Worth Repeating!

There are no bears out there trying to get you.

There is only the life you asked for.

(Pause.  Moment of silence.)

Breathe.

On Kundera and Nietzsche; Colons and Parking Spaces; Louise L. Hay and Lao -Tzu

"I'm not good enough.  I don't do enough.  I'll never make it."

Did I say that?

Turns out that, although I did say it, and do say it often - to myself at least, subconsciously - it is a direct quote out of Louise L. Hay's book "Heal Your Body."

It's the thought process that leads to coronary thrombosis. Heart attacks.

No duh, right?

Anxiety, which I have been feeling ever since I can remember, is not trusting the flow and process of life.  All of which is bullshit, because I do trust the flow and process of life.  I just don't trust that it will flow well for me because I'm not good enough, I don't do enough and that is why I'll never make it.

All I want is for life to flow better for my children.

Which isn't going to work if I have a massive coronary worrying about which parking spot to take.

Or which route to take to school.  Or whether I should give them each two one dollar coins or one two dollar coin. 

I'm telling ya, anxiety sucks.  And no matter how much I keep telling myself how silly it is to be having heart palpitations over where to park, no matter how much I KNOW this is stupid, I have been having them over parking spaces since I had the twins in Germany.  Now THERE was a reason for worrying about parking, but no one cared, no one realised, and now, now here I am in an entire country of people who park wherever they choose, taking spots so large an American AND a German would BOTH shoot them over it! - parking on curbs, on grass ways, on lawns, wherever, really just about wherever you want, with as much distance between as you'd like - usually enough to just about fit in 7/8ths of the car I am driving - and I am still having palpitations.

I have been doing behavioural therapy on myself.  Which means that I just go and do it anyway.  I park.  I tell myself this is stupid and I park.  I ignore the feelings of discomfort and I do it.

I don't know if this behavioural therapy is supposed to make a person function better with the disability - which it does, I DO park and I DO park every day, multiple times a day.  Or if the feelings are eventually supposed to go away if you just keep doing the action that makes you uncomfortable.

But the feelings aren't going away.

On bad weeks - and YES, they coincide with my cycle, and God help me if this will get worse before it goes away - I also start breathing with difficulty over which route to take to school.

Again, I can talk myself through it.  And I do it despite the discomfort.  Over and over and over.

But it's terrifying to have to work this hard to do dumb little things you know aren't all that life altering no matter which you choose.   (I am going to have a mental word with Milan Kundera - and Nietzsche - about the Unbearable Lightness of Being : turns out Kundera also knows how to use a colon properly in a sentence: this means I can learn two things at once from him!)

I explained to the kids that I feel the way they described after running a 2 km race this week.  Aidan's heart was pounding so fast his chest hurt: I said I felt like I am running a race all the time.

Good news is that Louise L Hays has a three sentence fix for what ails me.  (I am currently reading Milan Kundera and plan to have a look at Nietzsche but quick and easy is good, right?!)

I have been writing her affirmations in a large notebook:  "I love and approve of myself.  I trust the process of life.  I am safe."

(Meanwhile I am going to use those colons until I get them right!)

I follow it with pages and pages of free writing which usually being with: "No, I don't."

I will spare you the rest. 

Instead I am going to focus on the fun things that are happening around here.  I firmly believe that these next few years are the best of my life; this despite that my body is physically trying to make me believe otherwise.  I don't trust YOU body, so there!  (Oh, and I am going to speak to a therapist tomorrow, so no need to worry if Nietzsche ends up being over my head.)

Ian is so much fun.  He played in the Pacific Ocean today.  And went pee pee on the potty.  Three times.  And he sings all the children songs with hand motions.  Better than any other almost-two-year-old, I am sure.

Ryan is going to be okay.  I am doing okay there, I can feel it.  (I am just SO EXHAUSTED by the struggle.)

Andrew is entering secondary school.  The world awaits him.

And the twins are only 7.

We have so much fun ahead of us these next few years.

Too much to have a coronary thrombosis.

Too much to have a panic attack over where to park.

Always we hope

someone else has the answer.

Some other place will be better,

some other time it will all turn out,

 

This is it.

No one else has the answer.

No other place will be better,

and it has already turned out.

 

Lao-Tzu

 

 

I don't know what this says about eternal return or lightness and weight, but it does help me with which route to take.

 

Because I'm already there.

 

Namaste.

 

Om.

 

And Amen.

Migrant Whinge

Today, Thursday, January 26, is Australia Day.

Australia Day 2011, since this year was canceled due to flooding

Our local radio station is listening to stories of people who have migrated here,  "New Aussies,"  and reminding us that most of our ancestors have only been here for a blink of an eye as well. 

(Many Aborigines call this day "Invasion Day" since it celebrates James Cook's arrival at Sydney Cove in 1788, and the beginning of colonialisation, not the official birth of Australia as a federation on January 1, 1901  Lookie there - even a new Aussie can learn!)

In any case, we are listening, this morning, to stories of how other Australians got to be Australians.

Like America, there are many tales.

Ian with his Aunt Merle

Debbie's ancestor really DID steal a loaf of bread.

Karina's ancestor jumped ship within sight of shore.

Damon's great-great-great-great uncle McPherson came over from Scotland to keep watch over Debbie's and Carina's ancestors.

Damon and Uncle Don contemplate the enormity of their task

Uncle's parents shuffled him from place to place in the 30s and 40s because his father was white and his mother indigenous and they had to stay one step ahead of the people who wanted to take their children away and reeducate them to 'fit into' modern Australian society.  As a servant.

Mick's mate came over a few years ago from Eritrea, where he was sentenced to death for his religious beliefs. 

Aidan taking matters into his own hands

Leading Damon to break into the greatest migrant whinge of all times.  (Doing a really good impersonation of me at my worst this week.)

"Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Please don't make me go back to GERMANY!

It's COLD there. 

And it SNOWS!

The state-sponsored schools really really suck.

Although the roads are good.  And everything is neat and tidy.

What do you mean I have to fly to NEW ZEALAND?!

But the airplane seats are really really tight and the movies suck.

AND you have to pay for snacks.

What if the aircon doesn't work?"


Silence.

And applause.

Hiding

My Mommy worries when I don't blog.  Like there is something I am hiding from her.

Well yes, Mom, I am hiding a lot lately, thanks for asking.

Which is why I write about koala poop and today thought I'd mention our 5:45 AM capture of the Huntsman spider the kids found in their bedroom.  (Piece of cake, by the way.  Doesn't even faze us anymore.)

What the Huntsman is covering up is 3 blogs on Ego and Taoism, mushy pieces of self-discovery and personal growth that I really didn't feel the need to burden everyone with.  (Although, I suppressed the Ego, tried to remember that it was NOT all about me, followed the path of least resistance and had the satisfaction of it following the path I had wanted all along, WITHOUT my Ego pushing it.  See why I saved you the trouble of reading it?!)

The Huntsman is also covering up 4 blogs on German collective guilt and shame.  One of which I will post this week.  Again, not sure I need to go there publicly, but hiding it hasn't been making it go away either.

One of my friends has a son undergoing a second round of chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant for childhood leukemia, on Friday one of my best friends here ended up in the hospital with a brain anuerysm and yesterday my mom told me she was going back in for surgery and chemotherapy for metastasis to the liver from her colorectal cancer 6 months ago.

Which really puts the cough and fever that has laid me out flat for the last two weeks in perspective, doesn't it?! 

And makes the blog I have been researching on the Burke and Wills exploration and what it says about the Australian spirit seem fairly trivial.

I find myself completely unable to deal with Japan and natural disasters.

And then they throw Libya in the mix.

All of which brings up my belief in karma and reincarnation and makes me question again why the Christians did away with such an intuitive concept.

Making it hard to focus on the blog about Andrew being selected as goal-keeper for the travel team in soccer. 

By which I mean to say that things are business as usual around here. 

I have a hard time hiding anything from my Mommy.  Probably made her wish she hadn't asked though, didn't I?!

Swimming Lessons

You've probably heard about the flooding we've been having here in New South Wales and Queensland. No? Well, it's one of the advantages of life down under. We escape the public eye. You have no idea what true freedom really is, America, until you disappear from the news.


After two years of drought, where it got so bad that the koalas were coming down out of their trees and begging for water from garden hoses, this past October was the beginning of the rainiest spring ever recorded in this area, since they started recording over one hundred years ago. (114 years, I believe, and that's a LONG time for this young country!) The creek down the road – the one they assured us hadn't flooded in over ten years – has flooded three times in December.

At one point, after a particularly rainy week, the kids looked at me and said, ''with all this rain, we might as well be back in Germany.'' I had to remind them that they were saying this dressed in shorts and T-shirts.

We've made it to the pool quite often though. The temperature has never dropped below 25C – the water temperature – which, although the Australians think we're crazy, is warmer than the pool in Hildrizhausen EVER was....HEATED! Plus, someone's gotta keep the water level down.

So that the twins have gone from being able to swim a few strokes from the side of the pool into my waiting arms to leaping and diving and dancing like porpoises upon the waves. Porpoises on crack cocaine, perhaps, but porpoises none-the-less.

We can't afford the swim lessons that every self-respecting Australian child takes every summer. Kids here swim earlier than German kids learn to ride two wheelers without training wheels. And let me tell you, that's pretty darn early. (Four, okay, the answer is four.) If they can't swim by prep school, they learn it there. With refresher courses every year. Swimming is big here. Yay me. How did I manage NOT to grow up in the country that so far encompasses every single one of the values I hold dear?!

Swimming. We swim almost daily and the boys jump and dive and twist and wriggle around the pool while Ryan gracefully guides her lithe figure between them doing her laps.

It ain't pretty. Aidan swims like Andrew did a few years ago. The lifeguard in Boeblingen almost went into early retirement. They both like to sink to the bottom, blowing bubbles on the way down, thrash about a bit under the water, and then surface after about thirty seconds to gasp and gulp for air. The trick to getting them to swim is to ignore the drama.   (Matthew meanwhile, cuts through the surface of the water like a shark; he is showing signs of being every bit as graceful as Ryan.)

Underwater they are all as graceful as porpoises. It is so much fun to see them twirl and dance. Underwater, they are birds in flight.

And, I think, what are swimming lessons this summer going to teach them that they aren't already learning on their own? Proper strokes would be nice. Staying above water a bit more will be helpful in the long run. But, the rest of it, the joy and the basic skills, they are learning as they dance and play.

They need to breathe. They need to stay afloat.  Eventually, they need to get to shore.

Which, it suddenly hits me, is what it's all about.

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....

21st Century Woolf

It just occurs to me that the best words of wisdom I have heard about writing come from two writers whose works I really haven't read.  Virginia (Woolf)'s essay entitled ''A Room of One's Own" has been my clarion call since before I read it.  And once I finally did read it, two years ago, well, the woman is simply brilliant.  (I just can't seem to get into her fiction.  Huh.)

I don't have her essay here with me.  But I feel that I am living it.  Virginia's contention is that men in her time were more successful authors than women for a number of very simple reasons:  they had the freedom to write, they had the income to write, and they weren't getting knocked up every eighteen months and raising a passle of snotty nosed children. 

Nowadays the passle of kids is a choice, and not nearly as time-consuming as we all like to moan about.  (Is passle a word?)  The exception is the first few years with multiple small children, but those do pass.  Sure, we have to keep the buggers fed and clothed but we now have ovens, stoves, microwaves and take-out menus.  We have washers and dryers so that the laundry doesn't take an ENTIRE DAY out of every week.    Oh  - and the clothes DO make themselves.  Or at least some underpaid and underfed child laborer in China does.  And we have supermarkets.  We aren't raising and slaughtering our own meat or growing and canning our vegetables or going out the chicken shed or milking the cows twice a day.  And we aren't chopping the wood for our heating.  Or spending another day a week on our hands and knees doing the floor.  (Honestly, I can't imagine caring enough about the appearance of my floor to spend an entire day on my hands and knees on it but..) 

So that I think the biology of breeding has been taken out of the mix as an excuse.

Having an independent income would be nice.  No worry about mortgage or college tuitions or those braces Ryan and Andrew are going to need.  But we have the freedom to earn an income.

So that I'm actually forgetting what I was going to complain about in the first place!

Oh.  Yeah.  THE ROOM.  OF ONE'S OWN.  Time, breathing space, a moment to oneself. 

The second brilliant writer I worship but don't read is Stephen King.  Not my style.  Although I will be taking out all of the books under the King section in the Brisbane public library because I want to see what I've been missing.  I'm not into sci-fi or horror or creepy and weird.  I have enough trouble dealing with the horrors of reality and don't need anything more to lay awake nights trembling about.

But he knows how to write.  And he says a writer has to...guess what...write.  (And read too.  Yay.  I have access to English language libraries again and free license to do what I love best.  And call it work.)  A writer, according to Stephen, has to write.  A lot.  And to do that you need a place of your own.  His own words, a century after Virginia said the same thing.

Stephen doesn't say you need a ROOM per say.  He wrote his first two published novels, Carrie and 'Salem's Lot,  ''in the laundry room of  a doublewide trailer, pounding away on my wife's portable Olivetti typewriter and balancing a child's desk on my thighs."  You can either hate people like this or you can try to emulate them.  But the room, according to Stephen, ''really needs only one thing:: a door which you are willing to shut."  And that is when I realize that Stephen's wife, also an author, was taking care of the kids a large percentage of the time he was writing.  I believe he'd be the first to admit it too.  (And the guy was writing four hours a day, at night, while holding down a full-time teaching job, so that I am not saying he had it easy either.  Virginia again.  Independent income.  Which Stephen has NOW but did not have when he started.)

I'm reliving all this in Iglersreuth this month because I don't have internet access.  Poor baby.  Virginia would not be impressed.  But Damon is home, on our only table, working.  He dominates the scene and the access to cyberspace.  And I am drained by the demands of teaching in the mornings, entertaining the children all afternoon (although we have a good time) and then home, hearth and husband to boot.  Always there.  Sapping my space.  I have managed to condense that ''room of my own'', that space with a door, into a laptop and a blind eye to the mischief around me.  And still I am fighting for that.

But Damon is supportive of my writing.  And the kids start all-day school in January.  So that maybe, and maybe soon, my day will come.  I envision myself in puffy blue houseslippers and a flowered house dress, my hair done up in rollers and a coffee in my hand, cheerfully handing everyone their lunchbags on the way out the door.  Never mind the rollers.  Too much work.  Hair in a bandana wearing an old Tshirt of Damon's, sitting in front of the sliding glass doors, sunlight already streaming in at 8 AM, and sitting down to work on my writing.

Virginia's dream realized. 

Because women like her worked hard to make it possible for women like me to have the freedoms and luxuries (and yes, doing the laundry in a washing machine IS a luxury!) we have.  Because technological advancements have given me time I wouldn't have had  a century ago.

And because I've been working long enough, hard enough, with four little monkeys clinging to my back to appreciate the gift of time and space I am being given.

A whole lot of nothing.  That's what I'm getting for Christmas this year.

Desiderata

The boys and I spent Saturday afternoon exploring the sunflower maze on the outskirts of Altdorf. It's a sad little affair this year. The flowers barely reach my head due to lack of sun and the stalks are bent over and broken due to all the rain and hail. Still, it is an effort on the part of the community to bring a little nature into out lives and the boys and I took advantage of it while their older siblings were out horsebackriding and playing baseball.

The maze, with its unexpected twists and turns, and all those darn dead-ends to stumble into, is an obvious metaphor for life.

And, in the center, we DID find stillness. (And stayed there almost two hours playing Indians and circus.)

Affixed to a post was this poem, written in the mid 1952 by Max Ehrmann,an American poet and philosopher of German descent. It is called "Desiderata."

Max Ehrmann's "Desiderata"

I have attached the last three verses in case you don't link to the whole thing.
May they bring you the peace and hope they do me.

"You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars:
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy."

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952

Amazing what you find amidst the broken flowers if only you take the time to look!

Roots and Wings

I'm a little afraid of how easy that went.

Because that either means something ELSE - like Youth Services - is going to hit me over the head next week.

Or that that quiet little principal I've been trying to give the benefit of the doubt to is quietly trying to control my personal life WITHOUT state authority.

It WOULD explain why the school has been so unhelpful and apathetic to my child's needs for four years. She is running her own little private kingdom according to her own private rules and viewpoints.

She hid in her office this morning while I spoke with the school secretary. A very very nice lady - also someone we know from around town - who was speaking into the phone as we entered with such a strong Swabian accent that Damon and I both wondered what the heck we were sending the kids to school there for in the first place! But nice. And the academics have been okay as far as it goes. It's the SYSTEM we can't stand. Not the people.

Except that, after all this bull@^$& over the phone for the past few months about Schulpflicht and what I HAVE to do with Ryan, all we did was write a hotel address on a piece of paper and make small talk. So that my rage yesterday was actually justified since we DIDN'T have any official paperwork to fill out after all.

Stop treating me like a child. Stop telling me what I HAVE to do. I am an adult. I am totally able to take personal responsibility for myself. AND for my children.


I also felt perfectly justified in giving them a hotel address to fill into their slots. After all, all they ever did for Ryan was worry about checking off the proper box on that form too. If what they want is neat paperwork, then I am willing to comply. Alles in Ordnung. Although perfectly meaningless and pointless.

That's it apparently. Unless they are planning on sending Youth Services after us on Monday when the kids don't show up at school.

When the Jehovah's Witnesses showed up again yesterday I honestly wondered for a moment if they weren't just a cover for Youth Services checking up on us to see if we really are moving.

I know. Conspiracy theories. It's time for me to leave!

What disturbs me isn't just the absolute authority the state has over our individual lives here, but the personal authority individuals take on themselves. Individuals policing eachother, telling eachother what to do.

What does the principal REALLY need to know other than that the children are being raised in a loving family - and moving soon? As long as they aren't being beaten or locked in a closet or being otherwise threatened in our home what is it to HER how we are raising them, what our personal beliefs are, what values we share?

There was no reason we had to go in there today except to fulfill her personal desire for power over others.

Stop treating me like a child. Stop telling me what I HAVE to do. I am an adult. I am totally able to take personal responsibility for myself. AND for my children.

Yes, I repeated that twice on purpose.

I'll be the first to argue that, in her defense, she is doing what she feels is right. But why are we so quick, as humans, to decide what is right for everyone else? Why do we have to enforce our own personal beliefs and rules onto others?

It's not just Germans. But boy have we perfected it to an art form.

I told the secretary about our personal plans. How the children and I were enjoying the English lessons and math review we have been doing at home during the summer. (No, I was NOT dumb enough to call it home-schooling while in a German public school!) How the twins were carrying their shoeboxes around the house and pretending to be packing.

I mentioned the world map on the living room wall where the kids have all learned to trace our route through Europe, over Asia and into Brisbane. (I didn't mention the direct route since watching the video of the little boy being forcibly removed from his parents' custody as they were leaving Sweden to homeschool in India. Paranoid? Perhaps. Watch the video though and see if you wouldn't be worried too.)

And how I would be able to work as a veterinarian again because the kids would be in all-day schools. And, since she asked, yes the twins would already be learning to read and write in kindergarten at the age of five.


I mentioned the stability of our family, even as it travels. And she, like most everyone else in Altdorf, knew about the dog. It's a small community. We are the ONLY Americans in our six years here to have at all made an effort to become part of the community. (There have to be at least ten to fifteen military families here but, other than knowing where they are housed, noone knows a thing about them. Another essay here but the American military as a rule certainly doesn't integrate into the communities they believe they are living in.)

I didn't gloat. But, since she asked, I hope I made it clear (mostly to the principal listening in through the open door) that THERE are lifestyle choices out there that DON'T follow the status quo and STILL benefit the children.

I CAN give my children the world.

And I DID apologize for my outburst over the phone yesterday. I explained that I consider Altdorf my home. That it is my roots more than any place so far. That I love and respect the friends I have made here. And the town itself. But that I myself left Germany - with all the rules and 'have tos' that I LOVED as a child - and was raised in the USA. I have seen other systems. I know something else now. And I, as a child of the world, cannot come to terms with the constraints of the German system.

She nodded her head. Either she was being nice, she understood, or Youth Services will be showing up at our door on Monday. (Hmmm - might be a good morning for a trip into the Tuebingen museum that day after all!)

"Individuals are one thing," she said. "It's the SYSTEMS of people that are hard."

So that - hmmmmm - I believe I may have learned something from the German school system after all!

"When your children are young, give them roots. When they grow older, give them wings." A Hindu saying I actually first heard here in Germany.

My roots - and part of my heart - will always remain with my community in Altdorf. It's where I raised my children, gave birth to two of them, and found myself in the process. It may not be home, but it is where I am from.

It is where I learned that I was meant to fly.

Failed Lotus

Lori doesn't read my blog regularly. I know, hard to believe.

But since she and I are able to spend two hours on the phone together and STILL not run out of things to say.....our justification is that we are picking up the kids' rooms and cleaning the kitchen while we dissect and discover the true meaning of life.

We find eachother brilliant, which is always the mark of a true friend!

I felt I had to share my latest bit of Tao wisdom with her the other day. You know, the one that goes...

"When other people are acting like assholes, does it really help any if you act like an asshole as well?"

And then we talked about ego.

Lori likes to remind me that "it's not all about you Christine."

As she switches the topic to herself. (We get along fabulously. Although I do believe we are the only two who could keep track of our rapidly diverging - and yet oddly united - stream of thought!)

I felt like quite an expert here. Because after all, not only have I read all these fantastic books on Eastern religions but I ran into that great guy from Pune, India (via Newark, New Jersey!)at the Atlanta airport last February.


"Be like the lotus," he told me. "Water sits on the lotus petal as the petal remains undisturbed."

And - shocker here - it is NOT all about me personally. Overcome that ego.

(He also turned me on to the version of the Bhagavad Gita I am reading now AND told me that the Buddhists completely missed the point when they broke off from Hinduism! We had ten hours in line together. He told me a lot more too, that I have on little scraps of paper until I find the time to type them up.)

So that I proudly explained to Lori how the realization that it is NOT all about me...and that being an asshole yourself isn't the answer to other assholes ....has been helping me around town. With the lady who stole my parking spot. I circled three more times and then found another. With the lady who lives downstairs and honestly has the time and temperament to worry about her garbage placement in relation to our car placement.....in OUR driveway!

But that not letting it get to me was actually helping me in the long run as well. A lot less anger, less stress, less to worry about. Inner peace.

Until I called the school yesterday. I should know better. But, after all that worry that the Nazi police would come and take my children from me, the truth this summer has been that it is hard to FIND someone working in Europe in the summer, close to lunch-time, when they are out ill, or generally just taking the afternoon off. Still a bureacracy.

So that I was fairly complacent and just called to see IF and HOW we unregister the children from school.

IF and HOW. What do I need to do to officially get the kids out of school since we are moving?

And the principal quietly reminded me about "Schulpflicht." The kids are legally obligated to go to school here.

That did it. No more lotus blossom. I was asking HOW. I was not asking for information regarding yet another obligation I supposedly have to a school system that apparently has no obligation to teach my child. She just needs to be there.



"Ich kenne die verdammte Regeln." I told her. "I know the damned rules. Which is why we are leaving the damn country when we are."

Honestly Lori, it felt GREAT!

There is a point here in Germany where an American has to learn to stand up for themselves. It's a very direct society, a very much in your face and tell you what to do and mind your business for you kind of place. For instance, BEWARE if you bring your baby out without socks, or feed it the wrong way, or let your kids swing in the trees.......not only do Germans know how THEY would do it, they like to tell you how YOU should be doing it too.

The German friends I tell these stories to find me hysterical. They know it's true. But they accept it as a fact of life and get a big kick out of watching me go up against it as an American. I swear, Babette and Dominique BOTH CHUCKLED at me!

I know. I have that same instinct myself. I believe it's the reason big government seems to work so well here. People like to make sure everyone is doing what they are supposed to be doing. It makes them feel secure, I guess.

But I digress. (No kidding right?)

I swore at the principal. It felt FANTASTIC. And then I WAS able to rein it right back in and get back to the point of a setting up a meeting to unregister the kids.

So that I do believe anger has its place...in short, tempered bursts. But that we shouldn't let it control us or interfere with what we need to do.

I had to remind myself that me acting like an idiot wasn't going to make HER act any less small-minded. And that it wasn't about me. That she is just a simple person who only knows her one simple way. And that her not being able to think outside the box might annoy me temporarily but that it wasn't anything personal and is something that she has to deal with the rest of her life.

Me....I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow.

I never said I was perfect Lori. I am still a small, imperfect person. But I am striving to be that lotus... and at least big enough to know that I still need to work on it!

Be like the lotus, Christine. Be like the lotus.


And if that doesn't work remember she'll still be sitting in the same flower box, in the same dry soil, with no ability to see beyond the window sill....while I am able to offer my children the chance to blossom and grow towards the light!

Om.

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!

Say You're One of Them / Uwem Akpan

Say You're One of Them.

A collection of short stories written by Uwem Akpan, a Jesuit priest from Nigeria. Fictional stories about children in Africa that are so heart-wrenching they become real. A man writing about children. But a man, an African man, who has captured the heart of Africa's plight through these children's stories. And made their plight our own.

They're not easy to read. Certainly don't read them all at once. Homeless children sniffing shoe glue on the streets of Kenya. Been there, seen that. But - if I'm honest with myself - never allowed myself to think of them as human beings until now. Rwanda. Genocide. Again, not easy reads. But about people who could really be us.

The one that completely shocked me was set in Nigeria. Just like a second book, Little Bee, written by Chris Cleave. Another man, a white English man this time, who manages to somehow channel this little black Nigerian girl and make her world our own.

The thing is. This is our world. It is happening in real-time as we sit in front of our computer screens or play with our children at the pool. And we know nothing about it.

Did YOU know there were oil wars in Nigeria? Did YOU know the Muslim North was fighting the Christian South - and that the oil in the south ........no, I really didn't bother to pay attention. Because it's the same old story all the time.

That's why we need books like this.

BP and Shell and Mobil have been destroying the environment for decades. The only problem recently was that BP had the misfortune to do so in a rich, white country. No oil company has had to pay Africans for their destroyed land and rivers, for the loss of homes, towns and yes, the brutal slaughter of people who mattered so little that they were able to kill them without the rest of the world even caring.

Makes you really want to read these books, doesn't it? But I promise you - the good thing about these books, the reason these authors are great, is that they don't preach and philosophize the way I do. They let you know a person and hear their story, without pity, without sympathy.

They tell it honestly, from the minds of children, and let you take what you want from the telling.

They are fantastic stories first a foremost. Because they DON'T rub your face in it.

The first person I passed "Little Bee" onto was Lynn. Unwarned. (And the thing is - it tells you on the cover not to reveal the ending to anyone - it is a journey from beginning to end that must be read and absorbed alone without discussion.)

Poor Lynn. Her words (she worked for a newspaper in South Africa and is no slouch with the writing!) :

Little Bee is the most riveting story I have read in a while - I keep wondering what happened to her...... left me feeling apprehensive, and angry...
Thank you so much for letting me read her story..... ahh it broke my heart and challenged my own conscious...... you see I still drive my car around, would I give it up? since the petroleum I purchase is probably linked to the destruction and blood of others? 'Yes, yes yes,' my heart cries ! Then what? Buy an electric car? Can we afford it?
Next option - which brand of diesel /petrol could I support that is not linked to any evil? According to Forbes Fortune 500 - Mobil, Shell and BP are listed as the second, third and fourth richest companies in the world...... only beaten by Walmart listed first. Shell and BP are definitely in the Delta and I do not know much about Mobil and their history ...... Thomas doubts their are any oil companies that are not tainted with blood and destruction in some way .......

If you are a global economic power it is all about the money - you own the politicians, pretty much a licence to do what you like, start wars, displace (indigenous) communities, destroy the environment and the list continues..... our greed is not only linked to oil - how many brands are ethical when only the bottom line counts?... and marketers try and own the consumer, we live our lives consuming, complaining and ignoring the little voice when it tries to remind us of what we are accountable for when we support unethical companies by purchasing their products or working for them...... So what do we do? Go back and live the life of a plain lady like your friend? Or live the life of a renounciate and find a cave in the Himalayas ...... So how can we live an ethical life in the world of consumerism?

And, since the book made us feel so good, we of course want to share it with the rest of the group!

How's that for a bunch of stay-at-home mommies supposedly spending our mornings painting our nails and the afternoons taking it easy with the kids at the pool?!

What can we do? How are we, each of us, individually, going to save the world? How are we going to keep smiling and living happy lives when confronted with the atrocities around us? The list is long: oil, war, poverty, racism, disease...how can we live with ourselves knowing we are doing nothing about them?

Lynn again - with an answer -

'Mommy can you play with me?' ..... there's a start to my question this morning.... be a good mother, buy local, consume less, live a simple life, try and make a difference where I can .........

And Michael. Man in the Mirror. We can start by becoming better people ourselves. We can recognize our flaws - our own pettiness, our own selfishness, our own unfair prejudices and work to become more compassionate ourselves.

We can learn to recognize ourselves in others.

So that when we DO see somewhere where we can make a difference, we will help someone with a wheelchair, or someone who has fallen on the sidewalk. Love the neighbor's child - who really is quite the little monster - as our own.

I don't know that smiling and helping your elderly neighbor with the groceries is going to do anything about the atrocities in the world. But I do know it's a start.

Say You're One of Them. Uwem Akpan.

Little Bee. Chris Cleave.

Do read them. They're a look in the mirror.

Man In The Mirror

A friend of mine wrote a piece about auras a while back. In it, he defended his idea that NOT all people are created equal, that people are different, and that we notice this on a subtle level when we interact with others, when we are attracted to some people and more turned off by other people. For him, it was about spirituality and intelligence. And we recognize others like ourselves and are automatically drawn to them.

The Hindus explain this instant attraction to someone you've never met before through reincarnation. Someone you feel an immediate bond with was probably someone you have known - and been close friends with - before.

We've all had it. You run into someone for the first time and could spend hours talking to them. Or you meet someone and know right away this person is going to be trouble.

I've known people who believe they can read auras. And always been afraid to ask. I had a guy in India begin to read my palm once and draw back in fear. So sometimes you don't want to delve too deeply. (I apparently have a double lifeline, and that's not a good thing.)

But the man in India also told me that you can change your lifeline. And I am quite certain that you can change your aura.

"I'm starting with the man in the mirror.
I'm asking him to change his ways.
And no message could have been any clearer.
If you want to make the world a better place,
Take a look at yourself
And then make a change."

Michael really is brilliant.

I don't know what my aura was like when the twins were born. I've been told I have way too much fire in my astrology chart. My guess is red. After the twins were born, I think I may have lost my aura. It disappeared entirely. And then it came back black or gray. Yuck. When I finally got color back in my aura again it turned an angry red. Who would have wanted to know me then?

I didn't lookup what the colors meant until just now. But no surprises. Red creates a lot of friction. Black and gray relate to blocked energies and health problems.

I believe I'm lucky I had any friends at all the last four years.

This week I did a visualization exercise and saw pink. The gray was leaving me. I was letting it go. I do feel more compassion - for myself and for others. I am more sensitive, slower to anger and more eager to understand and empathize.

I am a much healthier, better person to know.

And I know my aura reflects this.

When I was black, I bounced everyone else away. When I was red I pissed them off. Now that I am pink, I am amazed at all the people who come out of the blue (not picked intentionally, but a blue aura DOES signal sensitivity, generosity and communication!) and find me. Some need to talk. Some offer guidance and comfort.

But it's unbelievable. HOW DO THEY KNOW? How do they know they can confide in me? How do they know that I need to hear what they have to say?

These are people of all ages, sexes, races, religions and nationalities.

Why are they finding me now that I am leaving?

When I was in highschool grown-ups always asked me what I was going to do with my life. "I'm going to save the world." I replied. (How I was going to do this as a veterinarian was entirely beyond me, but my reasoning at the time discounted people as a bunch of pinheads and animals and the environment as way more worthy of saving than the human race.)

Saving the world is a big task. Worthier men - and gods - than I have tried and failed.

But if I'm just one more person looking in the mirror and getting the message, maybe we're just that tiny bit more closer to a better place. I am, anyway.

No, Mark. All people are NOT created equal. (Hindus explain this so nicely too, as karma creating your present circumstances so that you can learn from them.) But we are all one. And we all have the opportunity to change.

I believe that's what we're here for.

It's up to us whether we look into the mirror and rise to the challenge or not.

Ubuntu

This is why I like the World Cup.

That's a German man embracing an American man (Damon's step-dad) after the Germany-Ghana game a few weeks ago.

Damon's folks were here for only a few days, but caught the best of us. Smiling, happy, friendly, social, even goofy Germans. All rooting together for a common goal - one that doesn't have the rest of the free world quivering in their boots this time.




Even more so, Africa was on display. And the world rooted with them and for them. Sure, we wanted to beat Ghana, because that's what you do in a game. But we also wanted to see them win. People asked me how I felt after Ghana defeated the USA. Sweet that. But in a game that was billed as "The American Dream" versus "African Hope," well you couldn't be sad the game went to the country to whom it meant the most.

One could say that Africa got screwed as usual, on Uruguay's handball in the goal. And lost because of lack of technical expertise (penalty shots) and not because of lack of raw talent. How typically African. (FIFA is considering changing the rules on handballs in the goal because of that Ghana loss to Uruguay.)

But South Africa really set a standard of generosity and good will for the rest of the world to follow.

It's called Ubuntu. No, not the Linux program, but a south African philosophy of human interconnectedness.

Desmond Tutu defined it in 2008 as "the essence of being human. Ubuntu speaks particularly about the fact that you can't exist as a human being in isolation."

The World Cup brings us together as a nation for a few short weeks every four years. It's the only time I follow soccer, but I know all the players every time. And have opinions on who was fouled and whether an off-side took place, things I know nothing about in the real world, during a non-World Cup year.




But this time I feel the Ubuntu. I do.

I cried when Germany lost to Serbia early on in the elimination rounds. Not just because we lost but because Germans were cheering their team anyway. And because I suddenly realized that Germany winning the next game meant Ghana losing. And that one nation would cheer as another one mourns. That no matter what happened in a game, someone was celebrating as someone else lost.

And goodness, I suddenly also realized that it is only a game. Really. That there are much more important reasons to celebrate and much sadder reasons to mourn.

And that if we could unite as a nation over this, then we should be able to unite as a world over other, more important matters.

Desmond Tutu from his 1999 book:

"A person with Ubuntu is open and available to others, affirming of others, does not feel threatened that others are able and good, for he or she has a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that he or she belongs in a greater whole and is diminished when others are humiliated or diminished, when others are tortured or oppressed."

It's the exact opposite of Schadenfreude. It's the ability to be happy for your enemy, because they aren't your enemy after all, but a part of yourself. It's what the Taoists call Tao, the Hindus call Universal Consciousness. And I believe what Jesus meant when he talked about us all being sons and daughters of God. Oh. I get it now.

My Ballack shirt goes back in mothballs after last night's win against Uruguay. (And yes, it was nice that we won. Nice though, not life-changing or world-altering.)

But I'm working on keeping the spirit of Ubuntu alive more than once every four years.

What The Kids Have Taught Us

You learn something every day. And this time I am sticking to the present tense, because the past is just too darn confusing. (The other option is to change the verb from "learn" to "taught" as I did in the title, but that throws me into the passive voice.)

Learned or learnt? Well, after some Internet research it appears to be a matter of some debate. No news really that English is a language in constant change.

And darn it, I just knew my lack of knowledge about tenses would get me into trouble some day! WHERE IS THE EDITOR WHEN I NEED HIM?! (I actually know where he is, through facebook, and know he is dealing with more important matters than grammar right now.) What about the rest of you teaching English? Any comments?

What I discovered is that "learned" and "learnt" are both past tenses of the word "learn." (But thanks for opening up that barrel of worms, Brenda. As if I'm not worried enough about my qualifications to home-school already!)

Learnt is the past participle. Whatever that means.

Learnt is also the "T" form out of the Old English, and derived from the German. Ich lerne. Du lernst. Er lernt. Wir lernen. Ihr lernt. Sie lernen. (Which may explain why Brenda uses it?) It is often referred to as the English form - which may explain why Mark uses it. But it is being phased out in American English. And also losing ground in English English.

Which is going to be my excuse for not even knowing about it.

So what have we learned from our children?

Claire is requesting better questions. More embarrassing Mommy stories and less soul-searching on the Internet!

Brenda is correcting my grammar. (And the reason I just looked up "embarrassing" in the dictionary just now!)

But they came up with some gems for me too. Thank-you.

1. That there are more important things to worry about than finger-prints on the windows.

2. To put a can of air-freshener in each room. Kids stink a lot!

3. That it is hard to grow up. Seeing the real thing in front of you, makes you realize when you are acting childish yourself.

4. To enjoy the kids you really have to immerse yourself in them. Which means giving up some of your self.

Thanks ladies.

And we got more, one from a Dad too.

5. We were so busy getting ready and preparing and cooking and baking and cleaning for Levi's party, that in a sense for the two days leading up to the party we neglected him. We kept chasing him out of the way because he wanted to show us something or do something with us but we were too busy getting ready to respond to him.

Mark and Liesl Do have their priorities straight. Levi. Not the fingerprints on the windows!

6. Laura has learned - the hard way - that kids listen AND REPEAT the things they hear. Hence Morgen, at age three, coming up with such gems as "Are you serious?" and "You're killing me!" as well as a well-placed "Je-SUS" when her Dad hit the brakes a bit too hard. This is my niece. If you want to get the full effect, listen to how I say the first two. My sister and I sound exactly alike despite not having grown up together after the first 9 years of her life. My guess is her daughter sounds exactly like us both. Would like to think we're passing on the GOOD parts of ourselves too!

7. Not to bother wishing for more hours in a day. Because that just means more cleaning and not more sleeping.

8. That sometimes you wish they'd grow up faster and sometimes you wish they'd stay this little forever.

9. Sarah has learned that English is a strange language and hard to explain. As in having to reassure her son that "he didn't really kill it. That's just an expression." Hmmm.....better not have him talking to Morgen!

I honestly hadn't expected that level of soul-searching. Noone mentioned:

10. The ability to change a diaper with one hand, standing in the middle of the swimming pool, while watching the other three diving off the high-board. (Damon's cousin Stefanie about nine years ago. I will never forget it.)

11. How to nurse -or worse yet, prepare and feed a bottle - in the middle of the night without waking up completely. (I had a night with Damon away where I managed to nurse one of the twins, while reaching over past him to his brother with a bottle simultaneously ...all while still somehow managing to keep my head on the pillow! People in my yoga class wonder why I'm so flexible!)

Mostly I think we learn to deal with (and laugh at?) the ridiculous and focus on what's really important.

I really want to hear about your dreamhouses. (And we can keep adding to this list too.)

I promise Claire, after that we'll get to some barfing in the car and kids commenting on the size of your butt to strangers.

Here's hoping you all have learnt (or learned?) as much from this as I have!

Thank you.

Dream House

Caught. Posted this earlier in the week and then took it down. Just seemed so silly. Almost offensive. And then Anna came up to me last night and asked me where it had gone. Because she really wanted to know. Her question made me realize that this list really was silly and unimportant. She made me realize the important part of a home isn't the number of bedrooms or the size of the family room or whether or not is has a hottub on the balcony. (Nice though, those!)

"WHERE would you put your dream house," she asked me.

"Next to the beach." I replied.

"Yeah. But WHERE next to the beach?"

Turns out there are others out there, others like me, who have no fixed latitude and longitude to call home. Whose biggest fear is ending up somewhere too long and missing out on where they are really meant to be.

We're wanderers and adventurers. And the kids wander with us. Looking back though, all I ever wanted to give my kids was the adventure I couldn't find in Connecticut.

Since I call nowhere home, I also have the freedom to call anywhere home.

And I don't really care about the TV room, or the super huge garage. (Still want a big yard, though, sorry, I am only human!)

Home, for me, is where my family is. And where we are happy, together. So far, we haven't found a fixed address for our happiness. But we are fortunate enough to be able to take it with us.

But you just want to see the petty list. Here it is:

1. HUGE yard. To throw the kids into. And to host massive bar-be-ques.
2. Big garage. For all the sports and beach equipment.
3. Close to beach. Cause the kids will be in school six hours a day!
4. Kitchen. Since it HAS to have one, a large open one. So I can spend time with the kids while I'm cooking for them. And maybe room for a chair and/or table so I can go and hide in it when I need some time to myself. (I've also considered a daybed in the laundry room.)
5. MODERN bathrooms. More than one. With jazuzzi tub in the master suite.
6. Never mind. I'm getting a hottub on the balcony. (It's a dream house, right?!)
7. TV room. So I don't have to watch it when the kids are.
8. Playroom/Den. For the kids. (Computer to share - maybe two.)
9. Living room/Den. For the adults. With one computer for me, one for Damon.)
10. MY OWN PRIVATE ROOM. (Some dreams never die.)
11. Some bedrooms. One for Ryan. The boys can share, as long as the kids' playroom is big enough. Sigh. I guess I can share with Damon too. As long as...
12. Room for all of Damon's @^#&#(, that he refuses to part with but doesn't know how to put away either. Will settle for a large closet in the garage for this.
14. BUILT-IN CLOSETS. (Never take these for granted, folks.)
13. Au pair apartment.
14. Cleaning crew 2 to 3 times a week.

But now I'm getting really petty.

Where do you guys call home? What does your dream house look like? What makes it your dream house and what couldn't you live without? And scary one here - for me at least - where do you see yourself living in thirty years?

I'm working on your answers to yesterday's post. Thanks for responding.

I think it's fairly obvious that I am learning far more from your comments and questions than I ever could digging around alone in my own twisted mind!

Living Arrows

They say you find your true teachers when you are ready for them.

And ready to listen, maybe.

You are my teachers....and I am listening.

This from Brenda yesterday:

"Take it one day at a time and let them teach you. My kids have taught me more than I will EVER teach them."

(And this from a woman whose family farms for a living, makes their own clothes AND knows how to cook WITHOUT a 1,000 Euro Thermomix! Oh - and homeschools too.)

I've been saying it about Ryan too:

"I was trying to give Ryan self-worth by having her fit in. She is teaching me self-worth by showing me I don't have to." (Hero blog, February 3, 2010)

What have you learned from your children? How to pick up the house for company in less than 2 minutes? The importance of choosing your battles? The true meaning of joy?

Enough about me already.

Let's do this one together.

(I am looking for a list of ten, just one or two from each of you. And thanks to Karenne - for reminding me that it's not all about me, but about all of you too!)

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!

A Cure For Ironing

With the World Cup taking place in South Africa this year, there has been a lot of talk about aid to Africa.

Let me do my bit.

It won't cure any of the Big Three: AIDS, Malaria and TB. And it won't solve world hunger, political instability, government corruption, environmental destruction or a shattered economy.

Damn. What the hell am I doing talking about IRONING?!

But, in my little neck of the woods, it's what I've got. And it's a big deal.

Americans don't iron. Sure, we do hubby's suits and our own nicer outfits. But anyone ironing jeans is a total freak. Or a cowboy from the South. In which case it's okay. Cowboys need those creases.

I've honestly never seen my mother with an iron. Dad's suits went to the dry-cleaners, who even picked up and delivered to the door. His scrubs (and later, mine) were done at the office.

My first hint that ironing was such a big deal in the rest of the world came in Haiti. They used coal-heated irons to press their Sunday best. And managed not to get muddy on the way to church. Pretty impressive.

And then an eastern European colleague of a friend in Geneva boasted about how his wife - who had three degrees and spoke five languages - ironed his underwear.

Not at all impressive.

Here in Altdorf people go into shock when they think of all the laundry I have to do. Huh? I run a household of six people and a dog - and they're worried about the LAUNDRY?!! I didn't get it at first. What's to do? Throw it in and press a button. Voila.

But it's the ironing that's dragging everybody down.

And since some of those everybody's are close friends of mine - friends who have helped me more than they know - I am doing my best to return the favor.

YOU DON'T NEED TO IRON.

I know, I know. But, in South Africa, you had help. And ironing your clothes provided their children with sustenance, shelter and education. Not a bad thing.

Here your ironing takes you away from time with your own kids. Or with your husband. (Try using that argument when he wonders why his underwear isn't pressed and starched!)

You've simply got better ways to spend your time than ironing.

Okay. This makes you uncomfortable. I am messing with your heritage, after all.

So just try this, a little compromise.

DON'T IRON THE CHILDREN'S CLOTHES FOR TWO WEEKS.

Just the children's clothes. Just two weeks.

Noone will notice. Noone will care.

And I promise, it will change your life forever!

Who knows, with all that extra time, and the example you set for your daughters, maybe they will find a cure for AIDS, malaria or TB.

And in the grand scheme of things, isn't that way more important than ironing?!

Repeating Highschool

We were on our way to Ollie's baptism on Sunday when Damon popped the question.

"If you could change anything about your past, what would it be?"

Damon's just received his FBI clearance, after four months of waiting, and is practicing interview questions.

"It's a trick question," he told me.

But I was already thinking, seriously thinking about what I would change, if given the chance.

1. Vet school? Nah. I needed that.
2. Coming to Germany? Nah. That's part of who I am.
3. The three miscarriages? Well, yeah, it would have been nice NOT to have had to deal with those, but, then again....they've also led me on the road to where I am now.
4. The finance crisis of 2009? Eh. True, if Damon had been earning then what he is earning NOW, we wouldn't have considered leaving Germany. But then again, if Damon had been earning then what he is earning now, we wouldn't have considered leaving Germany.

Every choice I've made has led me to where I am now.

And I'm pretty okay with that.

I'm going to miss some friends. New ones that I am just connecting to. Old ones that I am reconnecting to. People that are good for me - and that have helped me become the person that I am. I am me again. Thank you.

Funny enough, some of those people - the very people who have stood by me during the darkest times, the people who saw me through a nervous breakdown and called me daily to see how I was, the people who supported me and grieved with me through my miscarriages and who stuck with me through my depression, when I didn't even know who I was anymore....well, some of them don't seem to like the person I've become.

And that's okay too.

I am a better person because they were there for me in the past.

That's enough to be grateful for.

Sometimes it seems to me that highschool keeps repeating itself. The venue changes, but not the content. The best part about it is - besides the fact that I'm LEGALLY AND MORALLY ALLOWED to be doing the things I was doing then anyway - that I get to change who I am, and how I respond, everytime the highschool scenario repeats itself.

I didn't think people understood me in highschool either.

But at least this time around I understand myself.