Shoulda Stayed In Bed

My Thursday, June 17, 2010.

1. Met angry, rambling mother in parking lot and couldn't get away for 40 minutes. (Note: Did not help her with any of her problems since she never stopped long enough for me to get a chance.)

2. Arrived 30 minutes late to yoga class, expecting to at least catch the end of it. (I NEED my yoga class!) Substitute teacher; class packed; didn't dare go in.

3. Bravely headed to the cardio machines. (Yuck!) Did cardio for one hour.

4. Without the headsets working.

5. The men's sauna was broken so that we had a mixed sauna again. No matter how young and muscular those guys were, was NOT in the mood to sit naked with them and sweat.

6. Dropped glass bottle of expensive cream on the floor.

7. Need I mention it shattered?

8. Changed into lounge-around-the-house-clothes, figuring it was really better NOT to attempt communication with the outside world for the rest of the day.

9. A neighbor stopped by to discuss what we are going to do about damages to our VW. (An elderly friend of his ran into it last week, and the repairs are going to cost more than the car itself is worth. Although the car still runs fine, we are selling it in two months and need to figure out how to get some value out of it.)

10. Realized my T-Shirt was see-through - and I was braless - in the middle of the conversation. Tried casually crossing my arms, but wasn't fooling anyone.

11. Ryan erased part of the boys' Monsters, Inc. tape while trying to record FRIDAY'S soccer game for Andrew.

12. Aidan and Matthew took advantage of a phone call to Lori to put on their bike helmets and run away on their Laufrads, after I expressly told them not to.

13. It has been 50 degrees Fahrenheit out all day and rainy. Forecast for same.

14. A mother from the kindergarten stopped by to return the book we had given her son for his birthday on Tuesday. He has it already. Yeah. Now I get to return it.

It's only 6 PM. But I'm still frightened of what the rest of the day might bring.

15. France lost to Mexico, nothing that personally affects me, but certainly something unexpected. (I LOVE France but their soccer team plays dirty. Good for Mexico!)

16. Friday's soccer matches were a bust though. Sobs for Germany.

17. USA - although a 2:2 is nothing to sneeze at. (Sorry guys, blame the loss of that third goal on me.)

18. AND England.

Although I'm sure the upset of most of Europe's soccer teams can't be my fault alone, I still hope that Slovakian player isn't permanently injured.

Feel like I should at least send him an apology if he is!

Wrong Impression

Some Americans have moved into the apartment downstairs and I'm a little worried they might get the wrong idea about us.

Little things. Like when I was chasing the boys around the house Saturday afternoon. Literally. With a whiffle ball bat. While they screeched happily and danced naked just out of my reach. "Monster coming. Monster coming."

(I wouldn't want to live in the apartment below us, but so far, in six years, noone's ever complained!)

"I am not a monster. I'm your mother." Swat with the bat at a naked behind.

Come to think of it, we'd better start saving up for some serious couch time in the fuure.

The other thing that worries me is the song I wrote and taught them.

"I love to beat my children. I beat them every day. And when I beat my children, oh this is what they say."

Rousing chorus from the kids: "Beat me Momma, beat me Momma, beat me Momma, please."

It's a really catchy tune, actually. (You can also tickle the children, hug the children and kiss the children.....but they like the beating the best!)

At the end of the day we sat down to read the poems of Heinrich Hoffmann, a popular German children's book from the mid 1800s. In it, the girl playing with matches gets burned - to death. The boy who won't eat his soup starves - to death. The kid who sucks his thumb gets to live though - after the tailor cuts off both his thumbs.

Go on. It's a lovely collection of children's tales. The boys LOVE it.

I'm just banking on the fact that our new neighbors couldn't understand a word of it!

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.

Firehouse Memories

Just got back from our annual visit to the Altdorf Volunteer Firehouse. It's the usual small-village beer fest, with brats and beer. It's also a chance to climb into the firetrucks, play with water and jump around on the trampoline.

Usually we're in shorts and T-shirts.

This year the temperature is barely in the 50s. Although the rain did hold off.

The first years we went alone, thrilled to be part of a village community event. We liked it so much - hokey, but fun - that we began to invite friends. The Grabzynscki's one year. Joe helping Andrew man the firehose. Kristy in the trampoline with two year old Matt. Us camped on the tarmac with Aidan and Matthew, who were at that awkward "can't really get anywhere, but don't like to sit still in the stroller either" stage.

We had so much fun that year, the older kids soaking wet, the younger ones stuffing themselves with french fries, that we sat out on the lawn or tarmac all afternoon.

It was sunny.

Last year we met Maria and her brood there. It was my first time out of the house in over a month, and I was still carrying the fetus they'd told me was dead. Damon and I were in shock. But the kids had fun. And Maria (Bill was out of town) led Damon and I to her house where she fed us burgers and beer.

It's not a sad memory.

Our annual pilgrimage to the firehouse this year reminded me of all the times in Altdorf that I've shared with the friends close to me here. The Grabzynscki's have moved to Georgia, but I still remember our boys - and a girl - walking in the village Fasching's parade together. And I can't forget all that the Adair's have done for us - usually a good homecooked meal and a walk and a talk when I really needed it. Maria was always here - just down the road - and I don't think it has hit me that she's really gone.

And then there's the 4 of July. Which always reminds me that I had to cancel Babette and Erica's barbeque plans because I was busy delivering the twins. We celebrate now with a low-key party at the Hildrizhausen pool. Lori. Anita. Maria. Whoever can make it.

Last year it threatened to rain and Maria took us all bowling on base. (Except for poor Anita, who somehow missed the message, and ended up at the pool anyway!)

So this year we took the Olivo's to the firehouse. It was cold. It was empty. We didn't let the kids play in the water. But the fries were still good, and we still sat in our usual seats on the tarmac.

Omar and Damon took the boys up a basket suspended by a crane. Then we mosey-ed through the fields in a covered wagon towed by a big, green, tractor.

It ain't much, but it's what we got.

On the walk home Damon and I found ourselves telling Omar about all this little village has to offer. "Yeah, in July there's the annual Bach Fest, more beer and brats. In September there's the International Motocross." We also proudly pointed out the new sidewalk. "Yes, this is only a year old. You know, when we moved in six years ago there was no sidewalk and the Netto and Edeka (the two small grocery stores) had just been built."

Altdorf has its memories, but its the friends we've made here, not the town itself, that matters.

Kristy in Georgia, Maria in Colorado, Tracy back again some day in Texas...life is change and people move on.

But isn't it nice to know, that on a spring Sunday every mid-May, Altdorf's volunteer fire department will still be holding its annual open house? And with it our memories.

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