Nicknames

Since we haven't yet decided how to pronounce our son's name (i.e., Jonas or Yonas), we avoid using his name and refer to him with a variety of nicknames, including:

Sweet Ness Monster

Stinky

Bobble Head

Mr. Happy Pants

Sweet Poo (OK, Ralf doesn't actually call him this)

Blow Out Boy

Sir

Spring is officially on its way! Since I already wrote the definitive post on Spring I have nothing more to say.

I Love You but You're Annoying

He looks so sweet, doesn't he?

And so he is... when he's sleeping.  The rest of the time he's a bit of a disgruntled customer.  Not to mention stubborn, opinionated and anal retentive. 

(He'll be a fine German man.)

Boys and their digestive systems!  Sheesh!

But we love him dearly.  Good thing for him he's so cute.

Since this is my third child his cries don't send me into transports of panic.  I cuddle him, kiss his silky little head and breath in his musky scent and wait patiently for the crying to stop.  And occasionally I just let him cry for a bit while I throw in a load of laundry.

With my girls I'm a bit less patient: Over the weekend K wrote a note saying how desperately bored she felt so I made her clean her room for an hour.

She hasn't been bored since.  ;-)

They've been wonderful, though.  L gives J his bottle and K reads to L and teaches her math.  Whoever invented big sisters was a genius.

Oh, hey, the baby's crying again.  Gotta run!

What is Down with Our Bad Selves?

I thought K was a big eater with her fierce feeds every two hours on the hour but J makes her look like a lightweight. I've never had a baby that eats so much! Mind you, I've also never had a baby that can pee on its own head so even a mother of three can learn something new.

Have I mentioned he's lovely?

Naturally we've chosen this time to do some major home construction in the living and dining rooms, including re-plastering the walls and hanging molding.

To make matters more hectic, we decided to go with a cheaper contractor, who announced he didn't feel comfortable hanging real clay molding after he'd already torn up the living room. So we had to go crawling back to the expensive guy and beg him to come while all our furniture was still under plastic.

He was actually quite nice about it, in a sardonic way. When Ralf poked his head in the shop he was greeted with: 'Your guy can't hang it, can he?'

Ralf admitted this was the case. He also expressed some doubts about the molding we'd chosen, as it looked awfully big for the room when we held it up.

'Scared of a little molding, huh?' the interior designer asked amiably.

'Actually, I'm scared of my wife,' retorted Ralf with dignity.

'Aren't we all?' (This, of course, was a reflexive question and didn't require an answer.)

Then he offered to divert two of his workmen to hang the molding, which was very decent of him, and the final painting is happening right now. . . only the first guy's doing that so it's been a crazy week of rotating workmen.

But it's almost done...

I'll try to post pictures next week.

Are You a Snort?

Our baby is here!  And we finally settled on a name, although we still haven't decided how to pronounce it. 

They say pride goeth before a fall.  And sure enough, after telling everyone who asked that of course I planned to have an epidural - how idiotic not to in this day and age - there turned out not to be enough time.

Yeah. Not fun.

He's a cute little guy, not that I'm biased or anything, although I have to say that changing girls is a bit easier...

The day he was born he looked right at me and got a very doubtful expression on his face, as if he wanted to say: "You are not my mother.  You are a snort!"

That's when I fell in love.

The Final Countdown

My son will be born in 3 weeks.

I've been reflecting on my many blessings this holiday season and as you can imagine, this unexpected little boy* figures pretty largely in them.

*Yes, I know how babies are made, I mean that I expected another girl. Girls are what I know.

And although I heartily dislike being pregnant and babies are disruptive to one's professional aspirations and other activities one might prefer to engage in, I am able to find comfort in the reflection that:

1. It's only for 3 more weeks.
2. His head will smell deliciously musky for the first several years.
3. He will probably become a rich and famous soccer player, who will not forget his mum.
4. He may not marry someone I thoroughly disapprove of.
5. My cleavage will never be this good again.

But as many of you know, theoretical future good and fabulous cleavage are cold comfort in the final weeks of pregnancy.  I'm uncomfortable and it would be quicker to tell you what parts of me don't ache than what parts of me do.

Sitting at my computer is also painful, which is why I haven't been around much lately.  I apologize for that.

I probably will not write again until after the baby is born and may not be able to give your blogs the attention they deserve in the meantime but I sincerely wish you all the best in this new year.

We totally deserve it.

Happy Holidays!

Happy holidays to all you wonderful bloggers who generously share my life while working, raising families and finding your way in the world. Together we are stronger.

Happy holidays to Renee, who has successfully lived without a roof over her head for years. I hope the new laptop will be useful in the new year and inspire you to new great things.

Happy holidays to my wonderful Grandma, who had such fun visiting Munich several Christmases ago and could still sing the Hansel and Gretal opera in German and (for some reason) the French national anthem.

Happy holidays to Laura, Emmanuelle and Abu, our three sponsored children in Africa and Bolivia. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas season and continue to do well in school next year.

Happy holidays to the amazing working moms I know and am proud to be friends with. (And all moms are working.)

Happy holidays to my two little girls, whose names mean 'Clarity of Purpose' and 'Enduring Light.' You are both perfectly named.

Happy holidays to my little man, who I can't wait to meet. Your name (after we considered hundreds of names, such as Dave, Gerhard, Logan, Hasso, etc.) means either 'Bringer of Peace' or 'Destroyer,' depending on whether one is feeling more Yiddish or Hebrew. I imagine there will be days when either name suits you, my darling boy.

Happy holidays to my fabulous husband, whose eyes light up with admiration and love when he looks at my perfectly round tummy and who makes up such amazing children's stories. He even liked his Land's End pajamas, although he fears the extreme softness of the flannel will make him weak.

(We finished our children's book and if anyone would like a copy leave a comment with an email address.)

Happy holidays!

On Family

Sorry I've been quiet but what with being 8 months pregnant, working and getting ready for Christmas I've been kind of busy.  Oh, and being a single mom this week while Ralf's in California. 

I'm looking forward to a quiet family Christmas this year. I  have three stories to write up before the children's book I'm writing is finished and I have great plans for sewing extremely simple doll clothes over the next few weeks. 

Next weekend we'll procure and decorate the tree, listen to Nat King Cole and bake gingerbread cookies - and I can eat as many Christmas cookies as I want because let's face it, I'm not getting any thinner until at least February. 

I can even look out at the snow with a charitable eye because this morning my neighbor shoveled snow out of my driveway.  I tell you, once you've known them for about ten years, Germans turn into wonderful, loyal friends!

Little Beauregard is doing well, although I hope I'm not about to change that with the slightly past its prime chicken I'm baking right now.  Ralf read about how some woman had her baby at the Vienna Opera house and got a lifetime membership so now he wants me to start hanging at the Allianz arena.  Just in case.

K is acting in a Christmas production and needs an angel costume, a requirement that caused me some anxiety since the child has no white clothes except t-shirts.  And I'm not one of those moms that can sew a white dress and make glittery wings out of cardboard.

Yesterday she was absolutely frantic to knock next door and ask to borrow an angel dress.  When I asked her why she was in such a rush she turned haunted eyes to me and said: 'Last night I dreamed I had to perform in a white t-shirt and polka dot leggings!'

Which, to be fair, was an option I had been considering.  I congratulated her with a straight face on figuring out her own costume while chuckling to myself that she definitely knows her mum.

I guess family are the people who know you well and love you anyway.

I'm NOT living through my children... exactly

K has been enrolled in gymnastics class since she was three years old so I was getting worried when she turned 7 and still couldn't do a cartwheel.

I'm a fairly easy going mother.  I mean, I'm strict about a few things, but I don't expect to live vicariously through my children. 

Except for one thing: the cartwheel.  I require that all of my children can do a perfect cartwheel by the age of 8. 

Why?  Because I never could, dammit.  I practiced all summer when I was 8 and I totally sucked.  I never got over it.

I reckon some people just aren't at their best when flying through the air. 

Recently we found a new hard core gymnastics class that meets 2 hours twice a week.  And after only 4 classes K can execute a flawless cartwheel.

She has now satisfied all of my vicarious ambitions for her.

Of course, I would also like see to see her happy, productive, self-confident and married to a good man with three kids and a satisfying career but I don't insist on it.  I'm just the mom here, not the puppet master.

Mind you, I'm not done yet messing with my children's lives.  L already do a fine handstand but we still have to nail that cartwheel.  And little Gerhard won't be able to do a cartwheel for quite a while.

It's probably time to mention...

I recently posted a picture of me in my new dirndl. A few people correctly pointed out that you don't see much of the dirndl in the picture.

This was intentional. The dirndl picture camoflaged something I haven't felt ready to announce until now:

I'm pregnant!

Yes, it is true. Sorry, Kristina, I know this will upset you.

Although I thought I was done having children - and in fact swore never to be pregnant again last time around - a passing moment of baby notalgia changed my mind for about 5 minutes and that was apparently enough.

There are numerous reasons not to have a baby but there are even more reasons to have one, such as:

1. Maternity fashion has come a long way since I was pregnant with L. Back then you had a choice between a too-short baby doll top with unflattering stretch pants or a floral mu-mu dress. Today, long empire-waisted tunics are in, praise the Lord.
2. I have absolute power. I can yell, 'GET ME SOME FOOD!' day or night and I will be obeyed by total strangers.
3. I somehow never threw away any of our baby stuff. . . it felt too wasteful to give away stuff before it was worn to threads.
4. Actually, scratch number three, because IT'S A BOY!!!
5. I'd never had an amnio before and I was always curious.

An amnio is where they stick a needle through your stomach into your womb to gather genetic materia in order to screen for down's syndrome. It's about as much fun as it sounds.

I don't know how it is in the US but in Germany they give you a brochure with a graphical cartoon of a baby floating in a disembodied womb with a big needle sticking in from the outside.

I found the picture distressing but received a disapproving frown when I cheeped in dismay and inquired if it had to be so. . . graphic.
"That's what happens," I was informed sternly by the medical assistant. "What else would the picture show?"

Ohhhh kaaaaay.

The doctor who did the procedure (recommended because the baby's small intestine echoed funny and was 'too pale' in the ultrasound, whatever that means) patted my hand kindly and informed me that although the procedure isn't fun, at least in Germany they use 'thin' needles.

It felt a bit like being congratulated for not having my baby in a barbarian country like the US where they still use railroad spikes but I appreciated the thought.

I was warned I would feel a prick and some pressure but it was way more than pressure. It starts with a prick sure enough but right as you're thinking now would be a good time to stop the needle continues to punch through your stomach muscles.

I had sore muscles for two days but the procedure only lasted 40 second. And we had our results the next day so I really can't complain, especially since our baby has the normal number of chromosomes.

Let me mention here that my regular doctor was on summer vacation when I was refered for ultrasound because the baby's kidneys looked a bit irregular. When my doctor returned after all the excitement (ours, not his) he raised a perplexed eyebrow and inquired mildly why we did an amnio in the first place.

We told him the whole kidney ultrasound story, whereupon he informed us that swollen kidneys are pretty common in boys. Then he rolled his eyes. 'Geneticists!'

We're actually still waiting on one more test for cystic fibrosis, not because anyone thinks our baby will have it but because - according to my doctor - as long as they have all that nice genetic material they like to test it for stuff.

Or they could be cloning me to introduce more American genes into the German genepool, but somehow I don't they are.

So... I'm about 6 months pregnant and still trying to pretend my life isn't about to completely change. I even went to my kick boxing class about 3 weeks ago but decided to give it up when I saw how nervous my high kicks made everyone.

K and L are thrilled to have a baby brother. L drew me this picture showing the baby growing in my tummy:

I've Been a Mom for 7 Years

Hello! We're back from vacation. I had some work to catch up on and it took a few days to download the pictures but now I have my ducks in a row.

But first, happy birthday to my wonderful 7-year-old daughter K. I felt deeply connected to her the minute she was born and she is exactly the child I expected to have with Ralf - tall, smart, competent, impatient and determined. She's all alpha and we couldn't be more proud.

Happy birthday, baby girl!

In contrast, the constant senseless joy and playfulness radiated by our youngest child raises certain genetic questions. We adore L heart and soul but neither of us is sure how we got her.

And now some vacation pictures from the Italian alps and Lanzarote in the Canary Islands.

Man Up and Make a Plan

I know I've been a bit spotty lately on blogging but there are reasons. The main reason is that I just started a new job and at the same time I've been taking two classes: one in business German, which is fortunately over, and a certificate program in Talent Management at Cornell university.

Cool, huh? Soon I will have a piece of paper that says Cornell on it.

The German class was pretty easy, since my German is mind-blowingly good (just kidding- it's decent) but the whole thing with commute took about 8 hours a week. The Cornell program takes about 4 hours a week. And then, of course, I have a new job. And kids. And a house. And a cat. And three hermit crabs.

And of course I have to make all these new avatars of myself. So, I've been kind of busy.

Last year wasn't much fun, what with late night calls and a rough situation at work. I was feeling almost sorry for myself until Ralf told me to man up and make a plan.

Man up this, I said:

Ralf was intrigued by this response but didn't quite see the relevance.

So I made a fine plan to get a Ph.D. in organizational behavior or cognitive science while perfecting my roundhouse kick.

Ralf suggested I try to come up with a more practical and lucrative plan.

Feeling slightly aggrieved that he didn't want to move the entire family to the East Coast and pay for me to explore my inner Dr. Laura, I updated my resume and applied for various paid jobs.

I usually apply for one job at a time because I usually get the job and I hate saying no. This isn't quite as cocky as it sounds because I research and apply for jobs I have an excellent chance of getting.

That makes it sound easy but it's not. In fact, I'm glossing over months of hard work and a helping hand from some good friends.

And it's not like finding a job is a ticket to happiness. I've had tough work experiences: I've been fired and re-organized and offered jobs that disappeared after I accepted. I've worked very long hours for very little money. I've had bosses that didn't take me seriously or whose sole purpose in life was to grind me into dust. Etc., etc., etc.

(I've had good jobs, too.)

Plus, as a mom of two small kids living in Munich and working for Californian companies I'm. . . well, I tell people I'm the modern worker.

Anyway, over the last 6 months I applied for about ten jobs, just to see what fetched up.

In the end I had to choose between several offers, which meant figuring out trade offs, such as, Can I work from home? Do I have to wear a suit? Will I have to travel? Will I be on the phone every night? Is this a completely new role for me that will require 80 hour weeks for the first 6 months? Am I willilng to relocate? Is this a lateral move or a career step? Can I learn anything from my boss? Where do I want to be in 5 years?

Of course, for my ideal job, I'd relocate, wear a suit, commute, travel or eat mushy bananas but none of them was quite ideal.

One of the options we considered involved moving back to the US, which was tempting. Munich's a nice city but it isn't home. The biggest problem is language, and I'm not just talking about embarassing mistakes like that time I said 'I will throw up on you soon,' instead of, 'Let's discuss this later.' It's a LOT of work to function as an adult in a second language.

But... it wasn't the right time.

So anyway, after all that marvelous self contemplation and a chance to do something completely different I opted for a similar type of job at the same company.

Also, I now devote 10 minutes a day to manning up.

Kids Be Gone

As a grad student, Apple helped me generate countless spell-checked research papers. Years later they're still there for me, helping me be a better mom.

Thanks to iPhone, parents can now legally - secretly - torture their teens with an application that emits ultrasonic noise only they can hear.

It's called 'Kids Be Gone,' aka 'Mother's Little Helper.' I've also heard it referred to as 'Vex a Teen.'

(Tempting, I know, but please be careful not to use around small children.)

Who wants to look like Barbie?

Despite my efforts to minimize my daughters' exposure to the Barbie brand, we inherited a Barbie Farietopia movie: The Magic of the Rainbow.

What can I say, it was GREAT! I was totally sucked in. So, against my better judgement I went ahead and ordered the other movies in the series.

K: Why didn't you want to order them?

Me: Well, darling, some people think Barbie dolls make little girls think they need to look like Barbie. And I want you to know you're beautiful the way you are.

K (frowning at me like I just said something crazy): Who wants to look like Barbie?? She's not even real!

Well, what do you know? A new generation of smarter women.

Me: And you know you're beautiful just like you are, right?

K (shrugging): Yes.

Me: And you know it doesn't matter, it's what's inside that counts, right?

K (complacently): Uh huh. But I'm beautiful, too.

I am such an amazing mother.

A Fresh Start

It's Saturday. No work, no errands, short post. All week long my girls get up early and go to school. K trudges through the snow for 20 minutes - she'll be one of those know-it-all grandmothers some day. Sometimes when I pick them up in the afternoon I have to work.

There's not much time for free play because there's always someplace to be, although we're not so crazy with the activities and play dates as many families we know.

So this weekend is about play. I toyed with the idea of going to Ikea after viewing Karin's inspired presentation on organizing space but scratched that. Besides I prefer to go with Ralf so he can carry the heavy stuff.

My kids are upstairs playing dress up. They sound happy. I will go check on them soon and make approving noises. Unless they are making a huge mess. Then I will... do nothing. Maybe a mild, 'Is this really necessary?' sort of comment.

I shoveled snow again today. You have to or you're liable if someone slips and hurts themselves. It's a lot like mucking stalls, really, and I've certainly done my share of that. Poop, snow, same diff. I'm even good at it, but don't tell Ralf. I don't want him getting any liberal ideas.

Here come my girls. They want to show me the belly dance they've been practicing, with costumes.

Smile.

Take Another Little Piece of My Heart Now, Baby

Ralf is in California for a week and I'm alone with the kids in a very snowy place. Between being sick and the constant snow, it hasn't been an easy week.

The other night I had a call with a really great customer. I scheduled it for 9PM, which is about an hour after the kids are usually asleep. They're good sleepers so this strategy generally works well. But for whatever reason, L couldn't sleep and pattered downstairs at 9:30PM. I ended up having to barricade myself in the bathroom to finish my call in peace. L cried for a bit then eventually went back to bed on her own. I ran up after the call to apologize and cuddle her.

Long after she forgets all about it my heart will still have a little chipped piece.

This morning I found a note from the teacher saying K's been late to school several times this week. I should have known, really. When it's warm the kids ride their scooters to school but in the snow they walk, which takes longer. But they leave at the same time. The older girls in the group can go a lot faster and they've been leaving K behind. Not her fault at all.

So, I was calculating how quickly I could get L dressed and drive K to school when the phone rang. It was another mom saying her kids were leaving early today. Perfect! I helped K into her boots and gloves and opened the door - only to find that the big girls had already left! I was about to go grab L to drive K to school in my bare feet when Kaye from next door ran back and grabbed K's arm to hurry her up. Yes! But no, K burst into tears.

Exasperated, I told Kaye to go ahead and pulled K back into the house angrily, scolding her for acting like a baby. I was angry because now I had to run to get myself and L dressed, go outside, scrape the car and drive her when she could have just gone with Kaye. It's one thing if she gets left behind, it's another if she bolluxes a perfectly good solution.

It all ended well with Kaye's mom driving both girls but I can still hear my own angry voice in my ears. All I want to do now is drive to the school, pull K into my arms, hug her very tightly and tell her how wonderful she is.

There's plenty of literature about how parents can damage a child with harsh words but none about the damage parenting does to parents, about how it breaks your heart a little bit every day when you aren't as perfect and loving as you'd like to be.

At this rate, my heart will be in ragged splinters by the time my beautiful girls grow up.

A heartfelt TGIF to all you multi-tasking mamacitas!

On Breaking Eggs

K: Mommy, can I break the eggs when we make pancakes?

Me: No! Last time you got egg everywhere.

K: I know but I want to try.

Me: I know, Sweetie, and I'm glad you to want to try things, but I don't want to clean up a big mess right now. Can you understand that?

K: Yes, Mommy. Can I break the eggs when we make pancakes?

Have I mentioned how much I love my children?

Turnen

Yesterday the girls had Turnen, or gymnastics. I'm making a Christmas video of the girls for my mom and grandma and I took it along to film some footage.

Tournen is fun to watch because there's just nothing cuter than a bunch of little kids gallumping around giggling. I have great respect for the teacher Ingrid as well - because, let's face it, the job is like herding cats.

Because I was filming, K was on her best behavior. She repeatedly hugged her sister and helped her balance on a bench they were supposed to walk across. Not that she's usually mean to L, she's actually pretty decent as big sisters go, but yesterday she went all out.

This means she has figured out that it pays to act nice when people are watching.

Yes!!

Emotional Intelligence

Yesterday in the car:

K: I want a piece of gum.
Me: No.
K: Yes.
Me: No, you already had a lolly at Kit's house.
K: Then I won't talk to you ever again.
Me: OK, I'm here if you change your mind.

L started crying at this point because she had sensed a sweet in the offing with no additional work on her part and letting go is hard.

Ralf chimed in with a story of a study someone did with five year olds, which is K's age. They put one marshmallow in front of each child and gave them a choice: eat it now or wait three minutes and get two marshmallows.

Years later they re-interviewed the same kids, now grown up, and found that the ones who could wait were far more successful and happy than the ones who couldn't.

K: You mean if they waited three minutes they got two marshmallows instead of one?
Ralf: That's right.
Thoughtful pause.
K: Can we go there now?

This morning while I was drinking my coffee:

L (who is three): Mommy, I want another cookie.
Yes, people, I bribe my kids with cookies in the morning so I can finish my coffee in peace.
Me: Can you wait about three minutes until I finish my coffee? Then I'll get you a cookie.
L: If I wait three minutes I want two cookies.

Oh, and a new post over at MOG: http://ls-workgirl.blogspot.com/

Living in America

Maybe all my blog titles will be song titles from now on. . .

The first week has raced by, very busily for Ralf and I and very happily for the kids. They like their kindergarden and are having a blast with the week-long slumber party we've arranged for them with our Californian friends.

A few highlights:

Leafing through People Magazine's tribute to the 70s. K wanted to know about Star Wars so I explained about wars in space, bad guys with super mind powers, light sabers (she already knew about that one from her breakfast cereal), etc. She took it all in but when I made the spurious claim that Star Wars is the most famous movie ever, she scoffed. 'More famous than Pufnstuff? I don't think so!'

Letting my youngest raise herself. A few months back L announced she was ready to ride her bike with no training wheels. I hesitated, she cried and insisted. She was so positive. Finally, heart in throat, I strapped on her helmut and let her go. Perfect execution, just a big wobbly and only one spill. That's why when she announeced she was ready to sleep commando (i.e., no diapers) two nights ago, I let her. Sure enough, she was up to the challenge. I think I'll just retire.

Repaying our hosts with a flooded kitchen. We're staying with friends who kindly stepped in when our July house fell through. They have two kids of the same age but not so much space, which makes their hospitality especially generous. Last night after dinner I loaded the dishwasher, added soap and turned it on. About an hour later while we were playing Scrabble, which Ralf the German always seems to win, there was an ominous 'bloob bloop' sound. Soap foam was gushing out of the dishwasher like in an I Love Lucy episode. Ralf, who lives with me and still loves me, immediately assessed the situation. But I ask you, why call it 'dish soap' if you can't use it in the dishwasher???

Another busy week ahead but I'll do my best to keep up with your doings.

Torpedoes away!

Warning: This post is about poop! If you don't like poop, move along.

Yesterday my English playgroup met at the park instead of the stuffy room with no air conditioning in the community center where we usually meet.

It was a gorgeous day with fluffy white clouds and the lightest breeze.

The paltry supply of water and snacks I brought were quickly gone so we cadged from the better prepared mommies.

Since there was no bathroom L (who is three and a half) whizzed happily in the bushes.

Soon after she announced she that she had a caca. Now, I'm just fine with my kids peeing all over town like cats, it's natural, but I draw the line at leaving a big turd in the bushes for someone else to step in. I'm classy that way.

With bulging eyes L gave me to understand that if I didn't cough up a toilet she would be forced to take matters into her own hands. Or pants, as it were.

You don't need to tell me stuff like that twice. I was up like a shot and running toward the bushes with her. In a moment of dazzling inspiration I caught up a plastic bag mid-run with a still unformed plan churning in my head. Once we were somewhat hidden by the bushes, I spread out the plastic bag and professionally positioned her tushy over it. Happily, neither of my children has ever heard of shy kidneys and the deed was done in less than a minute.

Emerging from the bushes I threw away the bag and made a victory sign at the other moms, who clapped politely.

Re-joining them on the picnic blankets I remarked modestly, 'Well, that could have been worse.'

'Oh, totally,' said one of the other moms with feeling, looking off into the distance like you do when you're remembering something disturbing, 'she could have had diarrhea.' She shuddered slightly then shook it off.

'Or she could have been constipated,' offered another mom, nodding wisely. 'Kills your back.'

'Or she could have missed the bag!' excaimed the third mom, a leeetle over-enthusistically I thought. 'That really sucks because you have to pick it up like they do with dogs. Or it gets all over the bag. Believe me, you don't want that.'

Apparently poop in a bag is old hat.

I guess shit happens.