Sheep versus Brumby

Although New Zealand is the country most renowned for its sheep in this region - 25 years ago the ratio of sheep to people there was 20:1, a number declining rapidly as sheep numbers drop - Australia actually has 100 million sheep to rival New Zealand's current 35 million.

In comparison, the USA has 5 million sheep, comprising a mere 1% of our livestock.  (We prefer beef - and have the useable acreage to support them.  Nothing like genetically modified, hormonally enhanced American beef.  Sadly, I jest not.  YUM!)

July 2011, Brisbane

But you've got to know me well enough by now to know that I am not talking about those sheep.

I'm talking about me.  (What do you MEAN, it's not about ME?!)  And I'm talking about most of us. 

C'mon.  You know it's true.  For the vast majority of us, life is way more comfortable in the herd, in a familiar field, surrounded by the picket fence we know than alone in the bush without any boundaries.  Bah!

I'm the worst kind of sheep, as it turns out.  I'm a sheep who wants to run around and do her own thing on occasion and then wants the herd to accept her back and love her anyway.  After she's pushed the boundaries and jumped the fences.  Love me.  Love me.  Accept me.  Bah!

So that I actually understand the girls in Ryan's class who are currently having difficulty understanding why she is insisting on doing her own thing.  What do you mean you aren't going to do the same thing as the rest of us?  How can you NOT want to join us on the playground?  You're in our group - if you do what we say.  You're ALLOWED to be with US - if you follow our rules.  How can you be comfortable enough in your own skin to rather sit and sketch horses?  ALONE?! 

Bah!  Bah!  Join the herd.  How can we be comfortable with ourselves if everyone else isn't validating us by doing the exact same thing that we are?

I am not mocking these girls.  I was these girls.

April 2007, Stylin' at Lake Garda, Italy

Ryan tells me the girls are 'the bad girls' and that she doesn't like doing what they do.  She doesn't want to get in trouble.  And, apparently unlike her former best friend, she is not interested in trying to impress these girls by joining them.  Even if they are encouraging her to.

You have to feel sorry for her friend who just doesn't seem to understand how Ryan can NOT want to join up.

I don't get it either.  How did a people-pleaser and joiner like me - BAH, BAH, - raise children who are confident enough to do what THEY want and not what OTHERS want them to do?!

How did a sheep end up raising a Brumby?!  (Wild, Australian ponies, the counterpart to the American mustangs.)

And - as it turns out this week - it's not just Ryan. 

Princess and Pirate, August 2007, Herrenberg

Andrew too, is resisting, not peer pressure, but pressure from figures of authority, figures he respects and has been taught to listen to - ie me and his teachers - and gone his own way.

I couldn't be prouder.  (Although I'm still looking backward at the broken fences and wondering if it wouldn't have been easier to stick with the herd this time.  Bah!  Bah!)

This week Andrew and Ryan both chose sports over an academic program.  (Let's put this in perspective.  Isn't it wonderful that they have too many fantastic after-school options to choose from?!)  Honestly, I'm not sure why the teachers - even the sports teacher - seemed so surprised.  I did all those competitions in school too - but mostly to get out of regular classroom time - and mostly because it was the highest level of achievement there was and I was expected to.  Bah! Thinking back, I don't know that I can say I ever really enjoyed it. 

I was under so much pressure in school - even though I always did well - that I recall the ride home after my last day of fifth grade, sitting in the back seat, up the hill past Nick Rosen's house on the right.  The weight of the world dropped off of my shoudlers at the thought of almost three months summer break.  Literally.  My shoulders must have physically come down at least a couple of centimetres.   Knots unraveled as the tension eased.

Mind you, I was in FIFTH grade.  And a straight A student.

I also hated group work.  Because most of the time noone else got much of anything done and I ended up doing it all myself.  I felt obligated to.  By highschool it was more than self-imposed pressure.  The teachers EXPECTED me to carry the group.  I remembered getting reprimanded by an English teacher in 12th grade because I hadn't given it my usual effort and the project hadn't been up to my usual standards.  (We - horrors of horrors - got a 'B'.)  I told her that I was sick of doing everyone else's work - that I had done my own.  And she said "yeah, and look at how well that turned out." 

I am not making these things up.

March, 2007

So that when the teacher in charge of an extracurricular academic competition that runs for the next six weeks asked Andrew to give up his Wednesday afternoon sports program to join the group, well honestly, who can blame him?

Soccer.  Extra schoolwork.  Soccer.  Extra schoolwork. 

Ryan just met a 14 year old girl who wants someone to ride her 16.2 H, 8 year old Thoroughbred mare with her in the afternoons.  I would have suggested half the days riding and half doing the academic program but when the teachers insisted it was all or nothing on afterschool time, well, again, this was a no brainer for Ryan.  Honestly, I'm not sure I find it healthy to want the kids to spend ALL of their afterschool time on this program anyway, even if it is for only six weeks.  And how am I supposed to just drop all of our other commitments at a moment's notice?

I guess I'm less of a sheep than I used to be too.  Although I do keep looking back at that fence.

In any case, I would have had the kids do the program.  I had it all scheduled out.  Since Andrew has soccer on Tuesdays and sports on Wednesdays then those would also be the days that Ryan could go riding.  That left Mondays and Thursdays for the academic competition.  Fridays were  up for grabs.

It would have been an exhausting, logistical nightmare for the next six weeks - but not something I was strong enough to say 'No' to.  How lucky for me that the teachers insisted on unlimited commitment of our time.  (Once again, WHO can do that?!  And HOW?  I would really LOVE to learn how anyone can be not busy enough to on the spur of the moment just devote six weeks of their time to ONE temporary project unconditionally.  Not anyone I know personally.  It boggles the mind.)

August 2007

I'm obviously still struggling with the decision. 

"No."

Who knew that such a little word would be so hard to say?

And so easy to say for my kids?

So that I'm left chasing after my two Brumbies, still uncomfortable with NOT conforming to the expectations of others, but so totally psyched that they are both confident enough in themselves to follow THEIR dreams and not mine, or anyone else's.

August 2007.  Definitely their own people!

It's a wild ride with these Brumbies.  But I am learning more from them than I ever did as a sheep.

Oh dear. I am missing my friends.

Andrew, Sarah and Ryan.  Since Anita wouldn't want me to show the picture I have of HER in a bathing suit!  (Good one though, with Maria!)

A great positive of living as an English-speaker in Germany was that I was forced to meet and interact and even befriend people I never would have befriended in an English-speaking country.

I was thrown in with other moms raising their children bilingually that I would have politely waved at and moved past under other circumstances.

Take Anita, for instance.  Except for the fact that she was so nice and friendly right from the beginning - it's a South Africa thing! - she was WAY WAY too classy and lady-like for someone as crass and loud as me to approach.  She's like a sister now.

And Sue.  Also way too proper and well-dressed for a slob like me to approach.  She was the first person I phoned after my miscarriage and also the one who gave me pointers on how to make it LOOK easier - and classier - than it really is!  All in the attitude, ladies, all in the attitude! 

Lori and I were soul-mates from the start.  But if I had met her in highschool - where I was busy being super anti-establishment and she was a good girl - oh heck, Lori and I would have been friends anywhere, anytime! 

It was so nice to have someone exactly like me only a few blocks down the road for a while.  Also running down the road in shorts and a tank top after her two wild boys while the German moms strolled leisurely in pressed jeans.  Such a shame Kristy is a world away by now.

But I would have been scared to approach Babette too.  And Maria, wow Maria is just really WAY WAY to good a person and a mother for someone as conflicted and scatter-brained as I am.  I am so lucky she sees past that to the good intentions inside.

It hurts that it took AGES for me to connect to Liesel - because once we did she became another sister alongside Anita.

When I met Lynn, on the other hand, I knew she was a soul-mate from the start.  But I thought I had time to take it slow.  At least we had a few great months before I moved.

I am missing everyone - this is just the tip of the Mommy Group - because I am missing a close friend here.  It's been WAY TOO EASY to find friends here.  And not just Mommies, but husbands and families as well.  We click here.  And the rest takes care of itself.

The Raibles. (Two of the anyway, Philipp and Sophia.)  Family forever.

G. has been - IS, damn it, IS - one of my closest friends here since I met her at school in early February.  Lively and open, friendly and - hey, SOUTH AFRICAN - I KNEW IMMEDIATELY that this was someone I was going to be totally comfortable with.  Oh dear, this sounds like a love letter.  By week two our families had a barbeque together and since then we have met at least 2 or 3 other times to barbeque at the lake. 

Which is really quite a lot considering G. has been in the hospital the last two weeks suffering from a brain anuerysm.

All I want to do is rush to the hospital and sit by her side.  THIS IS G., for crying out loud, I HAVE TO BE THERE FOR HER.

Except that, for now, we'd only be in the way.  We are NEW friends.  Her husband HAS a support network and is dealing with enough coordinating relatives from New Zealand and South Africa.  "Helping" P. and G. means giving them their space and time to heal.  "Helping" in any other way would be for OUR benefit, not for theirs.

It sucks. 

I've been trying hard not to be overmelodramatic, because let's face it, life is WAY harder for them right now than for me, but ...well...G. probably doesn't even remember me.  And, while I realize this is the LEAST of her concerns - she is suffering from short-term memory loss and doesn't even remember that she HAS an aneurysm when she wakes up - I feel like I have already lost my best friend.

Andrew's first ever best friend, Joe. 

Her first time meeting me will not be the first time I met her.  Maybe we'll have another instant connection.  And all those long talks.  More likely, it will be awkward.  She'll be meeting a stranger.  I'll be meeting someone I already care about.  Maybe her situation - the complications, the long stay in the hospital, the months recovering with family here from South Africa - will make us meeting again an impossibility.  What am I going to do, walk up to her house while she is recovering and tell her she's my best friend?  Yeah, that'll be good. 

I'm terrified I will scare her off the minute I meet her again.  And that she won't take the chance to get to know me again.

Or can an instant connection happen twice?

I take comfort from Anita and Liesel who emailed me today.  And Sabina.  And Lindsey and Jim and Caroline and Claire.  All of who put up with long periods of internet silence - because it hurts guys, because it hurts - and then immediately jump straight back into my heart without a second thought about it.

I have to believe that true 'kindred spirits', to borrow from Anne of Green Gables, will connect no matter what, again and again and again.  There are friends who I cherish who were friends at a specific time and for a specific purpose.  But there are some who will remain friends forever, through time and space, even over oceans and continents.

Sarah holds court with Matthew, Hannan, Mia and Aidan.

Oh dear.  If I'm not going to rant and rave about the German education system, it appears I have to get 'kitschig' and sentimental.

Then again, if you're reading this, you're probably one of the ones who puts up with me for the goodness underneath.  Thanks for that.  I miss you.

Flotsam

We've discovered some unexpected flotsam on our trips to the beach here.

Flotsam, as in: 

1.the part of the wreckage of a ship and its cargo found floating on the water. Compare jetsam, lagan.

2. material or refuse floating on water.

3.useless or unimportant items; odds and ends.

4.a vagrant, penniless population: the flotsam of the city slums in medieval Europe

(taken from dictionary.com)

While I don't think of us as useless or unimportant, vagrant population fits and I like that concept of odds and ends.

And it fits better than jetsam, which as it turns out is: goods cast overboard deliberately, as to lighten a vessel or improve its stability in an emergency, which sink where jettisoned or are washed ashore. (also from dictionary.com)

Our being here is chance and good fortune, nothing deliberate about it.

The flotsam that finds its way to us, as kindred spirits with familiar accents, are other American-Australians. (African-American-Australian, Irish-American-Australian, German-American-Australian; the most important part being the Australian.) Turns out we are part of a once-unknown species that may be more prevalent in Australia than previously supposed. It's hard to tell. We're pretty scattered. We breed with the local population. (In fact, that seems to be what got most of us over here in the first place!) But more than that, we love it here so much, that we don't make waves.

If you look closely, you might be able to pick us apart from the other Australians by our goofy grins of disbelief. We just can't believe we're here. We just can't believe how lucky we are and how good we have it. (We're the ones who cry during the national anthem and take pictures of the flag.)

We do tend to cluster in small groups and exchange phone numbers. If you listen closely (and can understand our accent) you'll hear us talk about things other Australians take for granted. ''And the schools, can you believe how good the schools are?'' ''Oh yeah, it's way better for raising kids than back in the U.S.'' (And no, I haven't heard ANY of us refer to it as 'back home.' More like, 'back there'.) And, of course, ''yeah, the Australians are unbelievable. So friendly. So laid back.''

General consensus of this flotsam is that we ended up in the right place.

''Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.''

Who would have thought we'd find the American dream?

Right here in Australia. 

Why Lawnton? (Part One: Down the Stream)

Ryan and Andrew probably hadn't even reached their classrooms on their first day at Lawnton State School – a week to the day after landing on the runway in Brisbane - when the school secretary leaned over the reception area and conspiratorially called me over. She looked both ways before she popped the question that was on her mind. (Okay, maybe not, but in my mind three weeks later she did!)
''WHY LAWNTON?'' she asked.

She meant the town and not the school. (More raves about THAT later! Less than 200 kids, an engaged teaching staff, caring administrative staff AND personalized attention for EACH student? Why NOT Lawnton State School?!)

What brings a family from the United States – the bolder, louder sibling across the globe – through the wonders of Europe to land on the shores not only of Australia, and Brisbane, but of LAWNTON, a tiny suburb north of Brisbane. The mall? The wonders of Target and Big W? Lawnmowers on Sunday? (YAY – Sundays as they SHOULD be! But more on that later too!)

I'm beginning to realize that 'Row, row, row your boat...gently down the stream'' really DOES say more about life than most people ever pick up on. (Also that sooner or later I will have to begin spelling realize 'realise' but baby steps on the personal growth here.)

There is a current to our lives, and clinging to branches or escaping onto flotsam and jetsam is only a temporary – and false – sense of control over where the great river of life is bringing us.
Have you ever felt that you were in exactly the right place at the right time, that you were EXACTLY where you were MEANT to be?

When my shrink asked me that over 15 months ago, in September 2009, I cried. (I cried a lot in 2009 so it came as no surprise!) The only time I had ever experienced that before (and I now know that I'm lucky that I have ever experienced it at all) was 20 years before, on a bus in Kenya. My new friend, Kristy, shared it too, as we sat together in the back of the bus taking us to the rest of our lives. THIS was where we were meant to be. THIS was right.

20 years later, in Holzgerlingen, I cried. If THAT was who I was, then I was lost. Because there was no way I was going to get back onto that bus in Kenya with four kids and bills to pay.

That month I decided to look into jobs in Australia, a continent that, quite frankly, had never really interested me before. English colony. Bah.

But Damon could get citizenship there. It had a universal health care system (unlike Germany whose system REQUIRES all citizens to be insured but doesn't offer them all that privilege – it's an obligation, NOT a privilege, which - in my mind at least- are polar opposites). It spoke English. And it had jobs, jobs, jobs. Unlike Europe, it recognizes MY degree. Unlike Europe, it respects Damon's degree from the USA. And, again unlike Europe, it encouraged skilled immigrants with programs such as tax incentives for first-time home buyers in Australia.

And the damn education system didn't condemn my daughter to prostitution at the age of 8. (And while this might seem like a gross exaggeration, where else is an underappreciated sensitive soul going to go in an outdated feudal system that already has her pegged to finish school at the age of 14?!) Hey – at least the prostitutes have a pension plan. And health insurance!

So that when I went back to my shrink and told her we were moving to Australia, it didn't take much time until she was convinced it was the right move for us. (I do like to think she wasn't just trying to get rid of a difficult patient because, frankly, we had lots of laughs too and compared to the rest of the saps I saw in there I was a bright ray of sunshine!)

My shrink was on board before I was entirely on myself. (I still wasn't sure I wasn't running ''from'' something instead of ''to'' something.)

''Oh.'' she said. Her face lit up with understanding and she visibly relaxed and settled back into her chair as if she'd finally put the last piece into the puzzle of my discontent.

''You're an adventurer.''

And from that moment on all she did was give me the tools to let go of my flotsam and jetsam and to row, row, row...........

Not exactly the answer the school secretary was looking for that first Friday at Lawnton SS. Not the answer I gave. (Although, in the rewind of my mind's eye I like to see me leaning casually across the reception window talking to her about the movement of my life, as she wearily begins to slump and fade into her chair, politely regretting that she ever asked me in the first place!)

Not what I meant to write about either.

Unfortunately this is what happens when I don't clear out my brain's cobwebs on a regular basis. (And who knew they could build up so quickly up there?!)

Why Lawnton? Because it's where the river took me.

I call Anita that October for our weekly two hour pre-English group chat....

Not Your Average Mom

I have my days.

Soccer days, baseball days, days at the barn and days baking for the class picnic.

Like a "good" mom.

Then there are the other days.

Days I don't feel like doing what I am "supposed" to do.

So the kids eat icecream BEFORE lunch. And get to play with body paint. (By which I mean regular watercolors applied to back and belly.) Or get to jump up and down on the bed naked.

They get to take water outside to the sandbox. And sand inside to their play kitchen.

The rules are "be kind" and "try not to make too too much of a mess."

My kids ARE kind. And they know how to grab the paper towels and wipe up most spills before I find out about them.

So, I'm fairly pleased with the results.

Today we got ready for Germany's first World Cup Soccer match in South Africa on Sunday. Against Australia. As a family boasting passports to both, we had a family discussion on who to root for. Damon, our almost-native Australian, at first convinced the older two to root for Australia. But, believe it or not, I REALLY REALLY LOVE my German team. Those boys were with me - and all of Germany - the summer Aidan and Matthew were born.

So I put on my Michael Ballack T-shirt, number 13. (Don't sweat it, honey, you'll still be hot playing for a German team instead of in England.) Then I pulled out the German flag face paint. Both cheeks. Andrew promptly switched sides at the sight of the facepaint and then I painted the Australian flag on Ryan. (The southern cross on her face, a semblance of the British flag on her left forehead and streaks of blue all over.)

I've promised to paint them for school again tomorrow. Can't wait to hear how Ryan's day goes! But then again, she's not your average kid either!

Just now she came to me - the Southern Cross really suits her, by the way - and asked me what to do with her pink, plastic Disney princess thermos.

"It's starting to get a little moldy at the top here," she pointed out. "Should I just throw it away?"

THAT'S MY GIRL!

(Although I did take it from her and wash it in the sink - I am SO PROUD she has been listening to our talks on 'not taking it with you.')

Adventures await. And I do believe our "not supposed" to days have prepared my kids for all the fun that lies ahead. Rules - and kitchen gadgets - are nice sometimes. But they're not ALL life has to offer. My kids know that.

You're Not In Germany Anymore

Damon had an interesting experience while in line at the bakery the other morning. He was multitasking, walking the dog at the same time, but that generally doesn't seem to be a problem in Europe. Damon looked for a ''no dogs'' sign and, not finding one, simply brought the dog in with him. I know. I know. But this is France. ''Le petit chien joli'' can under no circumstances be forced to wait alone, outside. It just isn't civilized.

It's like that all over Europe, Germany included. ( I don't know about Great Britain but, going by the old adage that the British love their dogs and horses as well as, or more than, their own children well.....) I'm still mildly appalled at seeing dogs at the mall, in the shops, and at restaurants. Somehow, it doesn't seem right. But...since it generally HELPS my situation, I'm not going to complain about it. We don't take Wolfy to the mall or to any fancy restaurants, but he's allowed at the beer gardens and ….in an emergency will come into the bank or post office.

A lot of smaller neighborhood groceries, bakeries and butchers, don't allow dogs. But they always provide a hitching post out front.

Europe is very dog friendly.

Wolfy was sucking up all of the attention while in line at the bakery. He gets very still, and puts on a demure, love me, love me, can't help but love me, look that dog-lovers can't resist. He had four little German girls swooning all over him the day before. He really knows how to milk it.

Damon was practicing his French and flirting with the French lady at the cash register. (He didn't tell me this last part but, I know. I've seen him in action!) ''Le petite chien est tres joli. Et quel genti aussi. Awwwww!'' Does this really need to be translated? The French were swooning over him. ''Quel age?'' (How old? And forgiveness from anyone who speaks French, I can only think of the question in Creole right now?! ''Ki laj li genyen?'' for anyone interested.)

It continued for quite a while. The line was long. The mood – and pace – were French. It seemed like every French family camping here also needed their baguettes and croissants and pain-au-chocolate. Fresh out of the oven. Warm and flakey like only the French can bake ém. (And the northern African immigrant who won the award for best French bakery this year. Globilization – you go girl! Seems even the French agree that anyone who can make French pastries counts as a real Frenchman, regardless of race or ethnicity.)

Appears that most of the German families were home eating Muesli. Either too cheap or too health conscious to spring for white bread, no matter how light and buttery.

I know. It's not fair to pick on ém. More than anything, I've noticed that countries define themselves by their breakfast pastries. The French have theirs, light and flakyt. The Germans eat brotchen. (Also delicious, hearty and crisp.) Americans have donuts, sugary and fattening, but like nothing else in the world. Maybe the first meal of the day helps define who we are as a people.

But they make it too easy sometimes.

As Wolfy, and Damon, basked in the adulation of the French, the woman in front of Damon obviously couldn't take it anymore. She turned to Damon and, in heavily-accented English, loudly told him that the dog didn't belong in there. The line got quiet. Because the accent was quite obviously NOT French and because the sentiments, and the abruptness, were even less so. Damon told her to mind her own business and leave him alone. Not very polite either but....how annoying to be told what to do by a GERMAN in a French shop.

Of course she was German. If she'd been Italian I wouldn't be writing this story. (What do the Italians eat for breakfast anyway?)

After the lady left, the French slapped Damon on the back and congratulated him. ''Don't worry about it man'' they said. (Or something close to it!) ''We're damn sick and tired of the Germans coming down here and acting like they own the place.'' (Insert line about when the Germans really DID think they owned the place!) And, rather patiently from the women, ''it's not their fault. The Germans are just odd that way.''

I've always said it. The French have a lot in common with the Americans. (Although neither side wants to admit it.) We are both scared to speak a second language. (It's not only arrogance, folks, it's fear.) We both value individual liberty over common law. Both of us fought revolutionary wars, against kings, for 'liberte, fraternite,egalite.'' It's something the Germans wouldn't understand. French liberty emphasizes the individual even more than the American does. If a Frenchman isn't following the rules, noone corrects him, the way they do in Germany. Its almost as if the laws and signs are a suggestion, rather than a command. And there is nothing to compare it to in the German psyche. Germans need their rules.

In the same way, the German old-world structural heirarchy makes ''egalite'' an impossibility. But, playing by American rules here, that everyone is created equal, I don't really notice. I do know, however, that it pisses my German cousin, and a lot of other German businessmen, off that we Americans come over here so darn friendly and smiling and shaking hands and being nice to everyone. Who do we think we are?

I've seen German ''fraternite'' only once. June/July 2006 when the German soccer team rose to the finals in the World Cup held in Germany. Germany charmed the world that summer. We need more of that. The jokes say that the only two times the Germans ever felt national unity, they started two world wars. But I'll be the first to agree that that has got to change. When Americans see eachother we practically fall all over eachother like long lost relatives, irregardless of the fact that we've never met. The French are a little more dignified, but smile warmly, secure in the knowledge that they are countrymen, The Germans, I swear it, are sizing eachother up to detemine if they are going to have competition for the choice spot at the pool.

And now it hits me. The French hate a bully. They fight for the underdog. In this case, our Wolfy. In others, our kids. Six years ago, when I was flying from France to the USA alone with Ryan and two year old Andrew, I had a heated exchange with an older (French) man sitting in the row ahead of us on the airplane. Let's face it. His seat sucked. Andrew was on his best behavior, but he was two. This meant playing with cars, listening to stories and singing nursery rhymes. Apparently my singing was not impressive. When the guy turned around and asked me to keep my kid under control I apologized that I was doing my best. I empathized with him and told him I was very sorry. He told me that wasn't good enough. I suggested that if he could do better, he was welcome to try. I also, in a show of support, suggested he take advantage of the free red wine the airline was offering. I sure as hell was. He told me I was a ''typical American'' , unwilling to accept responsibility. I told him he was a typical man, one who had obviously never spent any time with the three kids he claimed to have raised.

The stewardess came by and told me not to worry about it. Later, as we were exiting the plane, more than five other passengers (women, to be sure) made it a point to come up to me and show their support. ''You did just fine,'' they said. Loudly. So that my antagonist would be sure to hear. ''We didn't even know you had two kids sitting with you. That man had no right to treat you that way. Good for you for sticking up for yourself.'' My French was better then, but I remember the message. On a plane full of French people, against a French antagonist, people took my side. It had nothing to do with nationality. Probably more to do with the solidarity of motherhood. But even more to do with right and wrong.,

Damon's incident at the bakery has less to do with nationality than it at first appears. (Although,let's face it, sixty years isn't going to erase centuries of rivalry over land and domination.) The fact that the woman was German, was unfortunate, for her and for the reputation of her countrymen. But she might just as well have been a well-intentioned, bumbling American. The point is that we don't own the countries that we come to visit. The campers are German and English and Dutch as well as French. Even a Lithuanian license plate and some Americans. You hear as much, or more, German and English, than French. (It was worse when we vacationed in Italy, or in Mallorca. It makes you realize why the Germans always look so shocked when you remind them that German isn't a world language.)

But this is THEIR country. And you play by THEIR rules.

What fun is a holiday in France, if you've never even bothered to leave Germany? You can go to France, and to Italy, and to Mallorca without ever leaving the comfort of your home. Book through a German travel company and you'll never have to hear a foreign language or try a foreign meal.

Try leaving your (German or American) self behind the next time you travel. You'll be amazed at how much fun you have. My goodness, at least try learning a LITTLE of the local language. (Don't look so shocked when I tell you that French really IS a world language!)

And, word to the wise, if everyone else is admiring the little dog in the bakery – in THEIR OWN COUNTRY – try joining in instead of antagonizing everyone.

Personally, I agree wholeheartedly that pets don't belong in a bakery. But....in general I think, not only in France, being friendly gets you a lot farther than being right.

Puzzle Pieces

My friend Lori came up with the answer last night over pizza.

"You see, people in a society fit themselves together like puzzle pieces," Lori explained. "And, if through the process of personal growth and discovery, your puzzle piece changes shape, well, they just don't know what to do with you anymore."

Oh. It's that simple. And here I was making a big fuss over it all.

I just don't fit in.

Well, thank goodness for that!

I can only apologize to all of those I had fooled all this time. I looked like a puzzle piece, I acted like a puzzle piece, I did all the things that puzzle pieces are supposed to do. I tried to pretend, especially to myself, that being a puzzle piece was what it was all about and that I really wanted to be a puzzle piece.

So it really is all my fault that the rest of the puzzle pieces don't know what to make of me now that I've decided to be Playdough.

Playdough is messy. It has no form, no specific plan, no instructions on exactly what you are supposed to do with it. It comes in bright separate containers, the colors all nice and clearly defined. But the more you play with it, and the more creative you become, the more the colors stick together and the uglier and messier it gets.

Once you start with the Playdough, it will never go back neatly into its properly labelled containers.

My apologies for getting sticky all over your carefully constructed puzzle.

It's a hell of a mess to clean up.

We're Not Going To Take It!

I've taught the kids some "Twisted Sister" lyrics this afternoon. And then we all practiced headbanging - which, it turns out, hurts my neck more than it did 15 - 20 years ago - jumping off the furniture and yes, defying authority.

What have I been thinking? Here I am, trying to teach my kids to fit into a society that actually will benefit more if my kids don't try to fit into it.

Let's face it, I was really self-conscious, as an American who expects immigrants to adapt to America, that I should try to integrate into our adopted country as well. Learn the language. Respect the culture.

Yada yada yada.

Been there. Done that. Bought the Lederhosen.

Ryan (yes Ryan again, I don't want to get into it) came home almost in tears because her bicycle didn't pass inspection again this week. Let me explain. The fourth-graders in our part of Germany all study, and practice, and then are tested, on bicycle safety and traffic laws. By the police. Which all sounds nice and harmless and very civic minded - until you see the list of bike requirements.

I told Ryan she could tell the police officers that if they expected every child to have a safety kit - including first-aid, repair and pump - then they should feel free to go ahead and provide one. I also told her to tell them that her family didn't feel they needed one, since we just stopped and asked a German for theirs if we ever ran into any trouble. And, I have to be fair and honest here; whenever any of my children gets injured on the playground, two or three people come running to us with first aid kits. And we have asked a passing bicyclist for the use of his pump when one of our tires went flat; of course he had one and he was glad to help.

Poor Ryan. It has to be the year she takes a bicycle class from the cops that I decide to start resisting authority again.

On the other hand, her bike finally passed inspection on week three when she explained to the police that, although her rear light was not the required red, the light blue showed up in the dark just as well. Reasoning with the police! In Germany! You go girl!

The problem lately has been unreasonable demands/expectations from the school. Too much homework. Money for books. The bike thing. But the other problem is that the other mothers just go along with it. They bitch and they moan. Their lives suck too. But it's the way it's always been. It's the way it's going to be. And it's just something they have to get through.

Germans may not like the rules, but they will follow them to a T.

Which I why I finally called an Italian mother about the book thing. I had just received a letter from the school telling me that my daughter had destroyed a book to such an extent that we were being required to pay for it. Huh? Come again? I had seen the book in question - albeit last year - and never noticed any damage. Had she torn the pages out, defaced it with doodles, scrawled all over the margins? Nope. It's a little tattered, dog-eared from use. But the way the letter was worded in German was as if she had intentionally destroyed it. And it begged our forgiveness but was sure we would understand and forward the required money. A German friend of mine said it was standard and that she'd had to do the same thing the year before. It was the school's way of getting new books subsidized a bit from the parents, she figured.

My Italian friend and I saw it differently. "I've been here ten years," she said, " and it's time to draw a line and tell them when they are wrong. I'm not just going along anymore." How did I even know she had received a letter about a book? Because her daughter and mine were chastised in front of the entire class. Her daughter is also distraught that her bike hadn't passed inspection yet either.

The police had told the children that if their bikes hadn't passed inspection by next week they would no longer be allowed to participate in the program.

Let me repeat that. The police had told the children that if their bikes hadn't passed inspection by next week they would no longer be allowed to participate in the program.

The authority figures are threatening - and shaming - the kids in school. Is it only the tea-dumping Americans who see something wrong with that?

I could obviously start in on a rant about the German mentality - again - or I could just teach my kids that it's not only okay to be different, but that I expect them to defy the status quo when they feel it is wrong. I tried it this afternoon. "The Germans are crazy." I told them. "But you have a choice about who you want to be. You're only a quarter German which still gives you a fighting chance." My sarcasm , fortunately, goes right over their heads at the moment.

We talked about doing what was right, even when the powers that be tell you not to. We talked about freedom and individuality and standing up for yourself; about being who you are and not who the system is trying to force you into being.

It may be even harder for Andrew than for Ryan. At least she never stands a chance of being what they want her to be. Andrew came home from school with his first math test. 52 questions in 20 minutes. The test that took Ryan 22 minutes - and she got half right. He not only got all 52 questions right, he did it in 9 minutes and then had time to draw an intricate mural on the back. How do I know it took him 9 minutes? Because it turns out they are timing - and praising - and comparing - and therefore - once again, shaming, the other kids in the class who aren't meeting the gold standard.

It's easy to be the golden child in Germany.

Which is why he's letting his hair grow and learning to play electric guitar!

Third Grade Math Part Four: Accepting Ryan

She's the child the fairies sent me. You can see it in her eyes and in her shy, quiet, crooked smile. If the slight build isn't a tip-off, I notice it when she steps back, withdraws from the action, or self-consciously stays in the action, knowing she isn't fitting in, aware she doesn't quite fit in, but not knowing what she can do about it. It's as if she's here on borrowed time, just slightly out of focus, not entirely here with the rest of us.

It's not that I'm afraid to lose her; I'm scared we never truly have her here with us at all.

This week I'm fending it off from her well-intentioned teacher. She too senses that Ryan's thoughts aren't always here with us on earth. She calls it lack of focus. Is there even a phrase for "flights of fancy" in German? Fantasy. Imagination. They have no place in a focused German grade school. Even the stories are judged - and graded - on how believeable they are, not how imaginative or creative. And of course, grammar counts way more than story line.

But my anger at the system - and although there IS plenty to be angry about, it's another essay entirely - is only an excuse for the fact that it simply has no place for someone like my Ryan. You either have it - focus, intelligence, maturity - or you don't. And this is decided for you in the first four grades, before you hit the age of 11.

Despite assurances from many friends, German and American, including a musician and two physicians, that they didn't "come into their own" until after the age of 12 or 13, I'm afraid they may be missing the point. The assurance is that everything will be okay. The assupmtion is that she will come into her own.

What if she's already there?

To be perfectly honest, I don't know that Ryan's imagination is, well, imaginative enough for long flights of fancy. It's more a lack of interest in what's going on around her. If she's decided it's irrelevant, nothing will convince her to pay attention. And if it doesn't have to do with horse, it's obviously irrelevant.

Instead of assuring myself that she WILL BE okay, I am becoming more and more convinced that she's just fine the way she is NOW.

It's a lot easier to do after watching her ride on a Saturday afternoon. Her lithe figure on top of a white pony, her total concentration and ease of movement, the comfort and self-assurance, the CONFIDENCE, she has on a horse - it's the only time I see her truly in the moment, the only time she truly is herself. I don't need to close my eyes to see her riding her unicorn across a field of flowers to the castle in her native fairyland.

Of course the Germans grade everything - if you can't rank it, then it isn't worth doing - and there is an accreditation system in place for riding just as for everything else (swimming, running, judo, cycling etc.). But my guess is that this won't hurt Ryan, that this is one grading system she'll do well in (as she did in swimming) but more importantly, that she's never really let the grades bother her up until now anyway.

Not to care what others think; this child has a courage I have yet to learn.

Of course her teacher sees it differently. And she means well. A child of this world does need to learn to read, and write (preferably intelligeably), and presumably do a modicum of arthimetic (really?).

But it's up to me to make sure that she doesn't forget how to ride a unicorn.