Sage Advice Revised

I will never forget the advice my Peace Corps liason gave me back in Haiti.

"Lower your expectations." she told me.

My first and my last.

Never ever ever EVER forget it because it was the worst advice I'd ever ever EVER heard. 

Although well meant and, in retrospect, rather suited to life working in government.

I prefer the poster hanging in the Reflection Room at Lawnton State School.

"A goal is a dream with a deadline."

(Have I mentioned how much I love this school?!)

Traveling light!  (And yes, I am missing one!)

The thing is that my expectations are what drive me to achieve.  I accomplish more -make those dreams into a reality - because I do expect more.

The fact that they are so high are also what make me feel like I can never accomplish enough, though and I like to think that this is what my Peace Corps liason was refering too. 

So that the best advice so far is printed on a little placard (still packed up in a box somewhere behind the bar) given to me by my mother.  Although I don't have to make this up, it fits nicely into the story, don't you think?!

"MAKE PEACE WITH IMPERFECTION."

Andrew's camera.  (Plight of the dolphin or the beauty of it?)

Make peace with imperfection.

I think we should stop and meditate on it.

Daily.

Hourly on days that need it.

What it means is that I don't have to clean the entire house before I sit down to write, the way I used to be able to clean my entire apartment before sitting to study for an exam in vet school.  Cathartic, yes.  Necessary?  Not if I ever want to get anything else done but clean the house.

What it means is that I have gone from needing to clean the entire house to being able to just focus on a room or two at a time.  Which has, since the arrival of more and more kids, developed into just making sure the kitchen and bathroom meet basic standards of hygiene.  And lately, just that the sink and toilet get done. 

What it means is focusing on what's really important to me despite the clutter that is life.

January 1, 2012

Accepting that the clutter will always be there, in my mind as well as in my life.

And moving beyond it. 

It doesn't mean not trying to end world hunger, but not letting it get you down when yet another natural disaster claims more innocent lives.

And, most likely because Aussies tend to like you for who you are instead of judge you for who you are not, it means you don't have to have the perfect household, car, job or children, to like yourself.

Perfection at the Peace Pagoda in South Bank

C'mon.  I know you aren't supposed to care what other people think of you, but how good can you feel about yourself if your German neighbours don't feel comfortable coming into your home unless the dishes are done?

The nice thing is that this advice also allows you to forgive them for it and move on.

To forgive yourself for what you haven't done and focus on what you have.

If life really is, as I have said, in the big, fat, hairy painful struggle  (or as Miley Cyrus has stated a bit more eloquently, it's the climb) I like that my high expectations can still be there, without bogging me down in the business of getting on with it.

Reality at same said pagoda!

Make peace with imperfection.

And discover that life really is just fine the way it is.

Sh^$*#(t!

No really. This isn't about swear words.

It isn't about getting on a half hour hay ride after an hour of waiting in line and then having your four-year-old announce he has to go peepee. (Not ours. Although German daddy did exactly what ran through my mind when his kid made the announcement!)

This is about cleaning the bathroom for guests. (Because with two four-year-old boys you DO want to clean up before your friends with two and three year olds come over.)

This is about cleaning up the bathroom for guests and then finding one of those guests on her hands and knees in front of the toilet wiping up the suspicious-looking liquid from the floor, toilet seat, walls and....well, anything in reach.

Lori had offered to clean my toilet for me when I was nine months pregnant with the twins (that and Erika offering to donate her AND her husband's blood when my platelet count was dropping are still two of the nicest things people have ever offered to do for me) but it still wasn't gratifying to actually have her do it four years later.

"What the heck happened here?" I asked.

There was a step stool pulled over to the toilet, 7 boys in the house, 4 of them under the age of four, and so anything was possible.

Oh well. The floor HAD been clean only two hours before.

It got better the following week when I was picking up the boys' room in preparation for Damon's surprise party. 11 kids expected. And some parents. I was still picking things up off the floor when Anita arrived and followed me in. Unfortunately, she and I were having such a good time talking that I forgot to pick up that suspicious little brown thing on the carpet next to the boys' mattress.

"Oh, what is that?" I asked, not at all embarrassed by now. After all, I'd already had Lori cleaning up my bathroom the week before.

Anita laughed.

About twenty minutes later her 3 year old daughter, Hannah, came out to join us on the balcony. She was accompanied by a rather strong smell. A trail of dark brown footprints followed her from the boys' room to the balcony.

Oh. I suddenly remembered what I'd forgotten to pick up.

Pour everyone some more wine and begin next to the bed with cleanup. The kids found it fascinating.

"What you doin'"

"What's it look like?

"What is that?

"Once again, what does it look like?"

The kids couldn't believe noone was getting in trouble.

The adults continued to enjoy themselves out on the balcony.

Reminding me, yet again, that it isn't about perfection.

It's about how you deal with imperfection.

Reminding me, too, that I don't need a perfect house in order to invite friends over.

Heck, it only takes one errant stream of urine to turn my clean bathroom into a flood zone anyway.

I believe it was Erma Bombeck who said, "cleaning the house while you have children in it is like shovelling the driveway while it's still snowing."

If only it were that pretty!

Push-Ups

I've discovered - and succumbed to - a new disease. It's not writer's block. I am writing like crazy, every chance I get. Notebook at the ready. Rewrites not being rewritten. New stories and ideas. Old stories with new twists. The creativity is all there, spewing out....unfiltered, unedited, partially processed.

Man, have I got GREAT ideas to share. I got stuff you just GOTTA hear.

Except...well...I'm going to call it EDITOR'S block.

Don't you, the reader, deserve MORE than my unedited stream of consciousness? Do you REALLy want to know how I feel about the school system in Germany? Is my view on the nature of life and change REALLY something you need to hear? Shouldn't I try to pull it together a bit more, tighten it up, make some connections, wait for something REALLY and truly witty or insightful?

Do you really want to read unprocessed ME?

Thank goodness I have the cure for this disease too. Monthly Writers' Group in Stuttgart. Phew.

"So, what's up with the blog lately, Christine? You doing any writing?"

"Well yeah, but.....see above paragraph."

"Oh. That's you thinking like an editor, Christine." says Jim. (And he should know!)

Jim then proceeds to tell me about creative push-ups, the work we need to put into anything, the preparation, the PROCESS...just the sheer act of getting it down on paper, snapping a photo, sitting to an instrument and playing what sometimes amounts to sheer crap, in order to buff ourselves up for the good stuff.

The thing is you don't need to show anyone this stuff, but you do need to keep on doing it.

And POSTING the blog makes me keep on writing.

So that this is what you get; the good, the bad, the ugly, the irrelevent, the uninteresting....oh and every now and then, if we are lucky, the seeds of something really good.

So that my job is to write.....

It probably is a similar thing to writer's block, this fear of posting. Even ten years ago you just didn't write it if it sucked. Now you can post anything on the Internet in seconds flat. With no discrimination as to value.

So that I can panic and try to present a perfect finished piece....and hence, never post anything. Or let you all see the worst of it and decide for yourself what to keep and what to throw out.

Funny thing there is, and I believe this is where an editor and an audience comes in, is that some of the stuff I am most truly embarrassed of (honestly, did you REALLY want to hear about the town hall meeting in ALTDORF?!)is some of the stuff that people really want to hear. (Answer: yes!)

My blog is process. My main character is myself. (I don't believe I ever even pretended it was about the kids. It was about me learning from the kids.) I learn as I write: about writing, about what people like to read, and about myself.

And it turns out I'm a fairly interesting and likeable character...or at least a character that keeps 'em guessing and talking!

Is my novel out there? I've started three this year.

Do you deserve better than my ramblings? Sure.

But unless I do these pushups, and do them regularly....the stories won't be written. I want to write fiction. I want funny, witty, characters people will relate to. And I want them to say something about the human condition - without actually coming out and hitting you over the head with it.

Until I get there thanks for helping me count the pushups.

The Path of Change

What a ninny I am.

My advice to Brenda - who is into harvesting and canning season as well as preparing next year's school lessons for her six children. "Sometimes the only way to do it is one day at a time. Essentials. Like feeding and clothing the kids. Priorities."

Good advice.

Like she needs to hear it from me. Do as I say Brenda, not as I do.

Advice from Lynn - talking me down off the ledge this afternoon after a morning of trying to pack and clear out the house - and not getting it done fast enough to suit me. "Take it one step at at time. Make a list and check it off."

Problem is I am light years ahead in getting rid of stuff. I started last winter. I know where the Red Cross is. I sell on Ebay. And there IS always the dump.

Noone leaves my house without a goody bag of books and puzzles and kitchen appliances nowadays. I'm even hosting a Tuesday morning playgroup where I intend to seduce my friends into taking home all of my extra kitchen gadgets and cooking supplies.

So that the problem isn't the organization, but the expectations.

Problem is I'd like to get it all done and over with. NOW. TODAY. THIS MORNING even.

I am really no good at process-oriented thinking. I'm a real goal-oriented person. So that knowing WHEN the stuff will be taken care of isn't enough. I want it done and over with already.

Either that or, as I explained to Tracy, I want it all in nice, neat little bundles, organized and sorted and labelled. Clean, tidy. CONTROLLED.

Okay, so it's a control thing too. And it really sucks not having any.

Either I embrace the PATH of change, and not just the results..... or I am in for an ugly six weeks with 4 kids, a hubby and lots and lots of stuff to GET OUTTA HERE! (Honestly WAY easier in the USA where you can dump it all at the Red Cross any time of day or night, any day of the week. Or have a yard sale.)

The path. Living in the moment. Embracing the change as it is happening. Living in the midst of it. I'm going to give it a shot. I'm going to try to enjoy the PROCESS of moving, instead of looking forward to the final result. Seeing the next six weeks as an adventure, instead of steps toward a goal.

Otherwise I lose six weeks.

For the record, today while I was whining to Lynn about getting nothing accomplished, I had already learned how to sell everything on Ebay, loaded on six items, sold a few more on a local site, done two loads of laundry, one load of dishes, including handwashing pots and pans, walked the dog, fed four children breakfast, gotten Andrew out to soccer camp, Ryan ready for riding and then both bathed and fed again afterwards. Damon had been carpooling and grocery shopping with the little ones. And we'd put together moving boxes, filled four of them, dismantled a desk in Andrew's room and.....

managed to breathe and do a little yoga.

Obviously not enough yoga.

So that I am certainly not qualified to be giving advice on priorities and making it through the day one step at a time.

Me, I've got to remember to breathe through all of this. Really breathe. And enjoy the kids - and being with the kids - instead of shunting them to the side while I focus on organizing their stuff.

Stuff sucks. Less is better. There's another lesson learned. (Enough so that we don't buy the same amount of $*%& on the other end? Let's wait and see!)

Embracing change, enjoying the path.

It'd be easier if the path weren't blocked by all those moving boxes!

Creative Containment

I knew I had a good picture for my last entry on ironing. I remembered it well. Both boys in the laundry basket. Cute. Fitting.

But looking back made me remember what else we used that laundry basket for. As well as toy crates, shopping crates and whatever else we could stick them in that would keep them happy - and contain them a bit - for just a few moments longer. (My guess is the above photo of Andrew and Matthew was taken as I was trying to get ready to go to English Group one Wednesday, a process that took 45 minutes to an hour when the twins were young, and required the multiple bags you see in the background, plus lots of patience and creativity to amuse the kids while I packed them.)

The other day I sat Talitha down on the floor. Next to another mom. And walked away. (To help somebody else to the bathroom I hope and not to help myself to another glass of wine!) "Hey." Beulah shouted. "What the heck are you doing?" She looked at her 8 month old, sitting alone and unassisted on the floor. I looked at her 8 month old, sitting alone and unassisted on the floor. "Going to the bathroom?" I might have ventured. (I sincerely don't think I would have put a baby down for a mere glass of wine.) "Uh yeah. She doesn't sit up alone yet" Beulah said. To her credit, she was laughing. (And has let me hold Talitha since.)

Oh wow. And I'm a mother of four. Shouldn't I know better than that?

Well, then again. I'm a mother of four. And twins. Looking back at photos, those boys were on their own way earlier than most. The whole survival thing, I guess.

Andrew never sat. Or crawled. He just got up and walked. At seven months. Honestly. I have photos if I can ever figure out how to post them. I'm not bragging. He didn't speak until he was four. Too busy running circles around the other normal children! (I remember him literally running a circle around his first girlfriend, in Geneva, when they were both one year old. She was asking her mother - in perfect sentences - why that boy didn't sit down. And picking out letters of the alphabet out of the book in front of her. To keep her amused until she learned to stand on her own!)

The twins were up and about early too. And we used just about anything we could to keep them happy and contained. Necessity is the mother of invention. Hence the crates and pillows and anything else we could get them.





My best trick was the laundry basket in the tub, although I'm sure it's been done before. You see, both boys were sitting, but the tub was slippery. And Aidan was a lot stronger than Matthew. I was having a hard time keeping them both amused - because that is the primary reason to bathe twins. Why give yourself all that trouble otherwise? And above water at the same time. Aidan would stand. Matthew would try. Aidan would balance himself on Matthew's head. And both of them would be under water. (They are FANTASTIC swimmers now, both of them!)

But they cried a lot. And that didn't make me happy.

So I reinvented the laundry basket as a bathtub seat. Plastic. Holes for the water to go through. Sides for Matthew to hold on to. Sides to keep Aidan from using Matthew for balance. It worked.

I don't have a lot of pictures - only the one on top - but I was still more preoccupied with keeping the two of them above water than with taking pictures to prove that it was possible. (Note also that that is ANDREW in the tub with Matthew, so my guess is I had a few extra seconds to snap a photo while Aidan was behind me playing in the toilet bowl.)

They spent a lot of times in crates and baskets between the ages of 6 months and a year. Then Aidan started walking and the months of running in two different directions began. That was fun too. I spent one summer at the Hildrizhausen pool tyring to keep Aidan off the concrete steps while at the same time checking to see that Matthew didn't spend too much time with his head underwater in the kiddy pool.




Really. One time Andrew - then just five - jumped into the adult pool and forgot he could swim. It took me less than thirty seconds to gather up Aidan and Matthew from the grass, strap them into their stroller, vault over the chain link fence and fish Andrew out. By then he was already remembering he had taken a swim class.

The few other mothers there looked at me like I was nuts - and irresponsible - to be there with two infants and two other children besides. Look at how long it had taken me to rescue my five year old. Plus I'd left the seven year old in charge of the babies as I vaulted the fence. I ignored the looks. I do well in emergencies. Leaving two 10 month old babies on their own wouldn't have helped anyone. So I strapped them in. And hey, would have been nice if any one of the other mothers had stopped pouring sun lotion onto their own - single - child - and perhaps offered to help me with at least one of mine.

But this isn't about that. It's about creative containment.

And the good times we've had.

"I need to learn how to be more relaxed - like you." Lynn told me the other day. Then I met Catherine at the pool yesterday. "I can't believe you are so relaxed." she told me. I like that word. I like that impression. And I like that I really AM more relaxed now, after years of experimenting with what works for me.

Lynn's turned her driveway into the best play area ever. I've turned one of our porches into a sandbox and water play area.

Creative containment doesn't have to be perfect.

It just has to keep us happy!

Have A Hairy Christmas

Life is in the big, fat, hairy, messy, ugly, painful struggle.

Damon and I took the kids to the Esslingen Medieval Christmas Market on a Sunday two weeks ago. We hadn't been in three years, not since the year Aidan and Matthew were six months old and we dressed them in their matching Santa outfits (courtesy of Grandpa back in the U.S.), tucked them snugly and warmly into their double stroller and proudly - but slowly - pushed our way through the merry masses. Or maybe that was in Horb.

In Bebenhausen that same year, the market took place within the walls of a real medieval cloister, making for fantastic ambiance but also making it a two person job to maneuver the double stroller around the courtyard. (Read: Lots of stairs, but no double strollers 500 years ago!) And Stuttgart's internationally renowned (internationally in Europe at least) market has been out of the question since Andrew got pushed off the kiddy-train when he was two. By an adult.

When Aidan and Matthew hit 18 months, their second Christmas, we tried out the Christmas market at kindergarten, where we promptly lost sight of them, and the two others, in the amazingly large throng of people. (Germany does Christmas really really well - Christmas events, in any shape or size, are heavily attended.) We ended up huddling together inside the kindergarten building for warmth, and safety, as they both threw tantrums on the floor. In their snowsuits, I remember it well. Most people looked on in shock and bewilderment. Shouldn't we do something? Like what? The exit was blocked, the evening was dark, and we were stuck until the Gluhwein ran out. The other twin mom, four years ahead of me, just smiled in sympathy and understanding.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that we ventured out this year at all. We'd hit the Tuebingen Chocolate Festival two weeks earlier, on a Friday afternoon when it wasn't too too crowded yet, and done okay. By which I mean Damon and I swallowed our ennui at yet ANOTHER quaint old German marketplace (which really are very pretty!) and the kids swallowed their disappointment at not being allowed to stay home and play computer games. First stop, chocolate Santas, eaten on the steps of the famous Tuebingen church. Next, chocolate covered marshmallows on a stick. (I know, I know! And in health-conscious Germany too!) On to chocolate covered waffles. Topped off with steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the steps of the fountain in the old town square, in front of the pretty painted Rathaus. If nothing else, it got us out of the house for a few hours.

Determined to appreciate the beauty of a German Christmas, despite the Scrooge-like thoughts running through our brains, ("It's too cold. It'll be too crowded. Been there, done that, drank the Gluhwein.") Damon and I summoned up genuine holiday enthusiasm for the Esslingen market this year, our favorite of all those that we've visited. The ground was blanketed in a light carpet of white, thanks to the first snowfall of the year the night before. And the temperature hovered at 0C/32F, surely not all that unbearable if we dressed ourselves appropriately. We just needed to pull ourselves out of our winter stupor and get out the snow clothes.

Snowpants. Check. Snowboots. Check. Gloves (times six). Check. Hats and scarves. Protesting nine year old. Grumpy seven year old. Two happy three year olds. Damon and I were psyched too. Hot Gluhwein! And we knew just where the log fire was.

We arrived in Esslingen, cheerfully Christmas-carolling our way out of the parking lot and into the old section of town, Andrew bitching and moaning the entire way. (A new one for us; Ryan sang and danced happily along. What do we have, one good mood between the two of them?!) But by the time we reached the market - and the edge of the crowd - it was COLD. Bitter, icy, windy, gray, cloudy cold. "Come on kids, some hot food and a fire will warm you right up." we optimistically chimed. But, to be honest, the thought of standing around a barrel with strangers, in the cold, eating food off a stick, was less than thrilling. It was going to take a heck of a lot of Gluhwein. Andrew wanted to go to Starbucks, the familiar green sign a welcome beacon of warmth amidst the stately centuries-old buildings.

But we perservered. Flammkuchen, hot from the oven, cold almost immediately, eaten around a barrel with friendly strangers who offered to take our picture for us. (Turns out they were from England, basking in the tropical warmth of a German Christmas.) Pig on a stick, always a classic. Potatoes that failed to pass as french fries to Aidan and Matthew. No drinks - it was just too darn cold. Starbucks was looking good.

The kids had their typical Christmas market view of what our friend Jay, now warmly spending Christmases in Virginia, calls "asses and elbows." So, still trying to make the best of it, I took Aidan and Matthew by the hand, past a crowd of fur-wearing ancient warriors and their Land's End wearing kids, threading our way amongst wild-looking Vikings freely interspersed with matching retired couples, to try to catch a glimpse of the jugglers in the center of the marketplace. It was optimism overcoming common sense. (Which is a good thing, and entirely necessary if you are attempting to enjoy a German Christmas market with four children under the age of ten.)

I tried, I really did. Matthew on my shoulders. Aidan in my arms. Both so bulky in their snowsuits that I was barely able to bend over (with Matthew hanging on for dear life!) to pick Aidan up at all. And then their bulk worked against us as their layers repelled one another like magnets. I tried to hold Aidan at arm's lenght, the closet the snowsuits allowed him to get, but he was just too heavy even with the extra hours I'd been putting in at the gym. He slid down and Matthew gratefully followed. I was laughing at the absurdity of the situation, not at all angry at the failure, just satisfied with myself for the attempt.

And then it finally hit me. Words of wisdom for tourists everywhere, something I think the Germans must have figured out long ago. GERMAN CHRISTMAS MARKETS AREN'T FOR CHILDREN!! Sure, they have an occasional kiddy ride (the train Andrew got pushed off of in Stuttgart) and Esslingen actually has an entire section devoted to children's activities such as candle making (over a hot fire) and axe throwing ('nuf said!) One- or two - kids would be bearable for an hour or two. But as a family activity? It's like bringing your kids to an Irish pub on St. Patrick's Day - in Boston. For the culture. We meant well, American tourists bound and determined to show their kids the best Europe has to offer, but sensible German families with kids were home baking home-made cookies - or had ditched the kids with Oma and Opa.

In the crowded medieval center of Esslingen though, I found the Christmas I'd been searching for. Christmas found me, thoroughly defeated, miserably cold, hemmed in on all sides by asses and elbows.

Life, for me at least, isn't about the perfect holiday moment. In striving for perfection, perfect memories, perfect home-made crafts and cookies, I'm missing the real thing itself. Life lies in the attempt, not in the accomplishment. Life is in the trying.


Life is in the big, fat, hairy, messy, ugly, painful struggle.


Have a big, fat, hairy Christmas!!! Love from the Connors

Connor Moments - Potty Training

I'm going to call them "Connor moments", moments that so perfectly define the craziness in my life as wife and mother.

Since I've kept my own last name legally (frankly, I never found the time to bother with changing all the school certificates and passports) - this also conveniently separates the real, true me from the absurdity of my present life.

Connor moments don't define as much as point out the ironies of life in the day-to-day struggle for perfection. They bring me back to earth just when I think things are going well, make me realize that things ARE going well even if they aren't perfectly, and make me laugh at myself and the world. I don't know if I grow from them, but I certainly find myself dying to share them with family and friends.

I had my fill of them last week.

Imagine our English playgroup with the twins on Wednesday. For those who hadn't read my blog on potty-training, it became fairly obvious pretty quickly, since Aidan and Matthew and I spent a good amount of time out of the room and in the bathroom. Aidan DID have to go once, the rest of the trips were outings of interest. "Oh, are you potty training the twins?" - this after our third trip to the mysterious and exciting world of bathrooms outside the home. I couldn't help bragging - a pretty sure sign a Connor moment is bound to follow soon. "Yes, and we've come home from kindergarten wearing the same outfits we went in, two days in a row now, both of them." I fairly beamed and considered myself the model of moderm motherhood.

Next imagine the end of playgroup, one and a half hours later. No - both twins are still dry - an ending that simple wouldn't be worthy to call itself a true Connor moment.

The crowning moment arrived when the older children join us for the end of the session, and my seven year old walks into the room with the telltale wet spot down the front of his shorts - and T-shirt.

Irony, humility, and perspective all in one - that's what defines a Connor moment.

I'm going to assume the irony and humility are clear; but the perspective took a minute to hit me. You see, for me, that wet spot in Andrew's pants was as clear as day, as big as a house, as obvious as....well as obvious as my failing parenting skills. Sue was next to me laughing the whole time - and I had to laugh with her figuring we were both in on the same secret. Let's face it - it WAS funny. But when I said something to her about it, Sue looked confused. Turns out she was smiling at my son, not noticing the stained pants he came in in. And when I pointed them out, it really didn't make a difference.

Turns out I - or my children's toilet habits - are not the center of the universe.

Karen had been in charge of leading the older children, and HAD noticed the breach in etiquette. Her take on the whole thing was a shrug of the shoulders and a perfect imitation of Ryan's reaction when SHE had noticed her brother's indiscretion. Well, it was Ryan with a British action but the actions were identical. Resigned shrug of the shoulders, deep sigh, rolled eyes and a tired, knowing "Oh Andrew, you are going to be in SO much trouble with Daddy."

"Perfect imitation of a mother." said Karen.

So I laughed and we went home. The afternoon wasn't ruined. My self-image wasn't harmed. And life went on peacefully, undisturbed by a wet stain, the world still revolving on its axis and around the sun.

Connor moments are the kind of moments you could right a sit-com episode around, but deep down they are moments of perspective, where I remember to treat it all lightly.