Our number of expected food-eating attendees at Chebbles' birthday party has just reached 100.
How the heck many pizzas does one order for this crowd? Or at this point to I assemble a Mess Tent?
The same thing happened last year when I failed to take into account the number of dads who are available on Labor Day.
I could lie and say I'm feeling overwhelmed and baffled by the attendance at this party, or I could be truthful and say just how excited we all are. Chebbles only turns three once!
We just hope to stay awake through the festivities.
(Chebbles went to bed at 3:30pm tonight...)
Saturday, August 30, 2008
But anyway...
I have to post something, so everyone can move away from the crap discussion.
So I'll let you know how we're hanging in over here...
Johnson is waking up about 12 times a night. She is suddenly in love with my boobs, but only at night. When we were in Germany, after Hub-D and my mom left, I started taking her to bed with me, and throwing her my little mostly-dried-up boobicles in a desperate attempt to get her to sleep.
So she started nursing, and now she wants to do that every night. I don't have a huge problem with that, because I like that she's getting some breast milk (she didn't catch Chebbles' current runny nose -- for the first time in her little life), but the 12 times a night I DO have a problem with.
It seems jerky to make her "cry it out" when we're not even home for five days, and we've messed with her circadian rhythms so very badly. So we've bit the financial bullet and temporarily hired a night nurse.
Sure! I could do it myself. I could stay up all night with her, like I did in Germany and for the five months before that. Then I could be the world's biggest asshole all day long, barely containing my rage when Chebbles breaks a glass or refuses to brush her teeth.
So just for the Labor Day weekend, we have nighttime help in the form of a 26-year-old Kenyan medical student who introduces herself to children as a giraffe.
Chebbles was in awe of her when the night nurse drifted into her room late at night. Usually, a stranger appearing in her room would freak her the heck out, but she was so intrigued, she just stared, apparently.
"Do you know my mama?" Chebbles asked.
"Yes I do," she replied. Then she went on to explain that she was from Africa, and she was a giraffe. She is from the Maasai tribe, as it turns out, and at 6'1", she's the shrimpiest one.
So in the middle of the night, while Johnson slept cuddled up to me, nursing that wee boob, Chebbles and the Night Nurse/Giraffe played with each other's hair and told stories until Chebbles drifted back to sleep.
So really, everyone wins. Except our bank account. But this is one expense I think we have to suck up for now.
Hub-D is a hero to us all. He just had a midnight snack with Chebbles, and continued his habit of telling her elaborate stories starring Chebbles and all of her friends. Those stories are out of this world, and Chebbles is hungry for more every day. Hub-D has built them palaces of candy, and populated her imagination with Evil Cows and Good Cows and needy polar bears and crazy bicycle trips and princesses. But the real, secret hero of all the stories is Daddy, I think.
And Chebbles is trying to take in a lot of change... coming home from Germany, about to have her birthday party, about to start what we call Big Girl Preschool, and swimming lessons, and ballet. While I tend to the teething Johnson during the day, she is having huge imagination games. In the latest one, she is attending a preschool for ballerinas, headed up by her favorite teacher, Miss C.
Oh, and me? I'm cool. I'm getting some sleep at night, sometimes as much as four hours in a row before I nurse Johnson, or get woken up by Hub-D and Chebbles' clinking cereal bowls.
We'll get there. We'll get there.
So I'll let you know how we're hanging in over here...
Johnson is waking up about 12 times a night. She is suddenly in love with my boobs, but only at night. When we were in Germany, after Hub-D and my mom left, I started taking her to bed with me, and throwing her my little mostly-dried-up boobicles in a desperate attempt to get her to sleep.
So she started nursing, and now she wants to do that every night. I don't have a huge problem with that, because I like that she's getting some breast milk (she didn't catch Chebbles' current runny nose -- for the first time in her little life), but the 12 times a night I DO have a problem with.
It seems jerky to make her "cry it out" when we're not even home for five days, and we've messed with her circadian rhythms so very badly. So we've bit the financial bullet and temporarily hired a night nurse.
Sure! I could do it myself. I could stay up all night with her, like I did in Germany and for the five months before that. Then I could be the world's biggest asshole all day long, barely containing my rage when Chebbles breaks a glass or refuses to brush her teeth.
So just for the Labor Day weekend, we have nighttime help in the form of a 26-year-old Kenyan medical student who introduces herself to children as a giraffe.
Chebbles was in awe of her when the night nurse drifted into her room late at night. Usually, a stranger appearing in her room would freak her the heck out, but she was so intrigued, she just stared, apparently.
"Do you know my mama?" Chebbles asked.
"Yes I do," she replied. Then she went on to explain that she was from Africa, and she was a giraffe. She is from the Maasai tribe, as it turns out, and at 6'1", she's the shrimpiest one.
So in the middle of the night, while Johnson slept cuddled up to me, nursing that wee boob, Chebbles and the Night Nurse/Giraffe played with each other's hair and told stories until Chebbles drifted back to sleep.
So really, everyone wins. Except our bank account. But this is one expense I think we have to suck up for now.
Hub-D is a hero to us all. He just had a midnight snack with Chebbles, and continued his habit of telling her elaborate stories starring Chebbles and all of her friends. Those stories are out of this world, and Chebbles is hungry for more every day. Hub-D has built them palaces of candy, and populated her imagination with Evil Cows and Good Cows and needy polar bears and crazy bicycle trips and princesses. But the real, secret hero of all the stories is Daddy, I think.
And Chebbles is trying to take in a lot of change... coming home from Germany, about to have her birthday party, about to start what we call Big Girl Preschool, and swimming lessons, and ballet. While I tend to the teething Johnson during the day, she is having huge imagination games. In the latest one, she is attending a preschool for ballerinas, headed up by her favorite teacher, Miss C.
Oh, and me? I'm cool. I'm getting some sleep at night, sometimes as much as four hours in a row before I nurse Johnson, or get woken up by Hub-D and Chebbles' clinking cereal bowls.
We'll get there. We'll get there.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I win.
Karla posts gross photos of her son. And what is motherhood if not a constant competition? But I felt I had nothing comparable to how impressively gross her son was.
Then there was this morning. Sounds of the baby slowly waking, then little babbling happy noises. Open the door, and find this....
Then there was this morning. Sounds of the baby slowly waking, then little babbling happy noises. Open the door, and find this....
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
We made it
Chebbles and Johnson were troopers on the 12-hour plane home. I just gave up on the idea that I would be able to "relax" at any point in the adventure, and so every moment that I could close my eyes was a blessed, unexpected event.
We were late to the airport, partially because I had underestimated how much crap we had to pack, and partially because my hand was sliced by a woman on the U-Bahn platform. It was a comic accident -- she was painting near the elevators at the platform, and nicely jumped off her ladder to help us with our luggage, forgetting the RAZOR she was wielding. So when I thanked her and took the luggage from her, I suddenly felt a sharp pain along my thumb crease. Then dark droplets of blood started to ooze from my hand.
But luckily, I didn't pass out (thought I might), a Band-Aid was procured, and we made it to the airport, with enough time to duck into the store and buy some much-needed deodorant before boarding the plane.
We're crazy, sleep-deprived, and Johnson can't stop crying in her crib right now, so I'm over and out. Can't wait to upload photos.
We were late to the airport, partially because I had underestimated how much crap we had to pack, and partially because my hand was sliced by a woman on the U-Bahn platform. It was a comic accident -- she was painting near the elevators at the platform, and nicely jumped off her ladder to help us with our luggage, forgetting the RAZOR she was wielding. So when I thanked her and took the luggage from her, I suddenly felt a sharp pain along my thumb crease. Then dark droplets of blood started to ooze from my hand.
But luckily, I didn't pass out (thought I might), a Band-Aid was procured, and we made it to the airport, with enough time to duck into the store and buy some much-needed deodorant before boarding the plane.
We're crazy, sleep-deprived, and Johnson can't stop crying in her crib right now, so I'm over and out. Can't wait to upload photos.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Boo Hoo
I'm getting all verklempt about leaving Germany tomorrow afternoon. Tonight we came home fairly late, having stayed out with our new friends swinging in the Solln Biergarten. As we came out of the U-Bahn station by our apartment, Chebbles said, "Can we get some ice cream?"
She already had ice cream today.
It was past 8:30.
Johnson was tired.
But, YES, YOU CAN HAVE ICE CREAM!
It might be her last kugel of pink gelato for this trip. We can't let an ice cream opportunity pass, here at the last minute in Munich.
So she polished off the cone as we sat on our back patio and talked about our trip. I asked her what her favorite part of the trip was... was it all the frolicking with new friends? All the french fries?
"The window."
"You liked your window the best?"
"Yeah. I like my window. It has painting on it."
"You mean the letters painted on your window?"
"Some are green. Or blue. One letter is yellow. That's for Grandma."
"Your favorite part of Germany is your window."
"Yeah."
I'm not annoyed that she loves the window best, it's just so Chebbles. But I hope she grows up remembering something more than that. Maybe she'll remember her first glimpse of Marienplatz, under the gothic-style Neues Rathaus and the golden status of Maria on the half moon... or, more likely, she'll remember that she found two bottle caps on the fountain there, and pressed them so hard into her cheeks the whole way home that she left indentations.
And she's continued her streak of charming Europeans. An Italian man on the train today just kept staring at her and reaching out to play with her. Then he turned to me and said, "Sie is aber süß!"... this echoed the sentiments of a Turkish woman, who flagged me down earlier in the week to let me know how cute my kid was, and every old person at Nordbad, and just basically, everyone loves the Cheb.
There is so much to cover. So much I'm afraid I'll forget. I'm scared that I won't be coming back soon, what with Johnson's sleep problems and our (fingers crossed) pregnancy plans.
But I can't think about that as I leave. I can't imagine this would be the last time I saw the details of Munich I love so much. The font in the U-Bahn stations. The damp clovers of the lawns. The ever-present Küchen and Bratwurst and Radler. The marvelous efficiency of the public transportation system, with trams and buses and trains leaving (mostly) on-time, and from every remote corner of Bavaria.
And I discovered so much new this time, despite having visited so often and lived here so long. The hillside walk in Salzburg. The Märchenwald packed with kiddie rides and fairy tales at the bottom of the S7 line. And Biergartens out the yin-yang. I never had a crappy beer the whole time I was here. And if you average out the 2 Radlers/day I had, that's 44 beers, my friends. 44 awesome, sparkly, lemony beers.
I also discovered that both my daughters have grown shockingly long legs. And Johnson has discovered how to crawl. And I miss my husband and my mother when they're not around, and not just for logistical reasons.
Today, I took Chebbles to My Favorite Store in the World.
It's on Hohenzollernstraße, just about five blocks from our apartment. I used to wander through that store often when I lived here, and I make a pilgrimage almost every time I'm back.
It's chock full of little wonders, of 100 different music boxes, and things you can find nowhere else -- just unique kinds of stationery and beads and shoes and umbrellas with strange prints on them. There are several dozen kinds of dishware for kids, and every color of scarf or wrapping paper you could desire.
We're going to try to go back tomorrow, to possibly buy something. We were in something of a rush today, so we couldn't stay and pay proper homage to the glory of My Favorite Store in the World.
But while we were there, and Chebbles admired some shell-printed teapot, I leaned down to her and said, "Do you see why this is my favorite store in the world?"
"Yeah, Mama."
"Do you think it might be your favorite store in the world too?"
"Oh yes."
Goodnight, Munich. Sigh, boo hoo.
She already had ice cream today.
It was past 8:30.
Johnson was tired.
But, YES, YOU CAN HAVE ICE CREAM!
It might be her last kugel of pink gelato for this trip. We can't let an ice cream opportunity pass, here at the last minute in Munich.
So she polished off the cone as we sat on our back patio and talked about our trip. I asked her what her favorite part of the trip was... was it all the frolicking with new friends? All the french fries?
"The window."
"You liked your window the best?"
"Yeah. I like my window. It has painting on it."
"You mean the letters painted on your window?"
"Some are green. Or blue. One letter is yellow. That's for Grandma."
"Your favorite part of Germany is your window."
"Yeah."
I'm not annoyed that she loves the window best, it's just so Chebbles. But I hope she grows up remembering something more than that. Maybe she'll remember her first glimpse of Marienplatz, under the gothic-style Neues Rathaus and the golden status of Maria on the half moon... or, more likely, she'll remember that she found two bottle caps on the fountain there, and pressed them so hard into her cheeks the whole way home that she left indentations.
And she's continued her streak of charming Europeans. An Italian man on the train today just kept staring at her and reaching out to play with her. Then he turned to me and said, "Sie is aber süß!"... this echoed the sentiments of a Turkish woman, who flagged me down earlier in the week to let me know how cute my kid was, and every old person at Nordbad, and just basically, everyone loves the Cheb.
There is so much to cover. So much I'm afraid I'll forget. I'm scared that I won't be coming back soon, what with Johnson's sleep problems and our (fingers crossed) pregnancy plans.
But I can't think about that as I leave. I can't imagine this would be the last time I saw the details of Munich I love so much. The font in the U-Bahn stations. The damp clovers of the lawns. The ever-present Küchen and Bratwurst and Radler. The marvelous efficiency of the public transportation system, with trams and buses and trains leaving (mostly) on-time, and from every remote corner of Bavaria.
And I discovered so much new this time, despite having visited so often and lived here so long. The hillside walk in Salzburg. The Märchenwald packed with kiddie rides and fairy tales at the bottom of the S7 line. And Biergartens out the yin-yang. I never had a crappy beer the whole time I was here. And if you average out the 2 Radlers/day I had, that's 44 beers, my friends. 44 awesome, sparkly, lemony beers.
I also discovered that both my daughters have grown shockingly long legs. And Johnson has discovered how to crawl. And I miss my husband and my mother when they're not around, and not just for logistical reasons.
Today, I took Chebbles to My Favorite Store in the World.
It's on Hohenzollernstraße, just about five blocks from our apartment. I used to wander through that store often when I lived here, and I make a pilgrimage almost every time I'm back.
It's chock full of little wonders, of 100 different music boxes, and things you can find nowhere else -- just unique kinds of stationery and beads and shoes and umbrellas with strange prints on them. There are several dozen kinds of dishware for kids, and every color of scarf or wrapping paper you could desire.
We're going to try to go back tomorrow, to possibly buy something. We were in something of a rush today, so we couldn't stay and pay proper homage to the glory of My Favorite Store in the World.
But while we were there, and Chebbles admired some shell-printed teapot, I leaned down to her and said, "Do you see why this is my favorite store in the world?"
"Yeah, Mama."
"Do you think it might be your favorite store in the world too?"
"Oh yes."
Goodnight, Munich. Sigh, boo hoo.
Splish splash
I asked Chebbles what she wanted to do on our last day here in Munich... did she want to go to the Olympic Tower? Did she want to go to a toy shop? And she said, Nordbad!
So, off we go. We're off to the swimming hole... which means, in Germany, a huge palace of an indoor swimming complex with multiple warm pools, lap pools, a hot tub, a big sphere with water shooting out of it, and a little baby pool guarded by a snake, who has water falling out of its nostrils. Oh, plus a giant spiral pool that makes a perpetual whirlpool for kids to enjoy.
Then this afternoon, we're adventuring off on the U-Bahn and S-Bahn to our new friends' house, where we'll hop on bicycles and soar through the forest in search of our very last Radlers at a remote Kneipe along the trail.
Johnson's sleep has gotten marginally better. We're all basically as adjusted as we're ever going to be. I wish we were staying another month...
So, off we go. We're off to the swimming hole... which means, in Germany, a huge palace of an indoor swimming complex with multiple warm pools, lap pools, a hot tub, a big sphere with water shooting out of it, and a little baby pool guarded by a snake, who has water falling out of its nostrils. Oh, plus a giant spiral pool that makes a perpetual whirlpool for kids to enjoy.
Then this afternoon, we're adventuring off on the U-Bahn and S-Bahn to our new friends' house, where we'll hop on bicycles and soar through the forest in search of our very last Radlers at a remote Kneipe along the trail.
Johnson's sleep has gotten marginally better. We're all basically as adjusted as we're ever going to be. I wish we were staying another month...
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Last Rainy Saturday in Munich
We went to the zoo today, Chebbles and me, with some friends-of-friends who were marvelous company. Chebbles rode the ponies and the merry-go-round, gawked at the pink pelicans three times, woke the lions and caused general havoc with her new little friend P. I felt like we were the most obvious Americans at the zoo, what with our general lack of voice modulation.
And tonight I'm thinking about how many of my expectations changed during this trip...
I was going to start running again. I haven't run once, having been marooned by sleeplessness. Instead, I'm coming home with a Homer Simpson-esque beer belly.
I was going to buy all of Chebbles' school clothes. But my shopping opportunities have been few and far between. I bought her one striped sweatshirt and it looks like that's going to be the extent of it.
I was prepared for a week of sleeplessness. And was surprised to learn that, no, I wouldn't get a full night's rest the whole time.
But what the hell, who cares? I've learned to run our family's day-to-day routine all by myself in a foreign country. I've learned that Johnson needs Abend-Brei before bed in order to sleep more than three hours in a row. And I've learned to live with a resident mouse.
I've hit a kind of "restart" button on my expectations of our limits and responsibilities as a family. I've made peace with the insecure 20-year-old self who used to live in here. I've looked my family's Nazi history straight in the eye, and found myself feeling wildly patriotic about having been born in the US.
I am really, really happy here.
I feel so much better prepared to enter this school year, Chebbles' first, with my head screwed on straight. Although I can't claim to be happy about not being pregnant (and therefore having no excuse for the donut of schnitzel-chub around my waist), I feel a peace about my pregnancy plans. Either I'm pregnant by Halloween, or we get medical science involved. No big whoop.
I've made two new friends here, really quality people. And I feel like the friends we find can be a reflection of who we are ourselves. For years, I attracted a fairly nutty crowd -- interesting but flaky. And now, I'm on an even keel, and meeting terrific sailing buddies.
It's kind of like Chebbles and the steps. There are 81 steps from the front door of our building up to our apartment here. And the first couple weeks, she dawdled like crazy on those steps, sometimes trying dangerous tricks, sometimes just sitting down and crying halfway up or down.
And now, she just chats with me as we scale the steps, up and down. It's no longer a big deal. Her legs seem to have grown to accomodate those 81 steps. And that's what we're bringing home with us. It's that small sense of accomplishment when something that seemed daunting at first, like, say, moving your family to Munich for three weeks, becomes something fun that you did.
And tonight I'm thinking about how many of my expectations changed during this trip...
I was going to start running again. I haven't run once, having been marooned by sleeplessness. Instead, I'm coming home with a Homer Simpson-esque beer belly.
I was going to buy all of Chebbles' school clothes. But my shopping opportunities have been few and far between. I bought her one striped sweatshirt and it looks like that's going to be the extent of it.
I was prepared for a week of sleeplessness. And was surprised to learn that, no, I wouldn't get a full night's rest the whole time.
But what the hell, who cares? I've learned to run our family's day-to-day routine all by myself in a foreign country. I've learned that Johnson needs Abend-Brei before bed in order to sleep more than three hours in a row. And I've learned to live with a resident mouse.
I've hit a kind of "restart" button on my expectations of our limits and responsibilities as a family. I've made peace with the insecure 20-year-old self who used to live in here. I've looked my family's Nazi history straight in the eye, and found myself feeling wildly patriotic about having been born in the US.
I am really, really happy here.
I feel so much better prepared to enter this school year, Chebbles' first, with my head screwed on straight. Although I can't claim to be happy about not being pregnant (and therefore having no excuse for the donut of schnitzel-chub around my waist), I feel a peace about my pregnancy plans. Either I'm pregnant by Halloween, or we get medical science involved. No big whoop.
I've made two new friends here, really quality people. And I feel like the friends we find can be a reflection of who we are ourselves. For years, I attracted a fairly nutty crowd -- interesting but flaky. And now, I'm on an even keel, and meeting terrific sailing buddies.
It's kind of like Chebbles and the steps. There are 81 steps from the front door of our building up to our apartment here. And the first couple weeks, she dawdled like crazy on those steps, sometimes trying dangerous tricks, sometimes just sitting down and crying halfway up or down.
And now, she just chats with me as we scale the steps, up and down. It's no longer a big deal. Her legs seem to have grown to accomodate those 81 steps. And that's what we're bringing home with us. It's that small sense of accomplishment when something that seemed daunting at first, like, say, moving your family to Munich for three weeks, becomes something fun that you did.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Wish us luck
I'm headed to bed with Johnson. Her sleep problems have become the only reason I want to leave Germany.
I love it so much here in Munich. The public transportation system is out of this world -- we have a pass that lets us ride on any train, bus or tram we desire. It's incredibly freeing, with two little kids, not to have to pack everyone in the car everywhere we go.
Chebbles and I took a bunch of U-Bahns and buses to the Franziskaner Biergarten today, where I had the best Radlers EVER. It occured to me, as I watched Chebbles play in the sprinkling rain, as we ate Wienerschnitzel and I downed the Radlers, how much I've started to take this way of life for granted. I'm in for a rude awakening when I return to our Contra Costa playgrounds. No food and drink except Cheerios and sippy cups. Ugh.
Have I transformed into a Eurosnob!?
And is it just me, or does anyone else get a kick out of the "Super" designation on tampons? There I am, in my narrow German bathroom, wrestling with tampons, singing Big Gay Al's song from "The South Park Movie." It feels oddly apt...
"I'm SUPER! Thanks for asking. All things considered I couldn't be better I must say!"
Oh, one thing everyone should know is that many German taxis have back seats that magically TRANSFORM INTO CARSEATS. Well, Grüß Gott, we're taking full advantage of that.
Daily tally...
Radlers: 2
Hours napped: 1
U-Bahns boarded: 4
Number of "Help Baby Sleep" baby food jars I purchased today: 5
Full days left in Deutschland: 3
Gute Nacht... I hope.
I love it so much here in Munich. The public transportation system is out of this world -- we have a pass that lets us ride on any train, bus or tram we desire. It's incredibly freeing, with two little kids, not to have to pack everyone in the car everywhere we go.
Chebbles and I took a bunch of U-Bahns and buses to the Franziskaner Biergarten today, where I had the best Radlers EVER. It occured to me, as I watched Chebbles play in the sprinkling rain, as we ate Wienerschnitzel and I downed the Radlers, how much I've started to take this way of life for granted. I'm in for a rude awakening when I return to our Contra Costa playgrounds. No food and drink except Cheerios and sippy cups. Ugh.
Have I transformed into a Eurosnob!?
And is it just me, or does anyone else get a kick out of the "Super" designation on tampons? There I am, in my narrow German bathroom, wrestling with tampons, singing Big Gay Al's song from "The South Park Movie." It feels oddly apt...
"I'm SUPER! Thanks for asking. All things considered I couldn't be better I must say!"
Oh, one thing everyone should know is that many German taxis have back seats that magically TRANSFORM INTO CARSEATS. Well, Grüß Gott, we're taking full advantage of that.
Daily tally...
Radlers: 2
Hours napped: 1
U-Bahns boarded: 4
Number of "Help Baby Sleep" baby food jars I purchased today: 5
Full days left in Deutschland: 3
Gute Nacht... I hope.
Um, yeah
We got no sleep last night. Almost absolutely none.
Sitter cancelled. Can't focus. Children crabby.
What's German for "Calgon, take me away!"?
Sitter cancelled. Can't focus. Children crabby.
What's German for "Calgon, take me away!"?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
(Gum) Breaking News!
This just in (her mouth)!
Johnson has popped her first tooth. It's razor sharp and adorable. I had Chebbles fishing around in there this evening to show it to her, but she couldn't feel it. But it's there, and just about the cutest thing the dental world has ever experienced.
As Johnson and I lay in Chebbles' bed, I turned off the light and said, "Cheb, do you want to tell Johnson how proud you are of her new tooth?"
And she said, "Now you can CHEW on FOOD!"
It's awesome how Chebbles refuses to gossip with me about Johnson, but rather addresses her directly, as though she were just continuing a conversation with her.
.....
And yes, by the way, we found Schloß Nymphenburg today. We had the most fun with the wildlife around the palace. Chebbles interacted with a snail for a good ten minutes ("I'm not a mean person, snail, I won't be mean to you.") and Johnson was attacked by a swan.
The swan attack is only funny because no one got hurt, so I can tell you it was absolutely hilarious. And because I value my blog possibly over the safety of my children, I can assure you that I successfully captured the whole thing on video (I can't upload yet...). The video is very "Blair Witch Project" because I am trying to ward the thing away while recording the moment. Sorry Johnson, too bad you'll be afraid of swans for the rest of your life, but hahahaha.
Maybe now that she has a tooth, she can wreak her revenge.
Today's Tally...
Radlers = 2
Sausages = 4
Apfelschorles = 2
Dark bread smeared with Nutella = 1
New teeth = 1
Swan attacks = 1
Full days left in Germany = 4 ... (boo hoo)
Johnson has popped her first tooth. It's razor sharp and adorable. I had Chebbles fishing around in there this evening to show it to her, but she couldn't feel it. But it's there, and just about the cutest thing the dental world has ever experienced.
As Johnson and I lay in Chebbles' bed, I turned off the light and said, "Cheb, do you want to tell Johnson how proud you are of her new tooth?"
And she said, "Now you can CHEW on FOOD!"
It's awesome how Chebbles refuses to gossip with me about Johnson, but rather addresses her directly, as though she were just continuing a conversation with her.
.....
And yes, by the way, we found Schloß Nymphenburg today. We had the most fun with the wildlife around the palace. Chebbles interacted with a snail for a good ten minutes ("I'm not a mean person, snail, I won't be mean to you.") and Johnson was attacked by a swan.
The swan attack is only funny because no one got hurt, so I can tell you it was absolutely hilarious. And because I value my blog possibly over the safety of my children, I can assure you that I successfully captured the whole thing on video (I can't upload yet...). The video is very "Blair Witch Project" because I am trying to ward the thing away while recording the moment. Sorry Johnson, too bad you'll be afraid of swans for the rest of your life, but hahahaha.
Maybe now that she has a tooth, she can wreak her revenge.
Today's Tally...
Radlers = 2
Sausages = 4
Apfelschorles = 2
Dark bread smeared with Nutella = 1
New teeth = 1
Swan attacks = 1
Full days left in Germany = 4 ... (boo hoo)
.
In other news, I got my period.
I shouldn't be surprised or disappointed. But of course I am. I had fantasized about bringing home another Eurembryo.
This means that the grind is on. If we're not pregnant by Halloween, Dr. W is going to start taking measures. We're talking about a gradually increasing regimen of ultrasounds and Clomid and IUI's to start with. Because we're pushing it, age-wise, and it seems we only bat .500. So there is no time to lose as we gun for a third.
Now I'm stewing over my period. It's so ghastly to see your period when you're on day 29 of your cycle and little pregnancy hopes are starting to percolate. When I'm in TTC mode, I swear I have a little PTSD about seeing blood on toilet paper.
I had to realize that although my cycle length is 28 days, I started this cycle in the US, so... I wasn't really on Day 29 today. I wasn't really a day past my period. I wasn't actually going to get to buy a German pregnancy test and find out what they're all about.
No, back home I have a bunch of bulk pregnancy strips waiting for me, for the coming months, if I actually allow myself to test. Ugh, yeah, the strip-dippin grind.
I was just hoping to skip past the whole "neurotic about getting pregnant" part of the deal. Pregnancies are hard enough for me as it is, without a six-month run-up of cycle-related stress.
According to my OV-Watch, we hit the mark last cycle on Fertile Day 1 and then Fertile Day 4. So that ought to have been enough to stir things into action. So, what GIVES in there?
I know this sounds remarkably impatient. And possibly somewhat greedy. I have two marvelous kids, one of whom is just five months old. But please note that she was kind of late, having been preceeded by two miscarriages. And Hub-D and I would really like to have three kids.
We've got a deadline that marching right up against our heels. Now that I'm 37, we just have two more years to have a pregnancy that "sticks." And if you factor in any miscarriages and my typical six month drag to get pregnant... see, practically speaking, we don't have a month to lose.
But what made me think I'd hit it on my first fertile cycle after giving birth? I don't know. Hope.
I shouldn't be surprised or disappointed. But of course I am. I had fantasized about bringing home another Eurembryo.
This means that the grind is on. If we're not pregnant by Halloween, Dr. W is going to start taking measures. We're talking about a gradually increasing regimen of ultrasounds and Clomid and IUI's to start with. Because we're pushing it, age-wise, and it seems we only bat .500. So there is no time to lose as we gun for a third.
Now I'm stewing over my period. It's so ghastly to see your period when you're on day 29 of your cycle and little pregnancy hopes are starting to percolate. When I'm in TTC mode, I swear I have a little PTSD about seeing blood on toilet paper.
I had to realize that although my cycle length is 28 days, I started this cycle in the US, so... I wasn't really on Day 29 today. I wasn't really a day past my period. I wasn't actually going to get to buy a German pregnancy test and find out what they're all about.
No, back home I have a bunch of bulk pregnancy strips waiting for me, for the coming months, if I actually allow myself to test. Ugh, yeah, the strip-dippin grind.
I was just hoping to skip past the whole "neurotic about getting pregnant" part of the deal. Pregnancies are hard enough for me as it is, without a six-month run-up of cycle-related stress.
According to my OV-Watch, we hit the mark last cycle on Fertile Day 1 and then Fertile Day 4. So that ought to have been enough to stir things into action. So, what GIVES in there?
I know this sounds remarkably impatient. And possibly somewhat greedy. I have two marvelous kids, one of whom is just five months old. But please note that she was kind of late, having been preceeded by two miscarriages. And Hub-D and I would really like to have three kids.
We've got a deadline that marching right up against our heels. Now that I'm 37, we just have two more years to have a pregnancy that "sticks." And if you factor in any miscarriages and my typical six month drag to get pregnant... see, practically speaking, we don't have a month to lose.
But what made me think I'd hit it on my first fertile cycle after giving birth? I don't know. Hope.
OK, so I'm sleep deprived again.
Johnson was up most of the night, slapping my face with her soft little hands. And Chebbles fell out of the bed, then just got lonely in the middle of the night.
But Chebbles was great this morning. I told her that I needed to nap while Johnson napped, so first she laid on top of me for awhile, then she sang me a song and closed the bedroom door behind me. At first, she was so quiet that I thought she must be up to no good. But when I peeked my face out of the bedroom door to check on her, I discovered that she was just playing silently so as not to wake me.
Whoa! I'll be taking advantage of THIS new development.
Today we're going to try to find Schloß Nymphenburg again. Yesterday we spent most of the day in search of this summer palace of the Bavarian princes, only to become fully lost within the Olympic Park. We boarded a train which SHOULD have taken us to the Schloß, but its route was evidently changed to accommodate some construction, and it dumped us (somewhat unceremoniously) at the mostly deserted south end of Olympic Park.
I didn't have the stroller, so I had to force Chebbles to trot alongside me while I carried Johnson in the front pack. All of us were sweaty and frustrated. Finally, after finding a strange, un-fun "circus" where I purchased untasty, expensive "treats" for us, we spotted the top of the Sommerfest Ferris Wheel at the other end of the Olympic Park.
I prodded Chebbles up a steep cliff of dirt so we could go straight for the Ferris Wheel, over hills and dales, tromping around the giant mounds of post WWII rubble that formed the park. (Years ago, my cousin found a bathroom tile in these hills. Eerie.)
Of course we rode the Ferris Wheel! What kind of a mother do you think I am? Then we boarded several other rides, all of which had minimal safety measures -- they actually let me ride in a flying "jet plane" with Chebbles -- with no seat belts and Johnson in the front pack. Did we pull on the pretend "throttle" and make it go up in the sky, then push the button to "shoot" the other planes? When in Rome...
Also at Sommerfest, I allowed Chebbles to ride in a big sproingy thing -- where they attach a harness to her pelvis, and then she holds onto ropes and jumps way up in the sky. I have no idea what this is called in any language. Probably: Totally dangerous. There was a 15 kg minimum for kids to jump on the sproingy thing. After she asked me if she could go on it, I stood there and did some hasty calculations... Johnson is 8kg, I know this from the size comparisons on her diaper package. And Chebbles is at least twice the weight of Johnson, so... here's your 4 Euros, kid, jump your little heart out!
Finally, I had to pull Chebbles away from Sommerfest ("But I want nuts! Grandma lets me buy NUTS!") and toward the U-Bahn station, as we had a date in the suburbs last night with my Onkel Rudi. She started to get really annoyed with the continued forced marching and finally just sat down and peed all over the sidewalk.
A lot of passersby witnessed this little affair, and I felt completely unapologetic. Who doesn't want to pee all over themselves when their moms make them march across WWII rubble all day long, without purchasing nuts, and then making them leave Sommerfest? It's practically obligatory to pee at that point.
But we survived, and got Chebbles changed at home. I gradually peeled Johnson off of my chest, she had been in that carrier for so long we were practically conjoined twins.
Today? We're taking a different train to the Schloß. AND we're taking the stroller.
Wish us luck!
Johnson was up most of the night, slapping my face with her soft little hands. And Chebbles fell out of the bed, then just got lonely in the middle of the night.
But Chebbles was great this morning. I told her that I needed to nap while Johnson napped, so first she laid on top of me for awhile, then she sang me a song and closed the bedroom door behind me. At first, she was so quiet that I thought she must be up to no good. But when I peeked my face out of the bedroom door to check on her, I discovered that she was just playing silently so as not to wake me.
Whoa! I'll be taking advantage of THIS new development.
Today we're going to try to find Schloß Nymphenburg again. Yesterday we spent most of the day in search of this summer palace of the Bavarian princes, only to become fully lost within the Olympic Park. We boarded a train which SHOULD have taken us to the Schloß, but its route was evidently changed to accommodate some construction, and it dumped us (somewhat unceremoniously) at the mostly deserted south end of Olympic Park.
I didn't have the stroller, so I had to force Chebbles to trot alongside me while I carried Johnson in the front pack. All of us were sweaty and frustrated. Finally, after finding a strange, un-fun "circus" where I purchased untasty, expensive "treats" for us, we spotted the top of the Sommerfest Ferris Wheel at the other end of the Olympic Park.
I prodded Chebbles up a steep cliff of dirt so we could go straight for the Ferris Wheel, over hills and dales, tromping around the giant mounds of post WWII rubble that formed the park. (Years ago, my cousin found a bathroom tile in these hills. Eerie.)
Of course we rode the Ferris Wheel! What kind of a mother do you think I am? Then we boarded several other rides, all of which had minimal safety measures -- they actually let me ride in a flying "jet plane" with Chebbles -- with no seat belts and Johnson in the front pack. Did we pull on the pretend "throttle" and make it go up in the sky, then push the button to "shoot" the other planes? When in Rome...
Also at Sommerfest, I allowed Chebbles to ride in a big sproingy thing -- where they attach a harness to her pelvis, and then she holds onto ropes and jumps way up in the sky. I have no idea what this is called in any language. Probably: Totally dangerous. There was a 15 kg minimum for kids to jump on the sproingy thing. After she asked me if she could go on it, I stood there and did some hasty calculations... Johnson is 8kg, I know this from the size comparisons on her diaper package. And Chebbles is at least twice the weight of Johnson, so... here's your 4 Euros, kid, jump your little heart out!
Finally, I had to pull Chebbles away from Sommerfest ("But I want nuts! Grandma lets me buy NUTS!") and toward the U-Bahn station, as we had a date in the suburbs last night with my Onkel Rudi. She started to get really annoyed with the continued forced marching and finally just sat down and peed all over the sidewalk.
A lot of passersby witnessed this little affair, and I felt completely unapologetic. Who doesn't want to pee all over themselves when their moms make them march across WWII rubble all day long, without purchasing nuts, and then making them leave Sommerfest? It's practically obligatory to pee at that point.
But we survived, and got Chebbles changed at home. I gradually peeled Johnson off of my chest, she had been in that carrier for so long we were practically conjoined twins.
Today? We're taking a different train to the Schloß. AND we're taking the stroller.
Wish us luck!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
What's with the old tickling ladies?
Sure, we miss Grandma and Hub-D, but we've re-huddled and found we're really enjoying each other's company -- Chebbles, Johnson and me.
I wasn't sure how we were going to manage to feed ourselves, or how I would possibly care for two demanding kids on my own in a foreign country, in an apartment 81 steps from the ground -- but we've not only survived, we've started a whole new club here in Munich.
It's a club that believes in parents drinking beers at playgrounds, in sharing TWO milkshakes at lunch, and skipping through the rain. It's a club that can easily justify the purchase of Smurfs and Smurf accessories, because where in the world can you find those in the US these days?
So we're doing fine... so far. Talk to me tomorrow, but only if I've stitched a few hours of sleep in a row.
...
I did want to ask what's going on with the old ladies on the U-bahn (subway)? They keep tickling Chebbles. It's like they can't help themselves. Of course I can't blame them, as Chebbles is the exact combination of stand-offish and juicy that makes tickling seem obligatory, but it just keeps happening. Good thing she enjoys it, or I might have to get a T-shirt printed up for her with a warning in German. "Nicht Tickeln Bitte!"?
Speaking of custom printing, I do want to get buttons made that say "I dressed myself today!" See, kids would think that it was a reward for getting themselves dressed, but in actuality, it would be an explanation for mismatched, inside-out, backwards, unbuttoned outfits. The subtext would be, "No, I am not a victim of parental neglect. I'm almost three and I think I know everything about fashion."
...
And also on the U-Bahn, we were seated in the rush hour crowd when Chebbles hollered, "Mama! That man looks like a goat!"
I whispered in her ear that we consider it bad manners to say these things so loudly in a crowded environment, because other people might make fun of a person who looks like a goat.
Then I looked at the man. I laughed so hard. I laughed with my face hidden in Chebbles' hair for several minutes, and she started to laugh too. It's as though he were trying to look like a goat. He was Billy McGoat Gruff, my friends. Never in my life have I seen a person who most resembled any animal, as much as this man looked like a goat. He even had a very goat-ish goatee, in a goat-like color, sprouting from his face.
Luckily, the man either didn't know English, didn't hear Chebbles' exclamation, or perhaps relished having been recognized for his handsome goat-ness. As he left the train, he gave Chebbles a big, warm smile. In a very wonderful goat-like way.
...
I also had an altercation at the playground that underscored my lack of fluency with the German language. There was a little boy throwing sand at every little kid who was coming down the slide. Seeing no other parent willing to help out, I jumped up to intervene.
In Germany, where corporal punishment is still fairly common, you can usually just give kids a stern look and they'll cease their rotten behavior. Or a simple, "Du darfst einfach nicht!" or some similar German 101 admonition, and the kid will be cowed.
Not this little dick. Even after I tried the stern look, he threw more sand. I told him he darfst nicht. He ignored me.
Then I picked him up and moved him from the bottom of the slide, and tried to tell him off. But I guess when I'm mad, my German skills go absolutely down the crapper. Basically, I stood there trying to defend the innocent preschoolers of Munich against this sand-throwing bully by saying something like...
"You are stopping and this is the stop!"
(more sand)
"This is a situation of which I do not approve."
(ignoring)
"This! This is you stopping this activity."
At that point, the child started making fun of me. Maybe he thought I was retarded or something, because he started in on ME, mocking the phrasing of my "discipline."
That's when I finally thought of a sentence that summed up exactly what I was feeling...
"WO IST DEINE MUTTER?"
Yeah! How can your mom be enjoying a nice day in the Biergarten while I take responsibility for the safety of the children you are hurting, you naughty, crappy child?
At that, the child found his father behind a tree, and sidled up onto the man's lap. I mused on this for awhile, thinking of some German words that I might use to explain to the man that his kid was behaving so poorly that I would be in favor of some corporal punishment. But I knew that I would be the one sounding like the jerk, and he'd probably make fun of me even worse.
But whatever. Bet that kid doesn't get tickled on the subway NEARLY as much as my perfect child.
So goodnight for now... and finally, the day's tally:
* Two Radlers
* Two Bratwursts
* One order of Sauerkraut
* One pretzel dipped in Nutella
* One thunderstorm
* One tantrum
And another fine day in Germany comes to a close.
I wasn't sure how we were going to manage to feed ourselves, or how I would possibly care for two demanding kids on my own in a foreign country, in an apartment 81 steps from the ground -- but we've not only survived, we've started a whole new club here in Munich.
It's a club that believes in parents drinking beers at playgrounds, in sharing TWO milkshakes at lunch, and skipping through the rain. It's a club that can easily justify the purchase of Smurfs and Smurf accessories, because where in the world can you find those in the US these days?
So we're doing fine... so far. Talk to me tomorrow, but only if I've stitched a few hours of sleep in a row.
...
I did want to ask what's going on with the old ladies on the U-bahn (subway)? They keep tickling Chebbles. It's like they can't help themselves. Of course I can't blame them, as Chebbles is the exact combination of stand-offish and juicy that makes tickling seem obligatory, but it just keeps happening. Good thing she enjoys it, or I might have to get a T-shirt printed up for her with a warning in German. "Nicht Tickeln Bitte!"?
Speaking of custom printing, I do want to get buttons made that say "I dressed myself today!" See, kids would think that it was a reward for getting themselves dressed, but in actuality, it would be an explanation for mismatched, inside-out, backwards, unbuttoned outfits. The subtext would be, "No, I am not a victim of parental neglect. I'm almost three and I think I know everything about fashion."
...
And also on the U-Bahn, we were seated in the rush hour crowd when Chebbles hollered, "Mama! That man looks like a goat!"
I whispered in her ear that we consider it bad manners to say these things so loudly in a crowded environment, because other people might make fun of a person who looks like a goat.
Then I looked at the man. I laughed so hard. I laughed with my face hidden in Chebbles' hair for several minutes, and she started to laugh too. It's as though he were trying to look like a goat. He was Billy McGoat Gruff, my friends. Never in my life have I seen a person who most resembled any animal, as much as this man looked like a goat. He even had a very goat-ish goatee, in a goat-like color, sprouting from his face.
Luckily, the man either didn't know English, didn't hear Chebbles' exclamation, or perhaps relished having been recognized for his handsome goat-ness. As he left the train, he gave Chebbles a big, warm smile. In a very wonderful goat-like way.
...
I also had an altercation at the playground that underscored my lack of fluency with the German language. There was a little boy throwing sand at every little kid who was coming down the slide. Seeing no other parent willing to help out, I jumped up to intervene.
In Germany, where corporal punishment is still fairly common, you can usually just give kids a stern look and they'll cease their rotten behavior. Or a simple, "Du darfst einfach nicht!" or some similar German 101 admonition, and the kid will be cowed.
Not this little dick. Even after I tried the stern look, he threw more sand. I told him he darfst nicht. He ignored me.
Then I picked him up and moved him from the bottom of the slide, and tried to tell him off. But I guess when I'm mad, my German skills go absolutely down the crapper. Basically, I stood there trying to defend the innocent preschoolers of Munich against this sand-throwing bully by saying something like...
"You are stopping and this is the stop!"
(more sand)
"This is a situation of which I do not approve."
(ignoring)
"This! This is you stopping this activity."
At that point, the child started making fun of me. Maybe he thought I was retarded or something, because he started in on ME, mocking the phrasing of my "discipline."
That's when I finally thought of a sentence that summed up exactly what I was feeling...
"WO IST DEINE MUTTER?"
Yeah! How can your mom be enjoying a nice day in the Biergarten while I take responsibility for the safety of the children you are hurting, you naughty, crappy child?
At that, the child found his father behind a tree, and sidled up onto the man's lap. I mused on this for awhile, thinking of some German words that I might use to explain to the man that his kid was behaving so poorly that I would be in favor of some corporal punishment. But I knew that I would be the one sounding like the jerk, and he'd probably make fun of me even worse.
But whatever. Bet that kid doesn't get tickled on the subway NEARLY as much as my perfect child.
So goodnight for now... and finally, the day's tally:
* Two Radlers
* Two Bratwursts
* One order of Sauerkraut
* One pretzel dipped in Nutella
* One thunderstorm
* One tantrum
And another fine day in Germany comes to a close.
We slept!
Will this work in the days to come? I don't know. But last night, I managed to have about seven hours of sleep, interrupted about five times, but still.
First, I put Chebbles to bed at 7:30pm, coaxing her with a a promise to go to the fabulous Nordbad in the morning if she managed to stay quiet all night long. This worked, miraculously.
Then at 11pm, when she finally seemed tired, I brought Johnson to bed with me. I nursed her on my mostly empty breasts, or gave her a bottle each time she started to fuss. I don't know why this worked, as she decided months ago that sleeping next to me was for the birds. But she acquiesced to the adventure, waking up over and over again, but keeping her eyes closed and successfully nodding off those five times.
So when she finally woke up wide-eyed this morning, and I could hear Chebbles singing a mermaid song to herself in her room, it was something of a victory. I'm still tired, but it's a normal tired. Not a "holy hell" tired. Hooray!
Now we're off to Nordbad of course, where mermaids can really be themselves.
First, I put Chebbles to bed at 7:30pm, coaxing her with a a promise to go to the fabulous Nordbad in the morning if she managed to stay quiet all night long. This worked, miraculously.
Then at 11pm, when she finally seemed tired, I brought Johnson to bed with me. I nursed her on my mostly empty breasts, or gave her a bottle each time she started to fuss. I don't know why this worked, as she decided months ago that sleeping next to me was for the birds. But she acquiesced to the adventure, waking up over and over again, but keeping her eyes closed and successfully nodding off those five times.
So when she finally woke up wide-eyed this morning, and I could hear Chebbles singing a mermaid song to herself in her room, it was something of a victory. I'm still tired, but it's a normal tired. Not a "holy hell" tired. Hooray!
Now we're off to Nordbad of course, where mermaids can really be themselves.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Aufgewacht
Yeah, we're still alive. It's still wonderful to be in Germany, where Chebbles rode on a wild swine through the Isartal yesterday. Don't believe me? Wait 'til I upload photos!
But tomorrow is a solemn day. Grandma and Hub-D are both headed back to the United States.
Johnson shows no sign of slowing down her terrible sleep patterns, and Chebbles is regularly waking up at 6am, so I'm a little screwed. No, I'm a lot screwed. Who knew that the baby would be this CRAZY with her sleep so many days into our trip?
How am I going to provide care for my children 24 hours a day? Well, it's just one week before we head back to the US, and maybe if we take Johnson to the Nordbad again, where she can bathe in healing waters for hours on end, we can coax her to sleep.
I'm also still reeling from my new understanding about antisemitism in Germany. Holy moly, once you start looking for it, it's everwhere.
I was watching a little rendition of "Hansel and Gretl" -- you know, one of their most famous folk tales here. And that's when I heard the little rhyme that the witch recites in the German version. She refers to the lovely smell of the "English children." And I finally realized that it's just possible that this fairy tale originated with many medieval Europeans' belief that Jewish people sacrificed Christian children. (I learned it from Chaucer a few years ago.)
And in the Neue Pinakothek here, there is a bombastic rendition of the fall of Jerusalem that contrasts the beautiful Christian children, about to become martyrs, with the Jews, who were being driven out by demons.
Ugh. Now I get it, why Jewish people aren't eager to move to Germany anytime soon, despite the newly non-xenophobic attitude here. It's just so much a part of their history, it's pervasive in the very bones of the buildings. (I visited a church in former East Germany with a nasty depiction of a rabbi as one of the gargoyles in the exterior of the building.)
Really, guys? We can't redecorate a little here?
Anyway, the weather has been exceedingly cooperative, with just a few romantic thunderstorms in the mix. And Chebbles, Johnson and I are going to make the very best of it.
But tomorrow is a solemn day. Grandma and Hub-D are both headed back to the United States.
Johnson shows no sign of slowing down her terrible sleep patterns, and Chebbles is regularly waking up at 6am, so I'm a little screwed. No, I'm a lot screwed. Who knew that the baby would be this CRAZY with her sleep so many days into our trip?
How am I going to provide care for my children 24 hours a day? Well, it's just one week before we head back to the US, and maybe if we take Johnson to the Nordbad again, where she can bathe in healing waters for hours on end, we can coax her to sleep.
I'm also still reeling from my new understanding about antisemitism in Germany. Holy moly, once you start looking for it, it's everwhere.
I was watching a little rendition of "Hansel and Gretl" -- you know, one of their most famous folk tales here. And that's when I heard the little rhyme that the witch recites in the German version. She refers to the lovely smell of the "English children." And I finally realized that it's just possible that this fairy tale originated with many medieval Europeans' belief that Jewish people sacrificed Christian children. (I learned it from Chaucer a few years ago.)
And in the Neue Pinakothek here, there is a bombastic rendition of the fall of Jerusalem that contrasts the beautiful Christian children, about to become martyrs, with the Jews, who were being driven out by demons.
Ugh. Now I get it, why Jewish people aren't eager to move to Germany anytime soon, despite the newly non-xenophobic attitude here. It's just so much a part of their history, it's pervasive in the very bones of the buildings. (I visited a church in former East Germany with a nasty depiction of a rabbi as one of the gargoyles in the exterior of the building.)
Really, guys? We can't redecorate a little here?
Anyway, the weather has been exceedingly cooperative, with just a few romantic thunderstorms in the mix. And Chebbles, Johnson and I are going to make the very best of it.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Opera Adventure
When I was walking Johnson around Munich at 5am, I spotted a poster for "Die Zauberflöte" -- Mozart's "The Magic Flute" -- to be performed at the Residenz, or the main Bavarian palace here in Munich.
That seemed cool, so I memorized the website address and dashed off an e-mail to the organizers... basically, how do I get tickets?
This is where things started to get German.
I had simply asked if they had two tickets left. And the reply was, "We have set two of them aside for you, and you can pay for them at the performance."
Where in The States would that ever happen? Could you ever call Ticketmaster, or any performance organization, and say, "Can't you just trust me that I'll pay for them later?"
Then things got Germaner and Germaner.
The performance was scheduled to take place at the Brunnenhof, the outdoor plaza within the palace, characterized by a big, fat fountain. Chairs were set up within the plaza, and a lovely stage beneath a huge tarp was set to one side.
We were allowed to walk straight into the theater without tickets. They again, just trusted us that we were going to pick up our tickets at the second cash register across the hall. That's pretty amazing in a general admission situation.
Hundreds of people were there already, and they'd already exhausted the concession stand of its Bellinis, so they'd moved on to the straight champagne and other mixed drinks. They milled around, and everyone seemed to be in as goofy a mood as Hub-D and I. Maybe there is something about The Magic Flute that just gets people punchy. Or maybe it was the heady optimism of the organizers, who had set up this outdoor display despite the fact it had been raining all afternoon.
There were occasional gentle sprinkles, and a few gentlemen purchased ponchos for themselves and their well-dressed ladies. Everyone kept trying to meet our eye to laugh about things, about other people, about the general situation.
A finicky man came to sit in front of us, and he used several tissues to remove every tiny drop of water from his plastic seat. He looked at me and said, "You'd think at these prices, they'd dry off the seats for us," and I nodded asset with my lips pursed -- kind of the German "general acknowledgement expression."
Hub-D and I fantasized about taking this guy on a world tour of messy performances, maybe to The Blue Man Group, say, or Shamu's "Splash Zone." Maybe a good Gallagher show would have loosened him up.
Finally, rather late, the show got underway. The singers were out of this world! Mozart just always rocks the house, yes? Hub-D fell asleep a little bit, frustrated from not understanding the German, and still exhausted from an afternoon of German antics (and wine) at Onkel Rudi's house.
The story was underway... the prince is chased by the snake, gets saved, falls in love with the princess, and then...
CRACK, the skies opened up. Rain fell in big drops right onto our heads. The opera singers simply bolted from the stage. The orchestra ground to a halt. We all snapped our umbrellas up and waited. Several minutes later, a determined-sounding organizer came on the loudspeaker to announce that this was a SHORT RAIN SHOWER and we should all stay parked in our seats, as the show would resume as soon as it abated.
So we obeyed. The party atmosphere continued, then started to, well, dampen. Finally, after about a half-hour, and an imagined behind-the-scenes power struggle between the "We ought to take this performance inside" people and the angry "No, dammit, don't be pussies" people, they announced that we were to reconvene inside the palace for the rest of the performance.
As usual, Germans are not good at lines, so there was a press of people headed in the general direction of the palace theater. We joined in and were carried along into the grand hall, with its massive bronze depictions of former kings of Bavaria. The coat check was an impromptu trusting affair, where we all just hung up our damp coats and umbrellas and simply left them there.
Unfortunately, Hub-D and I were stuck in (very) obstructed view seats, so after hearing a marvelous depiction of the famous aria (where the coloratura just goes apeshit with arpeggios... is there anything else as cool in the opera world?), we bolted out of the whole situation.
By that point it was 11pm, the performance was still in full swing, and due to continue for at least another hour. We were the only ones leaving. I guess we could have snagged whatever jackets and umbrellas we wanted to, but we chose our own, and headed out in search of Schweinebraten in spite of the ongoing thunderstorm.
That seemed cool, so I memorized the website address and dashed off an e-mail to the organizers... basically, how do I get tickets?
This is where things started to get German.
I had simply asked if they had two tickets left. And the reply was, "We have set two of them aside for you, and you can pay for them at the performance."
Where in The States would that ever happen? Could you ever call Ticketmaster, or any performance organization, and say, "Can't you just trust me that I'll pay for them later?"
Then things got Germaner and Germaner.
The performance was scheduled to take place at the Brunnenhof, the outdoor plaza within the palace, characterized by a big, fat fountain. Chairs were set up within the plaza, and a lovely stage beneath a huge tarp was set to one side.
We were allowed to walk straight into the theater without tickets. They again, just trusted us that we were going to pick up our tickets at the second cash register across the hall. That's pretty amazing in a general admission situation.
Hundreds of people were there already, and they'd already exhausted the concession stand of its Bellinis, so they'd moved on to the straight champagne and other mixed drinks. They milled around, and everyone seemed to be in as goofy a mood as Hub-D and I. Maybe there is something about The Magic Flute that just gets people punchy. Or maybe it was the heady optimism of the organizers, who had set up this outdoor display despite the fact it had been raining all afternoon.
There were occasional gentle sprinkles, and a few gentlemen purchased ponchos for themselves and their well-dressed ladies. Everyone kept trying to meet our eye to laugh about things, about other people, about the general situation.
A finicky man came to sit in front of us, and he used several tissues to remove every tiny drop of water from his plastic seat. He looked at me and said, "You'd think at these prices, they'd dry off the seats for us," and I nodded asset with my lips pursed -- kind of the German "general acknowledgement expression."
Hub-D and I fantasized about taking this guy on a world tour of messy performances, maybe to The Blue Man Group, say, or Shamu's "Splash Zone." Maybe a good Gallagher show would have loosened him up.
Finally, rather late, the show got underway. The singers were out of this world! Mozart just always rocks the house, yes? Hub-D fell asleep a little bit, frustrated from not understanding the German, and still exhausted from an afternoon of German antics (and wine) at Onkel Rudi's house.
The story was underway... the prince is chased by the snake, gets saved, falls in love with the princess, and then...
CRACK, the skies opened up. Rain fell in big drops right onto our heads. The opera singers simply bolted from the stage. The orchestra ground to a halt. We all snapped our umbrellas up and waited. Several minutes later, a determined-sounding organizer came on the loudspeaker to announce that this was a SHORT RAIN SHOWER and we should all stay parked in our seats, as the show would resume as soon as it abated.
So we obeyed. The party atmosphere continued, then started to, well, dampen. Finally, after about a half-hour, and an imagined behind-the-scenes power struggle between the "We ought to take this performance inside" people and the angry "No, dammit, don't be pussies" people, they announced that we were to reconvene inside the palace for the rest of the performance.
As usual, Germans are not good at lines, so there was a press of people headed in the general direction of the palace theater. We joined in and were carried along into the grand hall, with its massive bronze depictions of former kings of Bavaria. The coat check was an impromptu trusting affair, where we all just hung up our damp coats and umbrellas and simply left them there.
Unfortunately, Hub-D and I were stuck in (very) obstructed view seats, so after hearing a marvelous depiction of the famous aria (where the coloratura just goes apeshit with arpeggios... is there anything else as cool in the opera world?), we bolted out of the whole situation.
By that point it was 11pm, the performance was still in full swing, and due to continue for at least another hour. We were the only ones leaving. I guess we could have snagged whatever jackets and umbrellas we wanted to, but we chose our own, and headed out in search of Schweinebraten in spite of the ongoing thunderstorm.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Johnson Update
First, my mom and husband have decreed that our attractive little daughter shall NOT be called "Johnson."
But they should know me well enough that if you TELL me something like that, it's only going to entrench me into that position. Far better if you think of a funnier alternative. "Johnson" is so funny, partially because she's such a feminine little girl. And it works well if you yell it in a sharp way, "Johnson! Don't lick Daddy's foot!"
Anyway, she's a feminine, foot-lovin' little girl who refuses to sleep.
Here we are on Day 9 of our trip, and her sleep has not advanced in the slightest. We've had small glimmers of hope, only to have them dashed and for her to resume her horrible, horrible sleep patterns. I don't know how she's surviving on so little sleep, and we're totally hosed when Grandma and Hub-D head back to The States on the 18th, leaving us here in crap-sleep-land alone with each other.
Now, I don't want to be the woman who bitched about her trip to Europe. I really am having the time of my life. We are having so much fun, Hub-D and I, eating thousands of sausages and drinking dozens of beers. Tonight we went to The Blue Nile Ethiopian restaurant here in Munich, where I wooed him with injera and broached the idea of adopting a boy from Ethiopia. So it's all good, you see.
It's just kind of remarkable that Johnson hasn't adjusted.
Chebbles is fully on German time, making German friends and riding the U-Bahn like a pro. She is eating her own share of sausages and went with Grandma today to the Deutsches Museum, the world's most extensive science museum. There, she was fully enchanted with chemistry demonstrations and could not be torn from a giant diagram of a cell.
But re: Johnson... What was my error here? Is it that she's five months old? Is she getting spoiled because I won't allow her to cry-it-out here in our urban location, so close to sleeping neighbors? Whatever it is, it's vexing, particularly as the dawn breaks over Day 10, and we're exactly where we started in the beginning.
She's been quiet in her bed for abot 10 minutes now, so I'm going to (dangerously) assume she's sleeping.
And in the meantime, I'll dream about Benadryl for little babies, and coming home to her own cry-it-out crib someday soon.
But they should know me well enough that if you TELL me something like that, it's only going to entrench me into that position. Far better if you think of a funnier alternative. "Johnson" is so funny, partially because she's such a feminine little girl. And it works well if you yell it in a sharp way, "Johnson! Don't lick Daddy's foot!"
Anyway, she's a feminine, foot-lovin' little girl who refuses to sleep.
Here we are on Day 9 of our trip, and her sleep has not advanced in the slightest. We've had small glimmers of hope, only to have them dashed and for her to resume her horrible, horrible sleep patterns. I don't know how she's surviving on so little sleep, and we're totally hosed when Grandma and Hub-D head back to The States on the 18th, leaving us here in crap-sleep-land alone with each other.
Now, I don't want to be the woman who bitched about her trip to Europe. I really am having the time of my life. We are having so much fun, Hub-D and I, eating thousands of sausages and drinking dozens of beers. Tonight we went to The Blue Nile Ethiopian restaurant here in Munich, where I wooed him with injera and broached the idea of adopting a boy from Ethiopia. So it's all good, you see.
It's just kind of remarkable that Johnson hasn't adjusted.
Chebbles is fully on German time, making German friends and riding the U-Bahn like a pro. She is eating her own share of sausages and went with Grandma today to the Deutsches Museum, the world's most extensive science museum. There, she was fully enchanted with chemistry demonstrations and could not be torn from a giant diagram of a cell.
But re: Johnson... What was my error here? Is it that she's five months old? Is she getting spoiled because I won't allow her to cry-it-out here in our urban location, so close to sleeping neighbors? Whatever it is, it's vexing, particularly as the dawn breaks over Day 10, and we're exactly where we started in the beginning.
She's been quiet in her bed for abot 10 minutes now, so I'm going to (dangerously) assume she's sleeping.
And in the meantime, I'll dream about Benadryl for little babies, and coming home to her own cry-it-out crib someday soon.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Old Home Week, now in Deutsch
Today, Chebbles and I braved another rainstorm in order to make a playdate at a Biergarten.
Yes! In Germany it is normal for mom's groups to meet a Biergartens. They let the kids play in the Biergarten playground while they drink massive Radlers. Hello, Germany! If everything weren't so wickedly expensive here, you can bet we'd be moving here based on the beer-drinking-playdate policy alone.
So Chebbles and I grabbed a bus across town through the rain, then ran down into the U-Bahn station and took pictures in a photo booth (I've got to post them once we get home... she chose the pose where I was looking away and her tongue is sticking out, then decorated it with a splashy pink background. Chebbles!) before emerging at the Taxisgarten Biergarten.
The Taxisgarten wusses had closed the beer stand for the day (Curses!), so Chebbles and I just waited for our playdate to arrive and goofed around on the seemingly-dangerous-by-American-standards play equipment.
I had arranged this playdate over Toy Town Germany, a site for English speaking people in Germany. There is a fairly active group of Munich parents on the site, and it's been invaluable for finding sitters, and in this case, for scheduling some time for Chebbles to connect with an English-speaking kid for the day.
I had found a post from a mom who wanted to meet at the Biergarten for the afternoon, and just clicked on it and said, "Yeah, we'll come!"
Once the mom J., and her daughter M. arrived, we had this conversation...
Me: So, where are you from in The States?
J: Pittsburgh.
Me: Me too. And Hub-D too. Where did you go to high school?
J: Alderdice
Me: My husband did too.
J: Hoy crap! Do you guys know E.? and M.? and E.?
Me: Yup. Yup. Yup.
Yes, we're 6,000 miles away from home. I find one random woman and her kid to meet me in a Biergarten for a playdate, only to learn that she played Ultimate Frisbee with my husband in the 80's.
She invited us back to her home, where we spent the rest of the afternoon gossiping about our mutual friends and mutual miscarriages and mutual parenting struggles, sharing birth stories and noodles and decaf coffee (which is actually delicious here).
Marvelous! Hub-D and I enjoyed talking about this great coincidence tonight at the world famous Hofbräuhaus, surrounded by throngs of tourists and finally getting my first Radler of the day.
Yes! In Germany it is normal for mom's groups to meet a Biergartens. They let the kids play in the Biergarten playground while they drink massive Radlers. Hello, Germany! If everything weren't so wickedly expensive here, you can bet we'd be moving here based on the beer-drinking-playdate policy alone.
So Chebbles and I grabbed a bus across town through the rain, then ran down into the U-Bahn station and took pictures in a photo booth (I've got to post them once we get home... she chose the pose where I was looking away and her tongue is sticking out, then decorated it with a splashy pink background. Chebbles!) before emerging at the Taxisgarten Biergarten.
The Taxisgarten wusses had closed the beer stand for the day (Curses!), so Chebbles and I just waited for our playdate to arrive and goofed around on the seemingly-dangerous-by-American-standards play equipment.
I had arranged this playdate over Toy Town Germany, a site for English speaking people in Germany. There is a fairly active group of Munich parents on the site, and it's been invaluable for finding sitters, and in this case, for scheduling some time for Chebbles to connect with an English-speaking kid for the day.
I had found a post from a mom who wanted to meet at the Biergarten for the afternoon, and just clicked on it and said, "Yeah, we'll come!"
Once the mom J., and her daughter M. arrived, we had this conversation...
Me: So, where are you from in The States?
J: Pittsburgh.
Me: Me too. And Hub-D too. Where did you go to high school?
J: Alderdice
Me: My husband did too.
J: Hoy crap! Do you guys know E.? and M.? and E.?
Me: Yup. Yup. Yup.
Yes, we're 6,000 miles away from home. I find one random woman and her kid to meet me in a Biergarten for a playdate, only to learn that she played Ultimate Frisbee with my husband in the 80's.
She invited us back to her home, where we spent the rest of the afternoon gossiping about our mutual friends and mutual miscarriages and mutual parenting struggles, sharing birth stories and noodles and decaf coffee (which is actually delicious here).
Marvelous! Hub-D and I enjoyed talking about this great coincidence tonight at the world famous Hofbräuhaus, surrounded by throngs of tourists and finally getting my first Radler of the day.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Nazis
Hub-D and I spent a somber day in Nürnberg today. Christ does that place have ghosts.
We went out to the Nazi Documentation Center -- built into the side of the giant meeting hall Hitler had built on the outskirts of town. I'll use the word "creepy" here, but it's not strong enough to describe walking into a building made from stones hewn by prisoners who were worked to death.
I've been exposed to a lot of World War II and Holocaust information and imagery in my life. I lived here, for Pete's sake, and studied German history HERE. I've been to some of the more notorious sites, and seen first hand the ceilings of the gas chambers scratched by desperate fingernails. Back then I was somehow able to process it, or perhaps NOT process it.
That was before I had kids.
I wasn't prepared for the photo I saw, as I held onto the audioguide today and listened to the National Socialists' agenda for creating a Master Race, and their Final Solution thereto. Then I saw the photo. (I'm not going to post it. I don't know how to find it, and I can't take any more Holocaust imagery today in order to do a Google Image search.)
A mother holding her bundled up daughter, maybe 18 months old, sitting on the back of a truck headed to the gas chambers. They don't know where they're headed exactly, as the Nazis didn't outright TELL people that they would be killed upon their arrival at the camp. It's a mom and a baby, bundled up for a journey.
Holy shit, people. Holy goddamned shit. What do you do with that image, once you have daughters of your own? The child's sweet little hat, the mother's protective arm around her.
MONSTERS. Is that a strong enough designation for the members of the Nazi party who wrought this massive crime against humanity? No, that doesn't even feel strong enough. A monster is driven by an uncontrollable animalistic hunger. These were people. But how do we classify them in order to distinguish their uniquely horrifying crimes? "Asshole" goes about 5% of the way there.
And what do I do now? What do I do about that little girl who is lost to history other than that photo in the Nazi Documentation Center? Do I run around Germany gouging out the eyes of every person over the age of 80, because they didn't do anything to stop it?
And if we want to get truly screwed up in our souls here, I can take a peek at my family tree, which is heavy with members of the National Socialist party. Because if you were an adult from 1933-1945 in Germany, you were swept up in the cult of what's called Nationalsozialismus here. Everyone was involved to varying degrees. And if anyone in my family was the driver of that truck, the one with the little girl, no one's talking about it.
My uncle was a leader of a tank unit in Northern Europe, his brother was also on the front somewhere. My Oma was a medical student who blew off as many perfunctory rallies as she could. And her mother was a high ranking Nazi who was in charge of fundraising for hungry children. Yep, no, that's true. There was a lot of touchy-feely happy-vibe stuff about the Nazis. They staged huge parties with folk dancing and beer and bowling in the grass. They had massive rallies and campouts and exhiliarating FUN TIMES.
Ugh! It was all part of the Nazi's method of entrancing the people of Germany, of training them to follow the orders of the Führer without hesitation. The populace saw him as a savior and loved the wave of optimism they felt, the strength of their community with Hitler as their leader.
But dude, they all got together and sang songs about how they wanted Moses to return in order to drown the Jewish people in the Red Sea once and for all. How could Germans not SENSE some seriously NOT OK SHIT was going down with their Jewish brethren? The average citizen thought that Jewish people were all just being relocated. But come ON. I find it hard to believe that the entire populace was simply oblivious to the Holocaust as it occured.
I also saw German children's drawings from that time, depicting ugly Jewish people, with misspelled childish scrawled letters and hateful statements they were taught. It made me a hundred times more sick than it ever did before, now that my child is drawing things, and I know how malleable her little mind is right now.
Monsters. Assholes. Maniacs. Hellbound, evil people, the Nazi leaders. But where to put this image, these lessons? How to reconcile it with my family's own past?
I'd be dishonest if I said I would have done any differently from my family. Almost every German citizen of the 1930's enjoyed the pageantry and promise of the National Socialist party in this country. And if you protested, you disappeared. So...
But I can't imagine standing by as my neighbor lady and her sweet baby were piled onto a truck. Unless I were somehow convinced they were simply moving away.
I don't know. It's like I'm holding a burning legacy of some kind, and I'm afraid to put it down.
We went out to the Nazi Documentation Center -- built into the side of the giant meeting hall Hitler had built on the outskirts of town. I'll use the word "creepy" here, but it's not strong enough to describe walking into a building made from stones hewn by prisoners who were worked to death.
I've been exposed to a lot of World War II and Holocaust information and imagery in my life. I lived here, for Pete's sake, and studied German history HERE. I've been to some of the more notorious sites, and seen first hand the ceilings of the gas chambers scratched by desperate fingernails. Back then I was somehow able to process it, or perhaps NOT process it.
That was before I had kids.
I wasn't prepared for the photo I saw, as I held onto the audioguide today and listened to the National Socialists' agenda for creating a Master Race, and their Final Solution thereto. Then I saw the photo. (I'm not going to post it. I don't know how to find it, and I can't take any more Holocaust imagery today in order to do a Google Image search.)
A mother holding her bundled up daughter, maybe 18 months old, sitting on the back of a truck headed to the gas chambers. They don't know where they're headed exactly, as the Nazis didn't outright TELL people that they would be killed upon their arrival at the camp. It's a mom and a baby, bundled up for a journey.
Holy shit, people. Holy goddamned shit. What do you do with that image, once you have daughters of your own? The child's sweet little hat, the mother's protective arm around her.
MONSTERS. Is that a strong enough designation for the members of the Nazi party who wrought this massive crime against humanity? No, that doesn't even feel strong enough. A monster is driven by an uncontrollable animalistic hunger. These were people. But how do we classify them in order to distinguish their uniquely horrifying crimes? "Asshole" goes about 5% of the way there.
And what do I do now? What do I do about that little girl who is lost to history other than that photo in the Nazi Documentation Center? Do I run around Germany gouging out the eyes of every person over the age of 80, because they didn't do anything to stop it?
And if we want to get truly screwed up in our souls here, I can take a peek at my family tree, which is heavy with members of the National Socialist party. Because if you were an adult from 1933-1945 in Germany, you were swept up in the cult of what's called Nationalsozialismus here. Everyone was involved to varying degrees. And if anyone in my family was the driver of that truck, the one with the little girl, no one's talking about it.
My uncle was a leader of a tank unit in Northern Europe, his brother was also on the front somewhere. My Oma was a medical student who blew off as many perfunctory rallies as she could. And her mother was a high ranking Nazi who was in charge of fundraising for hungry children. Yep, no, that's true. There was a lot of touchy-feely happy-vibe stuff about the Nazis. They staged huge parties with folk dancing and beer and bowling in the grass. They had massive rallies and campouts and exhiliarating FUN TIMES.
Ugh! It was all part of the Nazi's method of entrancing the people of Germany, of training them to follow the orders of the Führer without hesitation. The populace saw him as a savior and loved the wave of optimism they felt, the strength of their community with Hitler as their leader.
But dude, they all got together and sang songs about how they wanted Moses to return in order to drown the Jewish people in the Red Sea once and for all. How could Germans not SENSE some seriously NOT OK SHIT was going down with their Jewish brethren? The average citizen thought that Jewish people were all just being relocated. But come ON. I find it hard to believe that the entire populace was simply oblivious to the Holocaust as it occured.
I also saw German children's drawings from that time, depicting ugly Jewish people, with misspelled childish scrawled letters and hateful statements they were taught. It made me a hundred times more sick than it ever did before, now that my child is drawing things, and I know how malleable her little mind is right now.
Monsters. Assholes. Maniacs. Hellbound, evil people, the Nazi leaders. But where to put this image, these lessons? How to reconcile it with my family's own past?
I'd be dishonest if I said I would have done any differently from my family. Almost every German citizen of the 1930's enjoyed the pageantry and promise of the National Socialist party in this country. And if you protested, you disappeared. So...
But I can't imagine standing by as my neighbor lady and her sweet baby were piled onto a truck. Unless I were somehow convinced they were simply moving away.
I don't know. It's like I'm holding a burning legacy of some kind, and I'm afraid to put it down.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
"Ich hat gewonnen"... (I have won)
Maybe my joy is premature, but Johnson slept in the early evening last night, then from 2:30 until, well, it's almost 8am and she's still snoozing. Hooray!
And Chebbles went to sleep at 5pm, waking only for a midnight snack, and continuing to sleep now...
I'm sure we're not completely over our jet lag here, but it seems we aren't going to have to sacrifice our entire vacation to waking up at 3am, 4am, 4:30am, 5am, 6am, then finally, fitfully, with eyes filled with tears, going to sleep at 7am for five hours.
This means that Johnson MIGHT be invited to future trips.
I had started thinking about what kind of teenagers turn to drugs and lives of crime, and I realized, according to my extensive research involving "Law & Order," it is the teenagers whose parents go to Europe without them.
So I feared getting into the habit of leaving our children behind, in sketchier and sketchier hands (like, for example, our nutty animal-loving neighbors), only to have a Lenny Briscoe-type character make a crack about our negligence with a droll pun.
Perhaps we can avoid that scenario now, and bring them back someday.
I'm so proud of our adaptable children. Just at the point where we had given up hope of being "normal" tourists, they sleep long and hard and make daytime activity possible.
I also realized last night that so much of Johnson's life has been about surrender for me. I had to surrender to my overwhelming fears of losing her... without an ultrasound machine permanently hooked up to my body, I had to learn to let her go twelve times a day as I bled during my pregnancy.
Then during her birth, I first surrendered my initial ideals regarding natural childbirth, then surrendered to a bone-shaking emergency C-section. After her birth, I learned to surrender my notion of breastfeeding, so entrenched from my experience with Chebbles. I had to let it go, and learn to feed her on her terms.
Then the sleep, OH the sleep. I finally learned not to expect to sleep with this child in my house. I found I was much happier if I laid my head down in bed and thought, "This might last a minute, this might last an hour, but right now, I sleep." I just fully surrendered to the notion that sleep, for me, was going to be catch-as-catch-can until she leaves for college. And I felt happier, if not more rested.
So these trevails were nothing new. We had to surrender my notion of operating on German time while on this vacation. And having done so, Johnson treated us all to a great night of sleep. That Johnson!
And in case anyone wondered what Chebbles has been up to, that child has been having the time of her life with Grandma. She's been to the Munich zoo, where she decided that she loves tapirs, AND they sold candy in baby bottle-shaped containers, so she was over the moon.
She went to the royal jewels exhibit at the Residenz, where she marveled over the tiaras and necklaces, mouth agape. Then she also went to the toy museum at the Alte Rathaus, where she fell in love with a vintage Barbie doll who was decked out with a pink tutu. (We have photos, we just don't have uploading capabilities here.)
Yesterday, Grandma and Chebbles went to the Nordbad, just down the street from our apartment here. Holy crap, people! It's an enormous bathing facility with multiple hilarious water-based fun structures for kids. Grandma bought her water wings, then played with Chebbles in the giant circular pool that shoots water out so that the entire pool rotates into a semi-permanent whirlpool.
No wonder she slept 15 hours last night!
Apparently, there was a waterslide there, and Chebbles and a German girl were running up to the top of it over and over again. The German girl considered it a race, and she would scramble up to the top first and holler to Chebbles, "Ich hat gewonnen!" and Chebbles would run up right behind her and yell back, "Ich hat gewonnen!" as well.
Well, this morning, I think we all can stand on the rooftops of Schwabing and holler "Ich hat gewonnen," too!
And Chebbles went to sleep at 5pm, waking only for a midnight snack, and continuing to sleep now...
I'm sure we're not completely over our jet lag here, but it seems we aren't going to have to sacrifice our entire vacation to waking up at 3am, 4am, 4:30am, 5am, 6am, then finally, fitfully, with eyes filled with tears, going to sleep at 7am for five hours.
This means that Johnson MIGHT be invited to future trips.
I had started thinking about what kind of teenagers turn to drugs and lives of crime, and I realized, according to my extensive research involving "Law & Order," it is the teenagers whose parents go to Europe without them.
So I feared getting into the habit of leaving our children behind, in sketchier and sketchier hands (like, for example, our nutty animal-loving neighbors), only to have a Lenny Briscoe-type character make a crack about our negligence with a droll pun.
Perhaps we can avoid that scenario now, and bring them back someday.
I'm so proud of our adaptable children. Just at the point where we had given up hope of being "normal" tourists, they sleep long and hard and make daytime activity possible.
I also realized last night that so much of Johnson's life has been about surrender for me. I had to surrender to my overwhelming fears of losing her... without an ultrasound machine permanently hooked up to my body, I had to learn to let her go twelve times a day as I bled during my pregnancy.
Then during her birth, I first surrendered my initial ideals regarding natural childbirth, then surrendered to a bone-shaking emergency C-section. After her birth, I learned to surrender my notion of breastfeeding, so entrenched from my experience with Chebbles. I had to let it go, and learn to feed her on her terms.
Then the sleep, OH the sleep. I finally learned not to expect to sleep with this child in my house. I found I was much happier if I laid my head down in bed and thought, "This might last a minute, this might last an hour, but right now, I sleep." I just fully surrendered to the notion that sleep, for me, was going to be catch-as-catch-can until she leaves for college. And I felt happier, if not more rested.
So these trevails were nothing new. We had to surrender my notion of operating on German time while on this vacation. And having done so, Johnson treated us all to a great night of sleep. That Johnson!
And in case anyone wondered what Chebbles has been up to, that child has been having the time of her life with Grandma. She's been to the Munich zoo, where she decided that she loves tapirs, AND they sold candy in baby bottle-shaped containers, so she was over the moon.
She went to the royal jewels exhibit at the Residenz, where she marveled over the tiaras and necklaces, mouth agape. Then she also went to the toy museum at the Alte Rathaus, where she fell in love with a vintage Barbie doll who was decked out with a pink tutu. (We have photos, we just don't have uploading capabilities here.)
Yesterday, Grandma and Chebbles went to the Nordbad, just down the street from our apartment here. Holy crap, people! It's an enormous bathing facility with multiple hilarious water-based fun structures for kids. Grandma bought her water wings, then played with Chebbles in the giant circular pool that shoots water out so that the entire pool rotates into a semi-permanent whirlpool.
No wonder she slept 15 hours last night!
Apparently, there was a waterslide there, and Chebbles and a German girl were running up to the top of it over and over again. The German girl considered it a race, and she would scramble up to the top first and holler to Chebbles, "Ich hat gewonnen!" and Chebbles would run up right behind her and yell back, "Ich hat gewonnen!" as well.
Well, this morning, I think we all can stand on the rooftops of Schwabing and holler "Ich hat gewonnen," too!
Oh for crying out loud
There is only so much I can carry Johnson around Schwabing at 3am, so during the wee hours I've held her on my lap and looked at adoption blogs.
Adoption has been a fascination of mine ever since I was pregnant with Chebbles, and probably before that. I absolutely love the idea of pulling an orphaned child into a loving home.
Hub-D is not psyched about the idea of adoption like I am. So I just live vicariously through everyone else.
Here I am in Munich as Johnson wakes for the 12th time -- tired but annoyed, gassy? teething? -- watching this video. For Pete's sake, people, we need a (cozy, completely safe) pneumatic tube between Taiwan and the USA for these matched babies.
Adoption has been a fascination of mine ever since I was pregnant with Chebbles, and probably before that. I absolutely love the idea of pulling an orphaned child into a loving home.
Hub-D is not psyched about the idea of adoption like I am. So I just live vicariously through everyone else.
Here I am in Munich as Johnson wakes for the 12th time -- tired but annoyed, gassy? teething? -- watching this video. For Pete's sake, people, we need a (cozy, completely safe) pneumatic tube between Taiwan and the USA for these matched babies.
Recalcitrant wakefulness
I had considered it an inevitability that Baby V (known as Johnson from here on out) would get adjusted to Munich time. I knew it might take a week or so for her to be really on the new time schedule, but Chebbles had always made the adjustment quite well, and for Pete's sake, she's five months old.
Yes, that's what I thought. Looks like I had another think coming.
The child hasn't adjusted one hour since our arrival. She will not sleep until 4-6am, then she sleeps until 4pm. Every day. No matter what we do in terms of waking her up, or putting her down, or feeding her, or shining the morning light on her sweet little face.
I can't believe this but I have to admit defeat. NO, we're not coming home, although it's tempting to send Johnson home with Hub-D when he leaves our trip early on the 18th. No, I'm just adjusting my expectations. We're not going to make it to the 9am trip to Neuschanstein. We're not going to spend all day in the art museums.
I wish there were something I could DO at 3am when I'm up with Johnson, but I'm just settling for walks around the city with her in the Ergo carrier, strolling past oblivious partygoers and down the pretty lights of Leopoldstraße.
Hub-D and I have agreed that we are calling it quits on our annual trips to Europe with children. Oh, we're still going to GO, but Johnson ain't invited anymore. She can go with us when we travel within one or two time zones. So look for the Mama Family to travel to Alaska, Hawaii, and the Rockies. Oh, and Macchu Picchu's got to be on the itinerary now as well.
Oh JOHNSON!
Yes, that's what I thought. Looks like I had another think coming.
The child hasn't adjusted one hour since our arrival. She will not sleep until 4-6am, then she sleeps until 4pm. Every day. No matter what we do in terms of waking her up, or putting her down, or feeding her, or shining the morning light on her sweet little face.
I can't believe this but I have to admit defeat. NO, we're not coming home, although it's tempting to send Johnson home with Hub-D when he leaves our trip early on the 18th. No, I'm just adjusting my expectations. We're not going to make it to the 9am trip to Neuschanstein. We're not going to spend all day in the art museums.
I wish there were something I could DO at 3am when I'm up with Johnson, but I'm just settling for walks around the city with her in the Ergo carrier, strolling past oblivious partygoers and down the pretty lights of Leopoldstraße.
Hub-D and I have agreed that we are calling it quits on our annual trips to Europe with children. Oh, we're still going to GO, but Johnson ain't invited anymore. She can go with us when we travel within one or two time zones. So look for the Mama Family to travel to Alaska, Hawaii, and the Rockies. Oh, and Macchu Picchu's got to be on the itinerary now as well.
Oh JOHNSON!
Friday, August 08, 2008
Mice, hail, and Johnson strikes again
There is a mouse living in our apartment here. It's exceedingly cute, so we can't put down a mousetrap and kill it. I asked Hub-D if he might want to bring it home. I guess that might make a nice gift for Prince and Otto, who do miss us when we're gone, and recently killed the very last rat in Contra Costa County.
But Munich continues to charm us. Due to the hijinx of Johnson, Hub-D and I are still on a wonky sleep schedule. We've slept through all the museum opening hours so far. He took a long run in the Englischer Garten today while I enjoyed doing dishes and laundry with strange European appliances, and purchasing new and fascinating mixtures of organic baby food at Karstadt.
After leaving Baby V/Johnson with a sitter, we caught two trams out to another Biergarten, the Menterschwaige, on the outskirts of town. We found the Biergarten to be closed, vexing our plans to use the free beer coupons we'd brought from The Beer Drinker's Guide to Munich.
But we happily settled under an awning and ordered some French-inspired food that was out of this world. Hub-D ordered his current favorite: Nürnberger Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut, and I did my typical thing of saying "What's good?" and eating whatever they brought me.
They brought me three different kinds of fish caught in the Isar, with a bright yellow sauce, spinach and Johannesberries, which aren't to be found in the US, as far as I know. Although I wasn't initially excited about the prospect of fish, I must tell you that it was SO GOOD, this new kind of fish with French sauce, that I felt the deliciousness from the top of my head to the base of my spine.
Then a gargantuan thunderstorm thrilled us as we polished off our second Radler. It poured HAIL down atop the awning and we couldn't hear each other over the racket. Again, massive amounts of lightning and thunder, again unimpressed Deutschers. I squealed with glee, so in love was I with my husband, the thunderstorm, and that fish, whatever the heck it was.
We started to feel tired, so I tried fruitlessly to negotiate us quickly back home. But the trams were slow, and I tried to get fancy and we overshot our stop, and ended up plodding through Schwabing and up the 81 steps to our apartment. Chebbles woke up briefly and wanted a backrub, so I snuggled up next to her and passed out for a couple of hours.
Until old Johnson started to pipe. Oh, Johnson! She was up for the next three hours. So now it's almost dawn and I'm awake again. So much for our plans to visit the Pinakotheken tomorrow. We're all just praying for a little shut-eye... Johnson.
But Munich continues to charm us. Due to the hijinx of Johnson, Hub-D and I are still on a wonky sleep schedule. We've slept through all the museum opening hours so far. He took a long run in the Englischer Garten today while I enjoyed doing dishes and laundry with strange European appliances, and purchasing new and fascinating mixtures of organic baby food at Karstadt.
After leaving Baby V/Johnson with a sitter, we caught two trams out to another Biergarten, the Menterschwaige, on the outskirts of town. We found the Biergarten to be closed, vexing our plans to use the free beer coupons we'd brought from The Beer Drinker's Guide to Munich.
But we happily settled under an awning and ordered some French-inspired food that was out of this world. Hub-D ordered his current favorite: Nürnberger Bratwurst mit Sauerkraut, and I did my typical thing of saying "What's good?" and eating whatever they brought me.
They brought me three different kinds of fish caught in the Isar, with a bright yellow sauce, spinach and Johannesberries, which aren't to be found in the US, as far as I know. Although I wasn't initially excited about the prospect of fish, I must tell you that it was SO GOOD, this new kind of fish with French sauce, that I felt the deliciousness from the top of my head to the base of my spine.
Then a gargantuan thunderstorm thrilled us as we polished off our second Radler. It poured HAIL down atop the awning and we couldn't hear each other over the racket. Again, massive amounts of lightning and thunder, again unimpressed Deutschers. I squealed with glee, so in love was I with my husband, the thunderstorm, and that fish, whatever the heck it was.
We started to feel tired, so I tried fruitlessly to negotiate us quickly back home. But the trams were slow, and I tried to get fancy and we overshot our stop, and ended up plodding through Schwabing and up the 81 steps to our apartment. Chebbles woke up briefly and wanted a backrub, so I snuggled up next to her and passed out for a couple of hours.
Until old Johnson started to pipe. Oh, Johnson! She was up for the next three hours. So now it's almost dawn and I'm awake again. So much for our plans to visit the Pinakotheken tomorrow. We're all just praying for a little shut-eye... Johnson.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Sleepless babies and rainy Biergartens
Baby V is refusing to sleep, except when she's in the stroller rolling through Odeonsplatz, or exactly when we've planned to leave the apartment.
When she acts like this, all uppity about "her needs," I've taken to calling her "Johnson" as in "Johnson! Back in bed!" or "Johnson, drop the leaf!" It somehow suits her.
Anyway, I went to bed last night at 1am, and old Johnson woke up at 3am. I passed her off to Hub-D, who was hunkered over the computer, but at 3:30 he gave up and handed her back to me.
It's now past 7am, so I've been up dicking around with the baby forever. At 5:50am I took her on a walk through Schwabing, pointing out the pre-war construction and window shopping for jewelry for her. You'd think she'd fall into a grateful snooze when she returned, but no. She wanted to demolish some stuff on the floor, then admire her beautiful mug in the mirror for an hour or so.
Anyway, I would like to file an official complaint that nothing is open in Munich at 5:50am. I did find one bar that was still filled with revelers from an all-night party, but I didn't think we'd fit in. (Johnson is all in favor of all-night revelry, but she's not that into smoking yet.)
I could see the bakeries restocking their shelves, but they won't sell you anything until at least 7am, or more likely 8am. What a load of crap! It's their (socialist) rule that no store can open any earlier than the other stores in town. So we've ALL got to wait for the laziest baker to wend his way to work before anyone can eat a Käsestange.
I'm just saying.
Yesterday morning, Hub-D and I took a similar walk at dawn, and we found a fully-stocked fruit stand by the Universität U-Bahn station. So I went up to the proprietor, who was idly fondling the apricots, and asked if we could purchase something from him.
"Leider nicht," (Unfortunately not) was his reply. It seems that the fruit stands, like the bakeries, may not open until 7am either. Come ON, people.
Hub-D, who had his eye on the figs, contemplated throwing a bunch of Euros at the man while grabbing the figs and making a run for it.
But as we inspected the man from afar, we had to admit he looked speedy. We weren't sure we'd make a clean getaway.
After we both got some rest (and some fruit, damn it all) we headed off to a birthday Biergarten adventure.
We took the U-Bahn to a tram, then embarked on a short hike down to the Isar River to a Biergarten directly on the shore, where we drank four Radlers and toasted to our incredible good fortune to be in this country, eating so well and enjoying our children (with the tireless help of Grandma).
Then we climbed hundreds of steps in the woods, found an S-Bahn train, darted through a thunderstorm and got ourselves fully lost before we found the second Biergarten, called Münchner Haupt'.
There we discovered something called a Dunkler Radler, which is a Radler made from DARK BEER. Attention Radler fans! It's worth getting rained on and lost to get your mitts on a MASSIVE Bierstein filled with a Dunkler Radler.
Although the rain had continued to get more serious, at least a hundred people sat under the old chestnut trees in the Biergarten at München Haupt'. Only when the skies truly opened up and poured, and streaks of lightning cut across the sky, did everyone seek shelter in one little hut on the side of the Biergarten. Two children continued to play in the Biergarten playground (possibly the most brilliant German invention to date) until their father pulled their soaked little hides into the hut as well.
I thought about announcing to the cozy little crowd that it was my birthday. But Hub-D and I kept to ourselves, just happily nursing our giant Dunkler Radlers and watching the scene before us. I told Hub-D that I like it when my age is a prime number. 37, a good one.
I told him this is the year that "I think I am cool."
He said, "This is the year you are cool?"
"No, I just think I am."
When she acts like this, all uppity about "her needs," I've taken to calling her "Johnson" as in "Johnson! Back in bed!" or "Johnson, drop the leaf!" It somehow suits her.
Anyway, I went to bed last night at 1am, and old Johnson woke up at 3am. I passed her off to Hub-D, who was hunkered over the computer, but at 3:30 he gave up and handed her back to me.
It's now past 7am, so I've been up dicking around with the baby forever. At 5:50am I took her on a walk through Schwabing, pointing out the pre-war construction and window shopping for jewelry for her. You'd think she'd fall into a grateful snooze when she returned, but no. She wanted to demolish some stuff on the floor, then admire her beautiful mug in the mirror for an hour or so.
Anyway, I would like to file an official complaint that nothing is open in Munich at 5:50am. I did find one bar that was still filled with revelers from an all-night party, but I didn't think we'd fit in. (Johnson is all in favor of all-night revelry, but she's not that into smoking yet.)
I could see the bakeries restocking their shelves, but they won't sell you anything until at least 7am, or more likely 8am. What a load of crap! It's their (socialist) rule that no store can open any earlier than the other stores in town. So we've ALL got to wait for the laziest baker to wend his way to work before anyone can eat a Käsestange.
I'm just saying.
Yesterday morning, Hub-D and I took a similar walk at dawn, and we found a fully-stocked fruit stand by the Universität U-Bahn station. So I went up to the proprietor, who was idly fondling the apricots, and asked if we could purchase something from him.
"Leider nicht," (Unfortunately not) was his reply. It seems that the fruit stands, like the bakeries, may not open until 7am either. Come ON, people.
Hub-D, who had his eye on the figs, contemplated throwing a bunch of Euros at the man while grabbing the figs and making a run for it.
But as we inspected the man from afar, we had to admit he looked speedy. We weren't sure we'd make a clean getaway.
After we both got some rest (and some fruit, damn it all) we headed off to a birthday Biergarten adventure.
We took the U-Bahn to a tram, then embarked on a short hike down to the Isar River to a Biergarten directly on the shore, where we drank four Radlers and toasted to our incredible good fortune to be in this country, eating so well and enjoying our children (with the tireless help of Grandma).
Then we climbed hundreds of steps in the woods, found an S-Bahn train, darted through a thunderstorm and got ourselves fully lost before we found the second Biergarten, called Münchner Haupt'.
There we discovered something called a Dunkler Radler, which is a Radler made from DARK BEER. Attention Radler fans! It's worth getting rained on and lost to get your mitts on a MASSIVE Bierstein filled with a Dunkler Radler.
Although the rain had continued to get more serious, at least a hundred people sat under the old chestnut trees in the Biergarten at München Haupt'. Only when the skies truly opened up and poured, and streaks of lightning cut across the sky, did everyone seek shelter in one little hut on the side of the Biergarten. Two children continued to play in the Biergarten playground (possibly the most brilliant German invention to date) until their father pulled their soaked little hides into the hut as well.
I thought about announcing to the cozy little crowd that it was my birthday. But Hub-D and I kept to ourselves, just happily nursing our giant Dunkler Radlers and watching the scene before us. I told Hub-D that I like it when my age is a prime number. 37, a good one.
I told him this is the year that "I think I am cool."
He said, "This is the year you are cool?"
"No, I just think I am."
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Happy Birthday to me
It's early in the morning in Munich and my whole family is sleeping, or trying to (poor Hub-D). The sun is rising and the sky is blue -- a particular accomplishment for this notoriously grey city.
Today I am 37 years old and a mother of two. Last year when I turned 36, I was 11 weeks pregnant with Baby V, and we had a comforting nuchal fold translucency test that day. But I was so highly vomitous and exhausted that life was bleak despite our good news.
This morning at 5am, she woke, just to eat and go back to sleep, my gorgeous five-month-old child. I gazed down at her amazing hair and peaceful face, my crafty, good-natured bright-eyed beauty, and thought, "What a happy ending." And the best part is I get to live this happy ending every day, and watch her grow and stand on her long lovely feet and charm the pants off the city of Munich.
Would it have comforted me to know, back when I was mourning our second miscarriage, or when I found out I was pregnant with her and bleeding all the time, what a lovely child she'd turn out to be? Perhaps. I was so caught up in surviving from one second to the next that I don't think it would have registered. All of that struggle and sadness, I'm glad it turned out so well.
And today I'll leave her in the arms of her Grandma so Hub-D and I can explore the city and find a Biergarten tucked away on the banks of the Isar here.
It makes me nervous to leave her with others, more so than it ever did with Chebbles. But I think of a quote my father uses often, "Ships are usually safe at port, but that's not why we build them." I've got to let her go a little, let her take some risks, and head out into the city with her mindful grandmother and her precocious sister, and live a little of her own life sometimes, my Baby V.
Hub-D kind of forgot my birthday this year -- I don't blame him in all of the hubbub surrounding our departure -- but I told him I really don't need a present. This is my present, living in this ridiculously beautiful apartment in Germany with my hilarious family and the sounds of well-built cars drifting under our windows. If we find that Biergarten, we'll be hoisting Radlers together, my husband and me, and dreaming about the future.
Today I am 37 years old and a mother of two. Last year when I turned 36, I was 11 weeks pregnant with Baby V, and we had a comforting nuchal fold translucency test that day. But I was so highly vomitous and exhausted that life was bleak despite our good news.
This morning at 5am, she woke, just to eat and go back to sleep, my gorgeous five-month-old child. I gazed down at her amazing hair and peaceful face, my crafty, good-natured bright-eyed beauty, and thought, "What a happy ending." And the best part is I get to live this happy ending every day, and watch her grow and stand on her long lovely feet and charm the pants off the city of Munich.
Would it have comforted me to know, back when I was mourning our second miscarriage, or when I found out I was pregnant with her and bleeding all the time, what a lovely child she'd turn out to be? Perhaps. I was so caught up in surviving from one second to the next that I don't think it would have registered. All of that struggle and sadness, I'm glad it turned out so well.
And today I'll leave her in the arms of her Grandma so Hub-D and I can explore the city and find a Biergarten tucked away on the banks of the Isar here.
It makes me nervous to leave her with others, more so than it ever did with Chebbles. But I think of a quote my father uses often, "Ships are usually safe at port, but that's not why we build them." I've got to let her go a little, let her take some risks, and head out into the city with her mindful grandmother and her precocious sister, and live a little of her own life sometimes, my Baby V.
Hub-D kind of forgot my birthday this year -- I don't blame him in all of the hubbub surrounding our departure -- but I told him I really don't need a present. This is my present, living in this ridiculously beautiful apartment in Germany with my hilarious family and the sounds of well-built cars drifting under our windows. If we find that Biergarten, we'll be hoisting Radlers together, my husband and me, and dreaming about the future.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Arrived
I don't believe it! We actually made it to Germany and truly, it was no big deal.
Yes, there was a paper ticket fiasco at the airport, whereby everyone who works for United in the international terminal went on break at the same time, crippling our ability to pay for that bozo paper ticket, and sending the dutiful staff of Lufthansa on a scavenger hunt throughout SFO.
And sure, I swooned -- a REAL swoon -- when we got on the plane, and had to keep my head down for three hours. I had allowed myself to get seriously dehydrated in the course of our preparations, and I almost lost consciousness several times after we took off, sticking Hub-D with two kids for the first part of our flight to Deutschland.
But I was nursed back to help by an earnest Chebbles who spooned ice cream into my parched mouth and talked to me about Germany.
Chebbles and Baby V were superstars on the airplane. The other baby sitting next to us was LESS of a superstar, waking me up about 20 times. That baby had four adults tending to her, and our family was a one-to-one ratio -- less during the swoon -- so we kind of get the prize for child behavior on Flight 6662 to Munich.
But we got here, and we found our apartment, which is an incredible postwar gem with huge high ceilings and hardwood floors, where Chebbles and Grandma are now sleeping peacefully while Baby V, Hub-D and I lurk around like ghosts, unable to sleep at 2:30am.
And there is a computer! With internet access! I'm not 100% certain we're supposed to use it, but "to ask permission is to seek denial"... right?
So until I get busted, greetings from Munich, from around the corner where I went to school in 1991-1992, where it's surprisingly lovely weather-wise and I've already downed two big fat Radlers. Gute Nacht!
Yes, there was a paper ticket fiasco at the airport, whereby everyone who works for United in the international terminal went on break at the same time, crippling our ability to pay for that bozo paper ticket, and sending the dutiful staff of Lufthansa on a scavenger hunt throughout SFO.
And sure, I swooned -- a REAL swoon -- when we got on the plane, and had to keep my head down for three hours. I had allowed myself to get seriously dehydrated in the course of our preparations, and I almost lost consciousness several times after we took off, sticking Hub-D with two kids for the first part of our flight to Deutschland.
But I was nursed back to help by an earnest Chebbles who spooned ice cream into my parched mouth and talked to me about Germany.
Chebbles and Baby V were superstars on the airplane. The other baby sitting next to us was LESS of a superstar, waking me up about 20 times. That baby had four adults tending to her, and our family was a one-to-one ratio -- less during the swoon -- so we kind of get the prize for child behavior on Flight 6662 to Munich.
But we got here, and we found our apartment, which is an incredible postwar gem with huge high ceilings and hardwood floors, where Chebbles and Grandma are now sleeping peacefully while Baby V, Hub-D and I lurk around like ghosts, unable to sleep at 2:30am.
And there is a computer! With internet access! I'm not 100% certain we're supposed to use it, but "to ask permission is to seek denial"... right?
So until I get busted, greetings from Munich, from around the corner where I went to school in 1991-1992, where it's surprisingly lovely weather-wise and I've already downed two big fat Radlers. Gute Nacht!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Wiggin', heading to the airport
Hey folks.
I'm pretty sure we'll be able to update from an Internet Cafe along our travels, but today we depart for Germany.
(As usual, don't even think about robbing our house. We have a particularly tough Australian housesitter this time.)
There is so much shadiness regarding our reservations, both plane and apartment, I don't know what to worry about. Plus there is the matter of ovulation, which is occuring as I type, so... I'm going to go ahead and call this cycle a bust, barring membership in the Mile High Club, which with two children is particularly preposterous.
Regarding our plane reservations, United Airlines, I believe, is run by evil French gnomes. We booked three seats for me, Hub-D and Chebbles, and Baby V is a lap child. EXCEPT they have a policy that international lap children have to book a paper ticket through the airline for 10% of the full fare. After I puzzled through that concept (the child weighs 17 pounds, doesn't have own seat, but we have to pay $400 for... paperwork?), I reluctantly gave United my credit card number to pay for this mystical infant paper ticket.
Today I realized I'd never received the paper ticket I'd paid for, and called United in a panic... a panic which was difficult to maintain as I was put on hold for so long that I'd forgotten I'd called in the first place... and the agent told me, "No, we don't charge people's credit cards for infant paper tickets right away -- we took your credit card number, it's right here in the file, and when you get to the airport, we will charge your credit card and issue the paper ticket."
The shadiness abounds!
Then when I said, "Oh, and you guys told me to wait until 24 hours before to request the bassinette for the baby, so can I get it yet?" (I'd started requesting this back in April) I was told, "Whoops, it's too late for that. You would have needed to call *25* hours ahead of time. Try to arrive early at the airport to get it."
See? Doesn't there seem something French, or maybe Soviet, about this?
And our German apartment seems legitimate, but we've got to ring a neighbor's door for the key as our landlady had a sudden trip to Italy crop up. I have to hand over a Mafia-like stack of cash Euros to someone who's not the landlady apparently. Wanna bet the landlady's going to Sicily?
And speaking of The Mafia, a totally unrelated point, which is, remember in The Sopranos, whenever someone is caught squealing to the FBI, they are "whacked" and their corpse is defiled with a dead rat? Where do they get the dead rats for these missions? There were pictured so freshly dead. Do they have a cage of rats at-the-ready for this purpose? (This subject comes up because, yet again, we have a dead rat on our lawn. Is it because we squealed about our landlady?)
Oh, and also unrelated, Otto has decided his favorite bands are "Nine Inch Nails" and "Metallica"... after bringing home a new haul of rusty hardware yesterday.
OK, we're out.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Partied out
Sometimes a gal just has to cash in her chips. Yeah, there are princesses to be played with, boas to wear, scarves to wrap around one's shoulders in an elegant manner, but it's been a long day.
Two birthday parties with pools and cake. Painting and goofing off with Daddy, and next thing you know, you've just gotta take a little snooze. Yeah, it's the family room floor, it's 5pm, and Mama's just prepared dinner, but.... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Then she told me that the dog has breast cancer
I approached my neighbor last night, after her beagle barked and howled and cried for two hours -- exactly coincident with Chebbles' and Baby V's bedtime. To my surprise, her reaction wasn't a horrified, "I'm so sorry, I'll keep her inside when we leave the house."
No, she said, "Awww, she's bonding with us. She feels sad when we leave. Awww."
She actually found it CUTE that the dog whines nonstop while they're away. Then she told me that I should be glad that I didn't live in this neighborhood when we had REAL barking dogs. Whew, those were tough times, she said with a chuckle.
OK, she gets second place for "What the Hell" -- and I get a surprising first place of big fat "What the Hell" for how much I backed down.
I said things like, "Well, Baby V's a pretty light sleeper, so she gets woken up by a lot of things," and "I don't want to make you guys upset or anything..." and "That's very sweet that she's bonding with you!"
Hub-D later advised I should use terminology like, "It's not OK. You need to keep the dog inside the house."
It bothers me that instead of taking responsibility for the problems her family has created, she very subtly puts it on the other person. She has deemed me "hypersensitive" and tells me, "I don't know what I could do," and just kind of looks off into the distance noncommittally -- same thing with the old barking dog.
Then she told me that the dog has breast cancer.
"She was bred too much, and now she has tumors in her breasts," she said. "So we don't even know how long we're going to have her."
My sickest hopes rose briefly: maybe the dog will die. Then she revealed that the tumors are most likely benign. So she doesn't have breast cancer. I guess it was my neighbor's way of getting me to feel sorry for the dog, like living in our neighborhood is some kind of Make-A-Wish for cancerous dogs, where they get to howl their heads off with impunity.
I wish I had bigger balls. I want this to be someone else's fault, my surrender in the face of my neighbor's quiet nuttiness. I want to pin it on Hub-D, maybe HE should be having these altercations with the HUSBAND next door instead of me trying to cajole the wife.
But no, it's my problem. I need to be firmer when something matters to me. Peace and quiet matters to me.
Today the dog has been quiet, but I can't hope this means there has been a change.
No, she said, "Awww, she's bonding with us. She feels sad when we leave. Awww."
She actually found it CUTE that the dog whines nonstop while they're away. Then she told me that I should be glad that I didn't live in this neighborhood when we had REAL barking dogs. Whew, those were tough times, she said with a chuckle.
OK, she gets second place for "What the Hell" -- and I get a surprising first place of big fat "What the Hell" for how much I backed down.
I said things like, "Well, Baby V's a pretty light sleeper, so she gets woken up by a lot of things," and "I don't want to make you guys upset or anything..." and "That's very sweet that she's bonding with you!"
Hub-D later advised I should use terminology like, "It's not OK. You need to keep the dog inside the house."
It bothers me that instead of taking responsibility for the problems her family has created, she very subtly puts it on the other person. She has deemed me "hypersensitive" and tells me, "I don't know what I could do," and just kind of looks off into the distance noncommittally -- same thing with the old barking dog.
Then she told me that the dog has breast cancer.
"She was bred too much, and now she has tumors in her breasts," she said. "So we don't even know how long we're going to have her."
My sickest hopes rose briefly: maybe the dog will die. Then she revealed that the tumors are most likely benign. So she doesn't have breast cancer. I guess it was my neighbor's way of getting me to feel sorry for the dog, like living in our neighborhood is some kind of Make-A-Wish for cancerous dogs, where they get to howl their heads off with impunity.
I wish I had bigger balls. I want this to be someone else's fault, my surrender in the face of my neighbor's quiet nuttiness. I want to pin it on Hub-D, maybe HE should be having these altercations with the HUSBAND next door instead of me trying to cajole the wife.
But no, it's my problem. I need to be firmer when something matters to me. Peace and quiet matters to me.
Today the dog has been quiet, but I can't hope this means there has been a change.
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