicker, easier and cheaper. Or I can talk to them live on Skype or Yahoo Messenger or Windows Live Messenger. I can keep in touch with friends using sites like Facebook or Linked-In or MySpace. With Facebook it's literally as easy as a touch of a button to connect with someone, or with all of my friends at once.
Wow. The internet is AMAZING.
But is it really? How reliable is this communication? Can we really call it communication?
When I first started using the internet to communicate with friends (through e-mail), I realized that it was necessary for me to know the person I was writing to, and more importantly, who was writing to me. It's just too impersonal. Digital correspondence is just that: digital, 0 and 1, black and white, there's no grey or personality or emotion. As the receiver, you add the appropriate emotion, because you have an idea what the writer is feeling, because you know them. If you don't know the sender, you're probably reading your own personality into what your read.
Which is probably why meeting people over the internet is so successful: you're meeting yourself. But then when you're face to face with the live, non-digital pen pal, you discover that they're someone completely different.
But that's not my point here.
My question is: what happens when you've been out of [live] contact with a friend for so long that you can't be sure of the emotions they're sending along with their 1s and 0s? When every other sentence seems cryptic and maybe even insulting? When you become so unsure of your relationship that you start to feel there no longer is one?
I suppose the answer to these questions is to ask. It is, after all, a friend you're talking about. You do know them. Or did. You've both just gone through changes in each other's absence, so you have to catch up and find a place in the friendship for the new stuff. I believe that an established friendship can cope with even extreme experiences, assuming both parties are willing to do the work of integrating th new with the old.
At least I hope so.

Sick baby

2008-03-04T11:08:00.000+01:00

It's 4am Saturday morning. Chloé's crying (this is not unexpected), so I take her out of her crib to nurse her. But she doesn't really want to nurse. And she feels very warm. Scheisse, I think, and take her out to the living room.
Yep, she's got a temperature. 38.9 (102°F). What do I do now?!
Read. The baby book. "What if your child is sick?" chapter. Okay...Up to 39° is not too serious. Okay...So should I give her tylenol, or just put her to bed? But first, how do I get her to stop crying??
And meanwhile Gaetan is snoring away in the bedroom. Men! I think, although I know that you can hear almost nothing from the living room when both doors are closed. I decide to let him sleep. There's no point in both of us being awake.
After not too much carrying and cooing Chloé does indeed fall asleep and I put her back to bed. Gaetan wakes up when the bed squeaks as I slip under the covers.
Ca va? he asks.
Chloé has a fever, I say.
Really?
Yeah, just go to sleep, we'll see how she is in the morning.
And so we sleep.

We all sleep until 6:30 (not too bad), but the fever is still there when Chloé wakes up. It's a little higher, and after re-reading the baby book, I decide it's time to try the pharmaceutical route. After the rectal thermometer, she gets a rectal tylenol. But she takes it well.
Sitting at the table with us while we have breakfast, she seems to be feeling okay. I give her a piece of bread to play with (she hardly ever puts stuff in her mouth, although she can chew on bread as long as we're paying attention that she doesn't try to inhale a huge piece). And surprise! She eats it! Well, presses it around her mouth for a while. Everything is fine. Then she looks at me, opens her mouth a little, coughs, and pukes up the bread and all the milk she drank this morning. She's crying and looking at me with eyes that say "Fix it mommy," but all I can do is hold her and tell her it'll be alright.

I have my Writer's Group this morning but I consider staying home. Gaetan urges me to go. He sounds very confident that she's doing better and they'll be fine for the morning. Trusting in his confidence, I go.
After the meeting, everyone goes for coffee. I really enjoy spending time with these people, and I figure Gaetan and Chloé will be able to do without me for an extra half hour or so. I call him to let him know.
So how is she? I ask.
Fine, he says. Well, not really. She puked again after the carrots. Then she cried for a while. But now she's asleep.
Geez! Then I'll come home.
No, no, stay. I'll wait for you for lunch.
Wow, I think, what a great husband and daddy.

The sick baby stays warm (but not terribly hot) and cranky all afternoon. I know a fever is there to fight something undesirable in the body, so I don't want to keep giving her tylenol, but I realize her crankiness is probably a result of the fever. We try to get her to sleep as often as possible, go for walks, go in the car (all the while keeping her bundled, but not too bundled, in the Cosi). She doesn't sleep well.
In the evening we decide to give her a bath. The steam must be good, the warmth. Maybe she'll enjoy the water. She plays a little. It seems to keep her calm.
I decide to just nurse her in the evening instead of giving her a bottle and cereal. Safer. As it happens, she doesn't barf, but she doesn't sleep, either. Finally at 11pm I tell Gaetan to go to bed - again, there's no reason for both of us to be up. I'll wake him up in two hours if she's still not sleeping.
After some wandering and bouncing through the living room, she sleeps. I try to make myself...not uncomfortable on the couch, and I sleep as well, for about an hour. Then she's awake and grumbly again. Doesn't want the boob. Doesn't want to sleep. Doesn't seem to want to be touched or talked to. Again I ask, what do I do?
Almost an hour goes by and it's two o'clock. She's not sleeping, I don't know what to do besides hold her, it's time to wake up Gaetan. He did agree to get up if needed. Well, I need to sleep so he's needed. So I wake him up.
And now I've got a grouchy husband and a grouchy baby. Great. And I feel all he's doing is trying to get out of his side of the bargain: he asks if I tried to put her in bed. Yes. Did you try to feed her? Yes. When? An hour ago. Why don't you try again? Ahh!
I try again. She eats. She goes to sleep. I'm still irritated that he didn't just take her and make himself comfortable (and it was comfortable; once I didn't have a baby in my arms I was able to set up the cushions just right) on the couch. But we sleep until 4.
The next morning she seems much better. Even at 4 her fever was gone, and at 6:30 we all feel, if not bright and cheery, at least able to start the day.
This was only our second experience with sick baby in her 8 months. I consider us lucky, definitely. But I wonder if it becomes easier to deal with if baby is sick more often, if you have the experience that baby is ill but will get better. Or if it never gets easy and all you can do is keep yourself from getting sick with worry.

The Well-Beaten Baby

2008-03-04T10:24:00.000+01:00

Really I just wanted to use this title.
One of Chloé's "toys" is a heavy-duty looking plastic whisk. Its odd shape, the material and size make it something interesting to touch, play a drum with, whatever. Also we can "beat" her like a giant egg, which she really loves, especially if there are accompanying sound effects.
But it's amazing what babies and kids can be interested in. Like with the tags, we adults can always be surprised by what draws their attention. We buy Christmas gifts, they play with the wrapping paper, or the box. We give them an intricate toy designed to challenge all of their five senses and they're entranced by the tag. It's nuts.
So why did I start this post with the whisk story? To show how ordinary household items are just as fascinating as expensive toys. Even more, kids are interested in them because they see us using them, and naturally they want to do what Mommy and Daddy do. I sit down to read my magazine, Chloé wants to read too. Or at least tear off the cover and then the rest of the pages. I start typing my blog post on the laptop, Chloé wants to type as well, although, unlike on a desktop, every time she smacks the touchpad something unexpected happens.
Still I'm glad she's so curious. It can make life difficult, but I suspect an apathetic baby won't grow up to be much more than an apathetic adult. And we have enough of those already.
But I digress.
Until next time, faithful Readers.

Tag fascination

2008-02-28T19:15:00.000+01:00

Chloé has a stuffed animal that looks kinda like a cat princess in pyjamas. It is also a hand puppet. It has everything a baby's stuffed animal should have to engage the baby: it's made of several different kinds of material, has ruffles on the arms and neck, a night cap (not a drink, a head covering), a cute kitty face and ears sticking out of the cap, even a tiny mirror attached to one hand by a piece of elastic. But more often than not, she plays with the little white tag (about 2x4 cm) attached to the side. She takes it between her forefinger and thumb, coos at it and then talks to it, turns it front to back. It's like this amazing discovery in the midst of a glut of infant provocation.
And it's like this with everything. Tags are just fascinating. You don't need any special toys, just something safe for the baby to play with - with a tag.
I read that this is an attention to detail that babies develop when they're around 7 months old. They notice smaller things and then inspect them. And most toys for babies are big and bold, to attract their attention, I guess.
Chloé also likes to tear up paper into tiny little tag-sized pieces and examine it. Unfortunately she's starting to eat those little pieces, so we may have to take away the fashion magazines that she so enthusiastically tears up.

It was all black and white at the Oscars

2008-02-25T09:51:00.000+01:00

Or at least the clothes were...
Now I have to admit that I'm not officially a fashion expert: I'm not a fashion editor or a designer or an "It" girl being sent boxes of clothes to be worn and photographed leaving tomorrow's "It" club, but I have recently become something of a fashion magazine connoisseur (or at least compulsive buyer), and I'm wondering what (un-)inspired everyone to show up in black (or white, or if it absolutely HAD to be a color, then red) for the walk down the red carpet. I realize the films were dark, but that doesn't make the award ceremony a funeral! Where are the bright, bold colors that are supposed to be coming this season? I guess the stylists couldn't decide which theme would be most acceptable so they took the path of least resistance and recommended black and white to all of their clients.
I say: Resist! Go bold! Don't let a stylist tell you what your style is. And who cares if the newspapers write about your alleged fashion failure - at least they're writing about you (just in case any of you Readers are Hollywood stars...).

The Working Mother

2008-02-20T13:23:00.000+01:00

I know what you're thinking. You don't work, you stay home with your baby.
Exactly.
There's so much work here at home, I've become a champion multi-tasker since becoming a mom. For example, I'm typing this post for you, loyal Reader, while my daughter is on my lap nursing. When the computer started flashing that I'd better plug it in before the battery died and it forgot everything I'd input, I held the still-attached baby to my breast, leaned over the side of the couch and plugged in the power cord. When she falls asleep in a few minutes (the magic of breastfeeding), I can go do the dishes. Then I can paint a couple more drawers on the jewelry box I'm finishing for my sister-in-law. By then Chloé will probably be awake so I can lay on the floor with her and try to taunt her into scooting forward instead of pushing herself back. Then Gaetan will come home and I can downshift into my usual relaxed self, while he gives her a bath, feeds her and puts her to bed.
But still there's work to be done. I manage fairly well with laundry, the dishes, vacuuming, and Chloé (although she can't really be termed "work" she is extremely time-consuming). But the table's a mess with stuff I don't know what to do with (mail, magazines, receipts, plants) and crumbs from breakfast this morning. There are toys everywhere (but what's the point of cleaning them up when they're back on the floor again in about 10 minutes??). The pile of my half-clean clothes on a chair in the bedroom reminds me of the leaning tower of Pisa. My vanity is a dump for all things cosmetic. The dust on the commode is almost as high as the pile of clothes on the chair. That shelf in the hallway still hasn't been cleared of the painting utensils (but I can't put them away while I'm in the middle of painting projects). I have ten sewing projects in my head and five pieces of fabric waiting to be sewn. The "Lou the Wolf" story needs to be translated, the Cabo Verde article needs to be written. And the list goes on and on...
This morning I saw Gaetan was wearing a shirt usually reserved for weekends, which reminded me of the (yet another) pile of shirts waiting to be ironed. So what comes first, the ironing or the blog?
The blog.
But if I start now, I should be able to iron two shirts before she wakes up. The dishes will wait.

Current events

2008-02-10T11:42:00.000+01:00

I've finally gone wireless! Now I can sit in the warm living room and type my blog posts on the laptop. I'm completely firewalled and anti-virused as well. How 21st century.
This lovely Sunday (it's uncharacteristically sunny) we're listening to the American Country Countdown on AFN (American Forces Network) Europe to quell (or perhaps to enhance) that nagging homesickness that comes on about once a year. And country (and western) you generally can't get outside of the USA, so it has that American...charm.
Later we're going to clean the car interior. We're trading it (a VW Polo, something I don't think we have in the US - a little smaller than the Golf) in for another VW that can hold two adults, a small child in a car seat, a stroller, a portable baby bed, and all the rest of the baby paraphernalia that you can even imagine before having a baby.
Now Monday and our appointment with the car dealer have come and gone and we bought the car! Gaetan was a bit surprised that he'd signed for a big car (and a big loan) without even a "Congratulations!" from the salesman. It's true, his "all business" attitude was a bit weird. He was very friendly and talkative, as usual, but didn't show any real empathy for a young car buyer who's just bought a car worth twice as much as his trade-in. But he seems like a good guy - he just didn't know his customer needed a calming smile and a pat on the back. Does that make him a bad salesman..?
Chloé's getting obnoxious over there on the floor so I'd better go entertain her a little.
Talk to you soon.

Life in Germany, Teil Eins

2008-02-06T12:47:00.000+01:00

One thing you should know about Germany is that many stores, shops, and other businesses traditionally close for lunch. This tradition was perhaps, in origin, consistent, but now it means said businesses could be closed between 12 and 2 or 12:30 and 2:30 or 1 and 3, or basically anything between the two extremes, you never really know. Of course this variance is from store to store, not day to day (not quite clear from the preceding sentence). Or they may not close at all, since the tradition is apparently slowly giving way to capitalistic demands.
Only recently were stores given permission (yes, there was a law not allowing it) to remain open in the evenings. And Sundays are closed. In theory you're not even supposed to work in your garden, clean your car, or hang your laundry out on your balcony on Sunday. Sunday is reserved for worship. Of course restaurant or gas station employees apparently don't have definite worship rights. Bummer.
Besides that many stores (even restaurants) which are open Saturday also close on one day during the week.
Now I can appreciate the circumstances of the (very) small business where there's only one guy manning the shop and he can't spend 24/7 there - he's got to go shopping himself, not to mention eat, sleep, etc...But how many of those shops are even out there today?? That's exactly the point here in socialized Germany. It's not fair to that sole proprietor that other shops are open longer - he'll miss out on all those customers that come in the not-so-wee-hours of the ... afternoon and evening.
So clearly I'm a disgruntled American who is used to everything being open, if not 24/7, 9-9 Monday through Saturday and at least 12-6 on Sunday. Okay, taking a walk around a nearby lake with all the other Germans (seriously, they're ALL there) is healthier and more enriching for anyone's life, but the most relaxing Sunday activity has to be shopping (and at least your credit card gets to work out...but we'll save the credit card theme for another blog entry).
So now that I've made a short story long, this morning I had a frustrating experience of a similar nature. I've been needing to go to the library to take back my books (which I was quite proud of myself for at least thinking about, since 9 times out of 10 I don't think and get to pay the late fees). I couldn't go on Monday (when I usually remember) because it's, what a surprise, closed. So I waited until Wednesday morning between 10 and 12 when I knew they would be open. Chloe and I got ourselves ready and since I saw that it had been raining (although wasn't raining at the moment) I brought the rain cover for the stroller. Five minutes into our walk it started to rain. Quick! The plastic cover! And the umbrella for me! But damn, it's really windy, and the spokes of the umbrella were nearly hyperextended. But then I got things more or less under control, and we continued our expedition to the library (with constant vigilance regarding the wind-umbrella interaction).
When we got there it was closed. Although it wasn't Monday or Sunday or lunchtime or evening, it was closed. For training. And I ask: Why don't they do their training on Monday!?
This is one of the frustrating aspects of living in Germany. I know you're thinking that it's not a terribly significant thing, surely something that can be overlooked. Yes, I say, but it's an everyday thing, a not at all abstract thing, that happens all the time. And perhaps most importantly: when you've known something else, it's hard not to compare.

Plans and movies

2008-01-25T10:55:00.000+01:00

Shh! The baby's sleeping. Time to blog.

Actually I just thought that since it's being published in a flyer that I blog, I'd better start...blogging.

I think I might try to (how's that for uncertainty??) have a few different blog themes. I love movies, so there will be a movie critique theme. I talk about the baby incessantly so that will definitely be a theme. I live in Germany and that's something to talk about. Okay, there will be multiple themes that won't necessarily be listed exhaustively here.

Today's theme is movies.

Last week I watched Vacancy and my opinion is strong possibility for disappointment! This is pure Hollywood. They had ample oppotunity to create something that could honestly be called horror and they passed every time. The end is the worst. Who dies? The bad guys. Who lives, although shot and left to die the entire night? The good guy - and his whiny wife. And the bad guys, or at least Frank Whaley, put on a pretty good show. Definite scare potential: we ask ourselves, is he just weird, or really nuts? Okay, it's called a horror movie, so we're fairly sure he's nuts and a killer, but he does a good job of keeping it grey.

I have to warn you, Readers: Don't compare Vacancy to The Descent. That was a REAL horror movie. Scary throughout (who's not scared of mutants creeping and crawling around in a cave you can't get out of??), and the ending is alarming, both cinematically (the last scene is a jump-out-of-your-seat shocker) and thematically (you just don't expect this particular turn).

The baby's awake again and calling for me (in that screaming way that babies have) to come play with her, so more movies next time.

Slow start

2007-12-06T17:25:00.000+01:00

Wow. So this is blogging. And I struggled so long with the drop-down menu on my webpage. Actually I shouldn't really say "struggled" because that implies that my struggle eventually came to an end.
I'd like to promise you, Reader, that I will be a faithful and consistent blogger, but unfortunately I'm at the mercy of my daughter who periodically draws me away from the computer. Like now.
Until next time...