Here I Stand

Legacy

2011-11-17T21:00:00.001+01:00

Two weeks ago, I took A. to the playground. It was a beautiful fall day, warm but breezy, and we were surrounded by blazing red- and yellow-leafed trees and that golden, slanting autumn sunshine.

An older man arrived, with an Alaskan husky on a leash and a young boy (maybe 5 years old) with him. Both man and boy were dressed in maroon football shirts, and the little boy carried a small plastic football. Eventually, A. and a few other children started playing catch with the football. The man gave instruction and encouragement to the boy, who grinned at the two preschool girls and the toddler boy just waiting for him to throw the ball to them. A. chased down the ball and threw it back. “She’s got a good arm!” the man said gruffly. He was just old enough that I couldn’t tell if he was the boy’s father or grandfather. A somewhat weathered, tanned face, salt and pepper hair. “You got to throw it up, a little higher,” he told the boy after one toss went straight into the ground. “That’s it, like that!”

After years spent in soccer-mad Europe, this felt oddly familiar. It felt like home. It felt like Pennsylvania.

No one who grew up 30 minutes from State College, like I did, can be indifferent to what’s going on there. I did not attend Penn State. But my grandfather did. He came from coal country and worked his way through college; and then on the strength of his smarts and hard work and education, he succeeded as a chemical engineer, recruited for his company at Penn State, amassed a small fortune through prudent saving and investing, moved to State College in retirement, and (I’m sure) gave a small fortune to Penn State. I know that because I remember sitting in his season-ticket seats on the 40 yard line.

He would be heart-broken. And angry. Pop-pop was something to see when he was angry.

One of my uncles worked at Penn State, and my step-brother and cousins on both sides of my family attended there. Many of my high school friends and acquaintances. Everyone in Tyrone watches Penn State football, whether they went there or not.

In the Bible study I’m attending this fall, we talk about leaving a legacy. It Starts at Home, the book is called. It calls adult Christians to think about what their lives say to their children, their children’s children. How to structure family life so that kids have a chance of seeing faith at work at home.

The leader started out by telling us about finding an old newspaper clipping among her mother’s things after her death. It was an obituary of her great-grandmother. It listed all the usual information, and then said something like, “She was devoted to the spiritual welfare of her children.” That was a wake-up call in her own life, the leader told us. Would anyone be able to say that about her, when she passed on? What did her priorities look like? Did she want her obituary to say “She loved gardening” or “Her house was pretty”? What would her children remember about her?

She noted that it doesn’t take very long for the world to forget us. Just a generation or two before there is no one left on earth who knew us. Like her great-grandmother, now known only through a yellowed obituary. Like Pop-pop, like my other grandparents, who passed away before or just after K. was born. When my children are grown, will they look through old family photos and wonder who those people are?

One chapter examines the legacy of Abraham and Sarah. Not that legacy, the one where they start a nation of chosen people, and are considered the parents of not one but three major religions. No, the other one, where Abraham is afraid for his own skin, so he lies and says Sarah is his sister. The king who took him at his word is pretty pissed off when he gets a little midnight visitation from the Lord Almighty. Make that kings. Abraham uses the same lie twice, with two different kings. Abraham is rightly commended for his faith, but it’s clear he has some pretty significant faults, too. A generation later, Abraham’s son Isaac does the same thing. Lies to the king that his wife is his sister, to protect himself. Ah, but Isaac reaps what he sows. His own son, Jacob, pretends to be his twin brother, and on Isaac’s deathbed, deceives his blind, sick father into giving Jacob the blessing and inheritance that Isaac intended to give to Esau. Wily Jacob eventually makes up with his brother and has a bunch of kids—12 sons, to be exact. Ten of them sell the eleventh into slavery, then lie to their father about it for years. It’s only when they encounter Joseph, now in a position of power in Egypt, that they are forced to tell old Jacob the truth. The book argues that Joseph breaks the chain by remaining honest and forgiving his brothers. But I seem to remember Joseph not being totally up front when he sees his brothers and realizes they do not recognize him. Of course, when your own brothers throw you in a pit and sell you into slavery, I suppose it would be hard to trust them when they show up 20 years later, begging for food.

Abraham’s legacy, then, despite his faith, is a cord of light and dark intertwined. “The ties that bind” within any family—even legendary ones—have greater or lesser amounts of virtue, faith, pain, deception, love, addiction, respect, anger…

“Write at the top of the page your name and the word ‘legacy',” the leader says. Dutifully I write down “Jennifer’s Legacy.” It looks weird. It looks wrong. The thought comes to me, “What makes you think you deserve a legacy?” I feel...almost shame, definitely discomfort. Acknowledging that I could have an impact on the world, or even specifically my children, seemed like hubris. Aren’t legacies what presidents leave? It takes a few minutes before I realize. That thought, and those feelings, do not come from God. They do not fit with what I have learned about how God loves us. For days, I think about that moment and try to figure out why I reacted that way. It has something to do with the culture I grew up in, I think, and something to do with my own flawed view of myself and the world.

But here’s the conclusion I’ve finally reached, in this unlikely juxtaposition of my little world and the world of “updates in the Penn State scandal.” Everyone leaves a legacy, whether they mean to or not. Most of us leave accidental legacies. We just do what we think is right, we get through the day, we do what comes naturally to us. Life is hard, and it’s easy to get caught up in the latest crisis and miss the people who are looking to us. Little ones who study us to find out what life is all about. Who see the best and worst of their parents. Who hear what we are saying, and then look at what we are doing. No wonder we see our own faults in our children. And, hopefully, our own strengths.

I saw a TV show once where an investigator was interviewing a suspect in a child molestation. And she drew a word picture that I’ve remembered since. She talked about the times when the pedophile himself had been abused as a child, and then further back, to the person who abused that guy, and so on. It was a chain of abuse going back generations. Not necessarily within one family, but within a long line of the abused who became abusers.

A horrible, twisted legacy, but a legacy nonetheless.

The word legacy and Joe Paterno go naturally together. But the heft and color and shape of JoePa’s legacy has been warped by that other, twisted legacy of abuse. One may argue about who knew when and who did what and on and on. I know, because I have. No one in my family or among my Pennsylvania friends could be accused of not having strong opinions.

Penn State has never had a recruiting scandal. Joe’s legacy is an academically focused, clean, honest football program. Until now.

I’m not entirely sure what I think about it, other than the pedophile did what pedophiles do and that someone—many someones—should have stopped him sooner. For those little boys, now men, Penn State’s legacy means something sordid and frightening and uncaring.

It’s all so very sad.

And so I come back around to myself, my family. It’s finally clear to me that legacy is not just a word for great men and women. All of us leave some kind of legacy. All of us have an imprint on those around us, whether we recognize it or not.

Will my legacy, the cords that connect me to my children, and my children’s children, be bright and encouraging, something hopeful to hang on to? Or will they be dark and slippery, binding and chafing? I am not foolish enough to think it has ever been an either/or choice. But I can make choices today, and tomorrow, and for the rest of my life, that give my children more light than dark. “Choose this day whom you will serve.” For too long, I have chosen not to choose. It is time. I fail every day, but I can also strive every day to shelter the light in my daughters’ eyes, to give them something to hang on to when life gets hard, to show them that life has joy and meaning. That each of them has joy and meaning.

What will your legacy be?

What Lies Beneath

2011-11-03T22:57:00.001+01:00

What I would call the conventional view of God sees him as above. Heaven is up, hell is down. Of course, as modern-day scientific-type people we know that the moon and the solar system and the Milky Way and, what the heck, SPACE, the FINAL frontier! is up. Down is dirt and crust and rocks and lava and diamonds and Journey to the Center of the Earth.

[K said just yesterday that she wonders where heaven is. Note that she did not ask me where heaven is. She’s now old enough to know that I probably can’t answer all her questions (or even most of them) satisfactorily. Truthfully, I was thisclose to telling her that heaven is in an alternate dimension, which is pretty much how I think about it. But then I’d have to explain alternate dimensions and since most of my scientific “knowledge” is from (1) reading science fiction and (2) correcting the grammar of medical researchers without actually knowing what many of the words mean, uh, yeah, no.]

But that is just a preface to saying this: for a while now, my mental picture of how God works has been changing. I often think of the “kingdom of God” as running beneath what we see as reality. Underground springs leading into rivers of grace, moving silently beneath the hard rock and red clay of the everyday.

“God is the same yesterday, today, and forever” to me does not mean his ways of dealing with us haven’t changed. The Old Testament is a top-down story. God chooses a people and then spends generations trying to beat his law and Himself into their heads. Sometimes they listen; most times they do not. A stiff-necked people, they are. “I am the LORD your God! Hey, what are you doing with that golden calf? I just parted the Red Sea for you! You call that gratitude?”

Hmm. Sometimes parenting sucks.

But then, it seems like some of them listen. They abide by the Law. They like the Law so much that they make addendums—not just sentences but whole books. They like being the chosen ones so much that they make sure the UNchosen ones know it. Keeping the Law becomes a formal dance—one step wrong, and you’re disqualified. And it doesn’t really matter if you’re heart is in it. Just do the steps, precisely and perfectly. Even if you have to step on others to keep the rhythm. Those others don’t know the dance, they are out of step, so they don’t matter.

The Law turns cold, demanding, heartless.

Then Jesus comes on the scene. And he says something revolutionary—that the Law is not the all in all. God is. People are. And the kingdom of God is not about cold obedience to rules. It is about someone finding a precious jewel in a field. A secret find, in a field not his own. He hugs the knowledge of the jewel to himself, and tries to figure out how to buy that field. He ends up selling everything else to get it. Or the woman who loses a coin and spends all day looking for it. It’s hidden, not obvious. You may have to go looking for it. But it’s there.

Nothing is as it seems. The powerful, the rich of this world, the well-known, they are not the point. The sweeping events of our time or any other affect millions of lives. And many of the Old Testament events show that God sometimes chooses to effect change in big, showy ways. But Jesus shows that God is also the God of the small, the individual. Maybe even moreso than that God of the Flood or the Red Sea. He welcomes small children. He talks to women as equals in a time when they were anything but. He touches the nasty sores of the leper, the grimy faces of filthy blind beggars. No one is beneath him. And in a small, annoying backwater of the largest empire in the world, he dies a small, humiliating death, dashing the hopes of his followers for a big revolution.

Even the Resurrection is small, individual. Jesus is raised from the dead and hangs out in the cemetery to talk to one woman. He walks from Jerusalem to Emmaus with two of his followers, eavesdropping and then anonymously teaching them a thing or two about prophecy. He eats breakfast with his disciples on the lake shore. And not too long after that, he’s gone.

Then the real fun begins. The Holy Spirit enters the picture, the disciples get inspired, and the whole drama of the church begins. And somewhere along the way, the church goes from being subversive to being…versive? It gains too much power, and it becomes part of the problem. Sometimes it can still be part of the problem. But, see, that Holy Spirit is still there, doing its work on the human spirit.

Quietly.

Mysteriously.

Individually.

Underneath the surface.

We live in a noisy time. Politics, religion, science, the Real Housewives of wherever. We’re all shouting at each other, and few are really listening. But underneath? Underneath the noise, the Spirit is still at work. In every tragedy are people who quietly help others. In every political party are those who sincerely try to do what is right. For every disgusting, blasphemous sign a rogue cult holds up at a funeral, there are hundreds who will stand between them and the mourners. For every loud-mouthed talking head on TV, there are a thousand people who listen for the distant roar of an underground spring.

Make no mistake—God is still the God of grand gestures, the maker of the Rocky Mountains, and the Sahara Desert, and the bold autumnal forest. But he is also God of the hidden cavern in which centuries of slow drips form stalactites that no one sees, and of a microscopic universe of bacteria and viruses and amoeba, unseen—not even suspected—by humans for millions of years.

Perhaps a time will come when God speaks to the multitudes again, and Revelation says that he will. Some in every generation believe that “the time is near.” But as the world seems to gets louder, and harder, and coarser, and colder—listen and look. All is not what it seems. God is still at work, beneath the chaos, seeping into the cracked and dry rocks of our hearts, streaming under and around those who serve, rushing in as soon as we ask to be filled.

This song just seems to go with this post. I don’t know why. Gorgeous, though.

Busy

2011-10-26T20:14:00.001+02:00

We’re back in Northern Virginia, the home base of Busy. And Traffic, which adds to the Busy. As a stay-at-home mom, I am the director of logistics and the social chairman of the family. These are not my spiritual gifts. The other day, I dropped K off for Girl Scouts. Except there was no meeting. I had mis-read the 2-page schedule of Girl Scout events and activities. For the record, several such schedules currently reside on the kitchen corkboard: Girl Scouts, Junior Choir, preschool, the church women’s ministry. It occurs to me that I never actually printed out the school schedule. I should do that before we end up some morning waiting for a bus that never comes.

I’m attending a women’s Bible study at our new church. It’s about spiritual formation in the home. How to intentionally order family life so that children grow up knowing God. Knowing that God is not just for Sunday morning. How to teach faith…or, more accurately, live faith and talk about that faith with our children.

Today the leader of the study (also the head of women’s ministry at the church) said that a typical conversation with moms went something like this: “How are you doing?” “I’m good. Overwhelmed, but fine.”

Busy is the definition of life in this area. The leader said that for many years she would hear from other people that she was too busy. “Oh, don’t go to C with this; she’s so busy.” So she decided that she wanted to be known as available, not busy. She stopped talking about how busy she was. If a young mom called her and needed to talk over coffee, she went. It was more important to be available.

The challenge is, we are busy with good stuff. School and work and Girl Scouts and swimming and choir and homework and violin and “no, you can’t go over to your friend’s house because you need to do homework plus your half-hour of reading before we leave for swim practice.”

How’s it going? Oh, busy. Yeah, we are, too. We’re SO busy. Busy, busy, busy. And you compare notes. Because the busier you are, the more important you are. Right? You’re in demand, you’re successful (or your kids are successful, which of course means you are, too), you’re on the go, active, involved. Busy.

And now Christmas is coming. More things to do. Shopping, cooking, decorations, cards…it makes me tired just thinking about it.

But what am I showing my kids about what’s important? Homework comes first, all the things succeeding in school requires…but what is success without meaning? I’m teaching something valuable about work before play, about meeting your obligations, but duty by itself is empty. When do I teach the Why and the Who? Why is learning important? Who do we live our lives for?

So I’m thinking a lot about how to create space for prayer. For conversations that go deeper than “Have you finished your homework? What do you need to do now?”. For lighting a candle during Advent and talking about the Light of the World. I’m not sure how to do it, though. For someone who expresses herself better in writing, who prefers silence over noise, talking about important things feels awkward, forced somehow.

Besides, we’re so busy.

Cheated

2011-06-16T23:09:00.002+02:00

I drive past it at least once a week. I come around a curve and it looms at the end of the street, an oldish building that reminds me of my high school, but taller. Windows outlined in metal with white and green and blue flat outer walls. The West-Pfalz Klinikum, the center of our lives during the summer of 2008, when our second daughter was born two months premature. I remember, every time I see it. Fear and hope and sadness and anticipation and love and exhaustion and fear and fear and fear. And not being able to breathe as I drove back toward the hospital, suddenly sure against all logic that I was too late, would be met at the door with bad news. And crying in the car as I drove away, getting out all the tears and desperate prayers before I arrived home and tried to give my older daughter some semblance of normality.

A few months ago, I went to a baby shower. The mom-to-be was beautiful, even though she clearly didn’t think so. Thin with a big baby belly and a 5-year-old daughter. The new baby will be a daughter, too. Even though I didn’t know very many people, everyone was friendly and I had fun. As we played that silly game where you cut lengths of string to estimate the size of the mom’s belly, I suddenly thought, “By this time in my pregnancy, Annika would have already been born.” And I felt a twinge of jealousy, that I had missed those final weeks. That I had missed that sticky-outty belly button, the supposed nesting instinct, the easy confidence that a baby would actually come out of this.

Even as those days recede, as my clearly healthy and robust toddler asserts her healthy and robust independence, I realize that my infertility/childbearing experience has marked me.

I feel cheated of what I think is a “normal” experience. Left out again. Those long years when I began to think we would never have a child of our own, when I walked around with an open wound barely covered under a veneer of pleasantness. Unwomanly. Failure. Deformed.

Miscarriage. I think most women would tell you that pregnancy after miscarriage is different. The innocence, the blind confidence that a pregnancy will of course lead to a real, live baby, is shaken. And me being on the anxious side to begin with, well. I counted the weeks until the 28th week. Only then did I even start to think that it “might really happen.” 28 weeks, when something like 80 to 90 percent of babies actually survive if born too early. I know this because I looked up a chart with survival rates of premature babies. And I tried really hard not to think about things like cord accidents, which could happen at any time.

So when my water broke in the early morning of June 16, 2008, it was shocking and scary, but not a total surprise. My first was born at 34 weeks, also because my water broke weeks too early. She, however, was a whopping 6 pounds, the biggest baby in the neonatal intensive care unit, where she stayed only a few days.

I prayed. How I prayed, as I called my husband, called the hospital, got Katrina out of bed and dressed (it was the first day of her summer vacation). Desperately worried, but remaining calm—even faux cheerful—so as not to panic my sensitive 6 year old.

No comical mishaps or huffing and puffing through contractions while stuck in traffic, like the movie versions of birth. Just a grim silence, punctuated by endless questions from Katrina, and even-toned answers from hubby, as I tried to keep my tears at bay.

Then the waiting, the confirmation that indeed I was in labor, the problem of who to call to take care of Katrina. We had made no babysitter plans, because my mom-in-law was coming a full month before my due date—but her date of arrival was a week away. Thankfully, it took only one call and generous friends to get Katrina squared away.

I got to ride in an ambulance, which was less interesting than one would think. No sirens for me. Just two young German paramedics, one of whom had enough English to chat with me briefly, kindly. He looked as nervous as I felt.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, shots, IV, more waiting. Hubby went home to sleep. They hoped to keep the baby in as long as possible, but my body didn’t cooperate. At midnight I called my hubby back to the hospital. I was being prepped for surgery.

There was a surreal interlude while I waited for the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, my husband. The German soccer team was playing in the European Cup, and had just played that evening. So the nurses and the intern sat around me in an unused delivery room and talked about the game. It was after midnight, and the intern was the same woman who had done my intake at 11 am that morning. They were a little punchy, I think. It was comforting.

Hubby arrived as I climbed onto the operating table, dizzy from some sort of pre-anesthesia. They couldn’t do a spinal, so it would be general anesthesia for me. The last thing I remember is shivering, and seeing the door close on my husband.

I came out of anesthesia to see my husband sitting on the edge of my bed. “Is she okay? Is she okay?” He said something about her lip not being fully formed. I didn’t care. “Is she breathing on her own? Is she on oxygen? Is she REALLY okay?”

He assured me that she was better than okay. She was breathing on her own and had no need for oxygen, a rarity for babies born that early. Our girls both have good lungs, which our eardrums are reminded of nearly every day.

Then the coughing started. I had an asthma-like reaction to one of the medications. The medication probably saved my life, but it also gave me a 12-hour respiratory hangover that landed me in intensive care. Poor hubby went back and forth, from one end of the hospital to the other, from his new daughter’s incubator in the NICU to his wife struggling to breathe in adult intensive care.

It was more than 24 hours before I got to see my baby in person. The hospital kindly gave me a few pictures, and my husband took more. I stared and stared, trying to believe she was real.

The first time I saw her, with an IV attached to her foot and a feeding tube up her nose, I cried. I couldn’t stop crying. I just whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” over and over. In that moment, it was my fault, my body’s failure. Already I had failed as a mother.

The doctors and nurses in the NICU seemed to think we’d be upset about her cleft lip. Every time we talked to a doctor, they brought it up. They would get a referral to a plastic surgeon, they said. They had a call in to the specialty center in Mainz, they said. Hubby and I cared nothing about her lip. It did not involve her palate, so it was a cosmetic issue, not a health one. We were just grateful she was alive.

After Annika was more than a month in the hospital, we finally heard noises about when she could go home. She was “stepped down” to the non-critical care unit. A day or two later, she was back in intensive care with an obviously painful but mysterious gastrointestinal issue. A frantic 24 hours followed, with the prospect of exploratory surgery hanging over our heads.

No one ever knew what it was. But she got better. So much better that she could come home.

Our German cleaning lady, herself a force to be reckoned with, calls Annika her “fighting princess”. Like Xena, she says. “Annika fought for life.”

So. I go to baby showers, and I’m happy and I’m wistful for the fearless birth I think we were cheated of, that mountain-top experience that many parents describe. Both of our daughters were whisked away to be poked and prodded and kept alive. Both times they seemed like little strangers to me. One cannot bond with a picture.

But both times, we were incredibly grateful just to have them. Glowing orange from jaundice? A cleft lip? Nothing. Nothing compared to being here.

I’ve been struggling with motherhood lately. Some days my two little strong-willed extroverts seem to need more than this compliant introvert has to give. The arguments pile up, with the older one chanting her “it’s not fair” refrain while the younger one screams incoherently and stamps her foot. Until I am DONE.

Sometimes I feel cheated of the compliant, no-fuss child my mother says I was. (And sometimes I wonder if my mother has a selective memory of her children’s behaviors.) And then I remember how each of my children came into the world. How each one survived my inhospitable womb, her early arrival, her time hooked up to IVs, her frightened, scattered mother. Of course they have strong wills.

They had to have strong wills, strong lungs, a fighting spirit. So they could survive their precarious arrival and come out of babyhood healthy and happy. Thanks to modern medicine and the strength that God put into their spirits, my girls cheated death.

And THAT is the only cheating that matters.

Elmo’s World

2010-09-29T09:19:00.001+02:00

It’s named after the red one, but the fish is really the warden. Her insatiable lust for knowing more, more, more, entraps us all. We are her puppets, performing for her silent, empty eyes.

We’re not sure how we got here, in this closed world of garish colors and ever-louder music, where the Noodle desperately cavorts for the amusement of the Voices in his empty cage. Where the giggles of the red one punctuate every sentence. He giggles when he’s nervous, of course, which is all the time. For if he displeases the Dorothy, unimaginable pain results.

No one knows when the revolution happened, when her mind grew impossibly large, when just a look cowed us all. But we’ve been here a long time. We can see the door, but her power is such that we cannot walk through it.

We bring her offerings, the Red One and the Noodle and the weirdly alive Computer and Drawer. Video clips of whatever subject her endless curiosity settles on. Puppets and people and cartoons, all the same to her. Those allowed to come and go look back fearfully as the door closes behind them. They would like to help, but her thrall extends to them, too. She calls them into existence, and when she is done, they disappear into the blue void outside the door.

For some reason, she has settled on the Red One as her translator and key henchman. He keeps the rest in line, brutally if necessary, but he is the most frightened of all.

And so we continue in this strange half-life, collecting knowledge for this creature who cannot leave her bowl. We are her collection, marionettes dancing and leaping for her pleasure, ignoring the encroaching fire, staving off destruction twenty minutes at a time.

Rambling Around the Big Big House

2010-09-10T21:21:00.003+02:00

So, I bet you haven’t heard about this guy in Florida who says he’s going to burn the Q’uran? Oh, you have? And you’re sick of hearing about it? Yeah, so am I.

But there’s this mosque gonna be built at Ground Zero, well, actually several blocks from Ground Zero, and how dare they build a mosque right there…in *our* country, a country founded on freedom of religion…hmm. oh, sick of that, too?

Yeah, me too. But I’m still thinking about it. Mostly because the people involved in both these issues are parts of groups I identify with. The guy in Florida is actually a pastor of a (ahem, self-identified) Christian church. And the rabble-rousers about the mosque are mostly political conservatives and also (a good many, at least) self-identified Christians.

It makes me mad. And sad, as well. That these people sincerely think that what they are doing is right, even holy. How did their religion become so small, so pinched with fear?

Because their religion is not mine. The Jesus I read about talked to everyone. The Jesus I know had harsher words for Pharisees--those self-proclaimed experts on God--than he did for prostitutes, for cheating tax collectors, for Samaritans, whom his countryman thought of as barely human.

At least a decade ago, I read Joshua by Joseph Girzone. It’s a parable about what might happen if Jesus moved in next door, into small-town America. I’ve always remembered “Joshua” musing that modern-day Jews were more open and acceptant than the Christians down the street. Basically, the Pharisees had moved into the Christian church. At the time, I thought it a bold statement. But now I think Girzone wasn’t wrong. I don’t know much about Judaism today, but unfortunately I know all too much about the Pharisee-flavored Christianity that draws (or invites?) media attention.

If all I knew about Christians came from the news, I’d stay the heck away from anything billing itself as Christian.

(Of course, if all I knew about Islam came from the news…)

More than one person I’ve known over the years has said something along the lines of “The roof would fall in if I went to church.” Yeah, it’s kinda funny. But also sad. Why do people feel that way? Is it because of what they think of God? Or is it because of what they’ve experienced from Christians?

I’m a Lutheran. Our buzzword is grace. And grace is what’s needed. Now, in the situations in the news, in our everyday lives. Not just “tolerance.” Grace. Belief that that person over there, who looks and talks and believes so differently from us, is beloved of God.

So, here. This song, an old one from Audio Adrenaline, a now-defunct Christian rock band, has always made me smile. Because THIS is what Christianity should be about. Expansive. Hospitable. Joyful. Come, hang out with us at Dad’s house. Food, drink, football, love, and care. It’s an invitation, not a summons. No exclusions. Everyone welcome. No book burnings allowed.

(P.S. I couldn’t find the official video to embed, but you can find it here.)

What’s Wrong with This Picture?

2010-07-12T09:17:00.001+02:00

An “issue” we are perpetually working on with Katrina is her frequent complaining. I have noticed, however, that sometimes she looks completely surprised when hubby or I get annoyed with her comments. She denies that whatever she said was complaining.

I’m beginning to think that some of her complaining is just her noticing details and offering her commentary. Case in point: look at the picture below. It’s from the Blendy Pens kit she received from a friend for her birthday. She felt it was good enough to post on our kitchen bulletin board.

Yesterday evening, though, Katrina told me that there was something wrong with the picture. See if you can guess what it is. (answer below)

Did you see it? The error? No?

There are not enough stripes in the rainbow. Katrina noted that there should be one more stripe. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue…and purple. “I couldn’t color the purple stripe, Mama, because they didn’t put enough stripes on the rainbow. See?”

The kid is right. Although, to be totally technical about it, there should be two more stripes (ROY G BIV, right? I have no idea where she gets her need to correct small details, though ;) ).

Should I call the Blendy Pen people and point out their grave error?

The Long Walk Home

2010-07-08T18:02:00.001+02:00

Now that the weather has finally gotten nice, we’re walking to school more often. I put Annika in the stroller, and Katrina either walks or rides her scooter.

It takes about 15 minutes.

About halfway to school, Annika turns around in her stroller and glares at me. “WALK! WALK!” she demands. “Not now,” I reply. “You can walk after we drop Katrina off at school.”

Kisses and hugs, and Katrina runs onto the school playground. “WALK!”

“OK, let’s walk.” I lift Annika out of the stroller, and we walk home.

It takes about an hour.

Come, “walk” with us.

“UP!”

The first “WOCK!” stop. Gravel is like treasure, and our route home provides enough for the greediest of pirates.

See that wall there? The dirt is Annika eye level, perfect for digging through and finding little bugs. And cigarette butts.

“FWOWERS!”

We pass this trash can every single day. And every single day she says “TWASH!” and leans over and looks into it. I know! So exciting! Who knows what will be in it today!

Every so often she takes off running, and I am hard-pressed to keep up with the sudden speed. I aim to keep me or the empty stroller between her and the very busy street to our left. Most of the time I succeed.

“UP!” If we time it right, we pass by the train crossing just as the morning train comes in. She is fascinated by the gates going up and down. She points and says “UP” whenever we pass this intersection, whether the train’s there or not.

Right in front of her is a beautiful planter with blooming flowers. The gravel is more interesting.

This day she brought two of her purses (BAG! PURR!)with her. So the gravel goes in her purse. And out again. And in. You get the idea.

She hears the “ding-ding-ding” of the train crossing gate behind us.

“Here, Annika, let’s go look at the train…oh. A manhole cover. Well. Train can’t compete with sticking your fingers in the hole of the manhole cover.”

“TWAIN! UP!”

Ooo! Dirt!

“GUCKY! DIWTY!”

“SIT!” OK, I lie. Her “S” often sounds like “SH”. She says “SHIT!” a LOT.

“OK, Annika, let’s go.” “NO! SHIT!”

You think you’re going to make it home in an hour? Yeah, right, Mom.

Checking her inventory. Or putting a leaf in, I can’t tell which.

I wonder if blue walls feel different than other colors of walls. Hmmmm…

“GUCKY! GUCKY! WAH!”

“CAAAAH! AUTO! CAH! AUTO!” (“Auto” is German for car and is pronounced more like “OWTOE”)

“UP! SHTEP!”

“One, two, free, THUMP!” (jump)

“FUHRFEE!”

More gravel. Coolest Walk EVAH.

Who needs pretty scenery when you’ve got gravel to play with?

And even an interesting place to put it?

And then there’s the weighing station, with a whole new surface to walk on!

“THUMP!”

Ooh, a new place to put rocks!

And…take them out again.

Hmmm, maybe this thing will open today. It didn’t yesterday, or the day before, but maybe today.

The old curb-road up-and-down walking trick. Fun for all ages.

Well, what do you know? More WOCKS!

Can I squeeze through here? I’d really like go over this wall head first, but Mama keeps holding me back.

S’cuse me, must make a call.

Oh, yeah? Really? Hey, I have to go. I see more rocks I must examine. Yeah. Yeah. Ok, bye.

“OPEN!”

Finally at our street. She decides she needs one purse on each arm.

More up and down.

“HI, YA-YA! Hi, YA-YA! Hi, YA-YA!” (Ya-ya is her rendition of the neighbor boy’s name. Note that Ya-ya was nowhere in sight. She just feels the need to hail the house every time we pass by.)

Also, Ya-ya has WHITE rocks. Must be examined Every Time.

We dropped Katrina off at about 8:40 am. We walk into the house at about 9:45.

“MELMO! MELMO! MELMO!”

Sure, baby. Here, watch Elmo. Mama needs a rest.

Rambling and Rewinding

2010-06-11T18:38:00.001+02:00

We walked to school the other day, the girls and I. That is, I walked; Annika rode in her stroller; and Katrina zipped along on her scooter, slowing beside me to talk, and then, with one push, gliding ahead, her red gingham dress flapping at her legs. It’s finally gotten warm here, hot and humid even.

She slowed down as we neared a bed of flowers in front of the train station. “Mom, these plants…the smell of them smells like Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

I have a bit of a cold, so I didn’t smell much of anything. But I vividly remember a hot summer’s afternoon, a few years after we were married. I was walking home from the bus stop after work, when some combination of plants and fertilizer and heat and humidity drew me back to my grandparents’ house in New Jersey.

Mind you, my grandparents moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania when I was relatively young, and I have a very poor long-term memory. But suddenly I saw the long flagstone walk, punctuated with one or two stairs at a time, that led down to the back door of Nana and Pop-pop’s house. It was surrounded by rhododendron bushes, I believe, and looked like a haven after a long car ride. And I remember the smell of growing things and soil.

What seems a bit quirky to me is that I remember places in much more detail than events. I have very few memories of events in that New Jersey house, but I can tell you the layout of the house and even what some of the furniture looked like.

“Mom,” said Katrina later that afternoon, “I wish I could rewind to when I was three.”

“You mean, you want to be three again?” I asked, a bit worriedly.

“No, I want to rewind like in a movie. And I want to see when I was a baby, and see your grandma and grandpa, and then, even before I was born!” she said. “And then come back to being seven.”

She has seen the pictures of herself as a few-months-old baby, being held by my Pop-pop. And others of her and my Gram. And thanks to my fading memory (and perhaps the extreme exhaustion that marked my experience of Katrina’s first few months), I remember the photographs themselves better than being there and taking them.

Living in Germany brings my past back to me sometimes, in unexpected ways. My mom’s side of the family is almost exclusively of German ancestry; my dad’s side also has a significant German flavor. I didn’t pay much attention to this, really, living in America. We are all Americans, right?

But in public, here, I catch glimpses of my family. The (ahem) aristocratic noses, strong jaws, long-ish faces. I see my sister’s swingy blonde hair, the way my dad walks, the angular planes of my step-brothers’ cheeks. My aunt, a naturalist and writer, said to me once that she felt like she “found her people” when she visited Germany, and as I see the hardy folk of all ages trekking through the forested parks in the area, I can see why.

And then there’s our neighbor.

Herr A. is an older man who lives with his wife one house over. He owns a bit of land behind our backyard, one part planted with trees, and the other a potato patch. The rest of his yard is separated from our sight by the typical (for Germany) high hedge. But from an upstairs window, I can see his back yard, nearly taken up by a huge vegetable garden.

Gardening runs in our family too, although I seem to have a black thumb. The garden itself reminds me of the one my dad had when we were growing up. The one his dad helped him out with sometimes. And I hear my Gram’s voice, “Pull up your pants, George!” And I see Pap in brown pants and beige-ish collared shirt, and suspenders, maybe? Just the back of him, because there was no way I was getting any closer to garden work than eating fresh tomatoes.

But Herr A. himself? He brings Pop-pop back. His shock of white hair--sometimes hidden by a beat-up hat--his nondescript “slacks” and shirt, his lean but slightly stooped posture, his weathered skin. His face is his own, but from afar, as he plants and hoes, he could be my maternal grandfather.

I was lucky to know my grandparents through my adulthood. One of the many small griefs of our five-year infertility was not having children in time for two of my grandparents to meet them.

Katrina has a better memory than I do, I think (I’m not sure how she could have a worse one). I wonder what she will remember about her past. When she is my age, what sights and smells and sounds will bring her back to Grandma’s horse barn, to the park below Grammy and Pap’s, to Grandpa’s basement computer room or Grammy’s kitchen? And when or if she visits Germany in adulthood, will she remember the walk to school? Will the cobblestoned roads and sidewalks evoke the vibrations of riding a scooter over them? Will the faces in this by-then foreign land bring her back home?

Saturday Morning

2010-05-22T15:40:00.001+02:00

We woke at 6 am to the sound of a barking seal. Annika had about two weeks of health between her strep throat and her current “upper respiratory infection.” (Diagnosis brought to you courtesy of a 50-euro doctor visit, brought on by a low-ish fever on the Friday before a German three-day weekend.)

Soon Katrina was up, as well, and by 6:30 the three of us were downstairs, leaving hubby to sleep in. (I get to sleep in tomorrow, yay!) Annika demanded MELMO! as she has every morning, noon, and night—or any time she catches sight of the TV—for the past few weeks. But I had promised Katrina she could watch the end of “Escape to Witch Mountain,” which she started before bedtime last night. This classic Disney flick has held up pretty well. I loved it as a child, and still thought it was pretty good. Katrina gave it her seal of approval, which was more than she gave the recent remake we watched last month. When did the Disney oeuvre include straight-up action flicks starring The Rock?

Annika got her MELMO fix while I started breakfast, but even Elmo did not prevent her from deciding it was time to change her diaper. And SHE was just the one to do it. So she stripped off her sleeper and diaper. And then decided that I was not to touch the new diaper…she would put it on herself. Or, you know, clutch it against her yelling NO everytime I reached for it. I managed to get the new diaper on—and her sleeper—and went back to cooking bacon and making coffee. Not five minutes later, she walked into the kitchen totally naked. This time, there would be NO diaper, Mama. So we had our first Naked Temper Tantrum. It was both frustrating and amusing.

About this time, hubby got up (wonder why? the house was so quiet) and managed to get a Pull-Up on her while I attempted to rescue the burning bacon (eh. not too bad).

So. a lovely start to the day.

BUT! It is sunny and warm for the first time since, oh, April. So I got myself and the girls dressed and ready. The goal---the strawberry-and-asparagus stand at the bottom of our hill, followed by the little farmer’s market in the town square. Katrina glided on her scooter while I pulled Annika in the wagon. The strawberries looked a little pale, but they were sweet and fresh. We also got a few veggies at the farmer’s market, and a bouquet.

And here’s what happens when you put open containers of strawberries in the wagon with a toddler.

That is not a rash on her face; it’s strawberry juice. One of the berries was as big as her little hand. It looked like she was eating an apple. I tried to get a close-up, but she was too interested in grabbing the camera, so this is the best I got.

And here is our bounty from our walk.

See those berry containers? They used to be full.

So, a good morning, despite the barking cough and the Tantrum. It occurred to me that I have absorbed some German attitudes…like, “oh, the baby’s sick? some fresh air will do her good!”

But on a day like this, no one wants to be inside.

Unless, of course, MELMO is on.

The Lazy Mom’s Guide to Parenting

2010-05-17T14:43:00.001+02:00

I was talking with another mom last week and she said that she makes three dinners sometimes, one for her, one for her husband, and one for her three-year-old. And all I could think of was how much work that is. Most nights, I make one dinner. Now, I could make the argument that it teaches my kids that the world does not revolve around them, or that it helps expand their palates, but really, it’s because some nights I can barely get one meal on the table, much less individual plates tailored to each person’s tastes. So who better than I to let other moms in on my secrets? I give you the lazy mom’s parenting guide.

1. Dinner is dinner. Eat it or don’t eat it. Now, I will cop to letting Katrina eat hot dogs when we have chili or goulash, mostly because she truly hates bell peppers and spicy food. But if she just doesn’t want, say, baked chicken, tough. She’s eaten before, she can eat it again. Or not. There are bananas on the kitchen counter if she’s still hungry.

2. Plan your meals. I plan dinners for the week and make a shopping list. Then I go to the store. Once a week. That’s it. And as a stay-at-home mom I can go at 9 am on a weekday. Taking grumpy hungry kids to a grocery store full of other grumpy hungry kids (and adults!) in the late afternoon on the weekdays is too much work. As is going more than once a week.

OK, I may stop and get some more milk or orange juice at some point during the week. But only if I forget to ask hubby to do it for me.

3. Children will be in their beds by 8:30 pm. Earlier, if possible. Look, us lazy moms need our TV/computer/sit on the couch time. That means, children need to go to bed. Also, it’s much easier for me the next day if I don’t have droopy, grumpy children.

4. Children will learn to take their own baths/showers as soon as possible. One quirk of mine is that I hate giving baths to the little ones. Hubby takes that responsibility on for the baby, and Katrina takes a shower herself. Sometimes she needs help with tangly hair, but that’s all.

5. Do one load of laundry each day. Doesn’t seem so lazy, but the longer I let the laundry go, the more intimidating it is. And we have a German washer/dryer, which has far less capacity than the American ones. One load a day, washed, dried, folded, put away.

Yeah, I’m not doing that at the moment. Baby came and threw the house into disarray, and nearly two years later I still am not back on the laundry track. Most days I do some laundry, which is then added to the ever-growing “needs folded” pile. If it gets big enough or I have to send Katrina rummaging through it to find clothes in the morning, I fold it (or sometimes hubby does. Score!).

5. Hire a cleaning lady, if you can at all afford it. I told you I was lazy.

7. If children are not in the house, they cannot mess up the house. Therefore, scout out your area for playgrounds, playgroups, indoor play places, and malls. Other people’s homes are also ideal.

8. If children are not in the house, you don’t have to figure out how to occupy them. Maybe your kids aren’t as easily bored as mine. Maybe your kids are close enough in age to play with each other. I’m raising essentially two only children (6-year age difference). The playground is good for both of them. Also, outdoors in the back yard or the scooter (for Katrina) and the play car (Annika) in the street outside. All I have to do is follow Annika around. Much easier than trying to keep her from climbing on chairs and ripping apart the tea bags.

9. Elmo is your friend. Annika just discovered TV—or, rather, she discovered Elmo. Elmo buys me time to put in a load of laundry or start dinner or even go to the bathroom by myself without a screaming child clutching at my knees. Elmo is my friend.

10. Sometimes cooking is less work than eating out. If your children are older than, say, 5, eating out might be easier. If you have a toddler or preschooler, keeping them happy and occupied during dinner in a restaurant may be more stressful than just cooking and eating at home. Take-out is the easiest, of course, but the demands of my gluten-free diet make even take-out a big pain.

11. Naps are your friend. Yay for naps! For the children, that is. Well, and me too. But then when would I have time to write quality advice like this?

One Thing After Another

2010-05-04T14:29:00.001+02:00

Let’s see…on Saturday afternoon, Katrina said, “My throat kind of hurts.” By bedtime, the “kind of” was gone and we dosed her with Children’s Tylenol. At 3 am, she was up crying, so we gave her some more Children’s Tylenol. Then, she couldn’t get back to sleep. For about an hour or so.

Sunday morning, a friend posted that Children’s Tylenol had been recalled. Yes, the very bottle I had used the previous night. Also, our unopened bottle of Children’s Motrin. Katrina’s throat still hurt, and she was going through cough drops at an alarming rate. Hubby went to the base to get some non-recalled something. Ended up with the Exchange brand (store brand)…the shelves were bare.

Also Sunday morning, I came close to taking off the tip of my finger trying to cut through half-frozen bulk sausage. A nasty cut (partially through the nail, ew) but seems to be healing well.

Monday morning, off to the doctor with both children. Annika’s had a cold for about a week, so I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to check her out as well as Katrina’s throat. The longer we waited (a total of 45 minutes—doc office on Monday is always crowded), the healthier they both looked. “Does your throat still hurt?” I asked Katrina.

“A little bit, once in a while,” she said. Great. Two colds, and a waste of time.

But no. “They both have strep,” the doc proclaimed. “Annika’s is worse, but Katrina has it, too.”

Then I felt bad. Annika has not been sleeping well, but I chalked it up to her stuffed up sinuses. Poor thing doesn’t have the vocabulary to tell us her throat hurts.

“They’ll still be contagious until Wednesday, so no school on Tuesday,” the doc said. Okey-dokey.

So now it’s Tuesday, and through the miracles of antibiotics, Katrina feels perfectly fine. But no school till tomorrow. I did take them both grocery shopping and to the post office with me (and really hoped Annika did not give her strep to the nice older man who always gives her high-fives when we get our cart).

Oh, and then there’s this.

See that gap there? Yeah, we’re not sure that can be fixed. What’s it been? Two weeks? I’ll take it back to the optical shop tomorrow and see. If it can’t be fixed, the child will just have to get the ugly rubber frames that won’t crack.

The eye doctor said as a last resort that he’d give us eye drops to dilate her eyes so that she literally couldn’t see without the glasses. I hate, hate, hate that idea, but we’re getting desperate here. It’s not just that she can’t see very well without them; it’s that if she doesn’t wear them, we have no chance of correcting the vision problem. Also, her eyes will probably cross, bringing on a whole other set of problems.

So that was our week. And it’s only Tuesday.

All right, I can’t leave you all (or me) with such a downer. Here, a typical Saturday morning:

Hubby often makes popcorn for the two of us on Fridays or Saturdays after the kids are in bed, and we save some for the kiddos. It never lasts until breakfast. My children are growing up associating popcorn with Saturday morning. Hey, get rid of the salt and add milk, and you have corn flakes, right?

Uh-huh.

New Looks

2010-04-21T21:00:00.001+02:00

Katrina got her hair cut yesterday, and she wanted it short. Shorter than she’s ever had it, if I recall correctly. And suddenly, there she was, all grown up.

Well, if you disregard the cute monkeys on her nightgown. This was after she washed and I blow-dried it. You know that advice that hairdressers give? “I layered it just a little bit on the ends so that it will curl under. Just blow dry it using a round brush, and it will go under.” That NEVER works for me. My hair has just enough of a mind of its own that it flips up on one side no matter what. I was beginning to think that the “blow-dry with a round brush” thing was a hoax perpetrated on innocent salon customers by deceptive hairdressers. BUT look at this!

Curled under with a round brush! Once again, it’s just me.

Also? Annika finally got her new glasses. We picked them up on Sunday. On Tuesday, I took them back in because Annika had already bent them. They were fixable, though, and she’s actually tolerating them a bit better than the last pair. Fingers crossed.

The plus side is, no matter what she’s doing, it all looks very important.

Catching Up: Easter

2010-04-18T14:41:00.001+02:00

Katrina’s two-week spring break has ended; back to school tomorrow. Oh, yeah, and, uh, I turned 40. But enough about me…let’s see pictures of my adorable, YOUNG children.

In their Easter dresses on a pretty but windy, cool day.

We invited friends over for Easter dinner. And we offered stellar entertainment: a game of Uno, followed by Go Fish and then quality time on the couch with my two little button-pushers.

E., do you have a….dinosaur?

Katrina playing a game with our friend J. (and Annika). Each one on their own electronic device…in the same room. Who needs board games when you have smart phones?

Annika learning a key skill in today’s world: pointing her finger.

It was a lovely day, wind and all.

Next up, maybe tomorrow: our trip to Holland.

The Joy of Spring

2010-03-25T22:52:00.002+01:00

We walked through the smallish bit of woods behind our house. I saw beer bottles, blackberry brambles, and power lines. Katrina collected bits of bark and smooth stones for a fairy house and said, “That was an adventure! Can we have another adventure tomorrow?”

Welcome, fairies!

"Walk unsteadily and carry a big stick."

It's a Miracle!

2010-03-03T14:15:00.004+01:00

Updated: And the winner is Aunt Wendy! This is the first time in 4 years that Katrina has voluntarily worn anything denim. With a belt, even (a SILVER belt, which was part of the draw). It's too loose around her waist, of course, and she did not allow me to tighten the belt enough, but baby steps, baby steps. Not wearing jeans is not a big deal in the abstract...who cares? Let her be comfortable. But casual clothes for her age? Jeans and T-shirts. And jeans, and more jeans. So, yay!

All righty, folks, let's see who can spot the miracle in this picture. The first correct commenter wins...um, a book from one of the many boxes of books residing in our attic? Yeah, that's it! Please comment below this entry and not on Facebook. Let the fierce competition between all five of my readers begin!

Annika’s Vocabulary (20 months old)

2010-02-17T14:44:00.001+01:00

Hieeeee!= Hi!

Hawwo = Hallo/Hello

Hiya! = Hiya! (once in a while…this is her “third” language, British English from the Mums and Tots playgroup we attend)

Mama

MommEEE = Mama, you better pay attention NOW!

Papa

Deeeeda = Katrina

Djoooo! = Juice, water, or anything in a bottle or cup

DjOOooo (sing-song) = Tschuess! (Bye in German)

Boo! = Peek-a-boo

Bup = Up

Da = Down

Cwackuh = Cracker (or any snack she sees and wants)

Cooooookee = Cookie

Day-doo = Thank you

Da-ga = Danke (She says one, then the other, every time.)

Ee-yow = Meow

Eye-eeee = eye

Ow-ah = Auge (German for eye)

Doh = Nose

Haaaah = Hair/Haare

Ha = Head

Hah (whispered) = hot/heiss

EE-yews = Ears

Teee = Teeth

Bla-la-la-la (tongue in and out) = tongue (that totally counts!)

Ga-ga = glasses

Bye-Bye

Nigh-Nigh = Night-night

Bap = Nap

Gock = sock

Mo pees = More, please (when prompted)

Aw-dun, aw-dun, aw-dun = All done

Baby (refers to any baby or small child, even those older than her)

Jeh-too = Gentle (while stroking dog or baby)

Stranger save of the week (day?)

In the commissary, Annika is strapped into the seat on the cart. I am turned away, toward Katrina and the row of candy she is lobbying to buy. Suddenly, I hear a woman say “Uh, oh, no, no!” I turn to see the (wonderful! kind!) woman gently taking my now-open dozen of eggs out of Annika’s hands. Another few seconds and they would h ave been on the floor—thrown, not dropped, I expect. Yay for kind, alert strangers in the store!

Boo!

Setting Up the Pins and Knocking Them Down

2010-02-09T14:29:00.001+01:00

I know the daily round of children and school and laundry and naps and meals and driving to and fro and, and, and, is getting to me when I start fantasizing about getting just sick enough to languish in bed for a day. Or two.

Now’s the time of year when the routine starts getting to me—when the weather is “always winter and never Christmas.” Now’s about the age (19 months) when child care becomes most relentless. Take your eyes off Annika for an instant and risk destruction of property or injury to her person. She also has a winner of a case of separation anxiety (STILL), which means me cooking dinner, running upstairs to get something, or otherwise leaving her sight is unacceptable. She can walk away from me, mind you, and does so on a regular basis (particularly in public). But I cannot walk away from her without risking my hearing and nerves.

I’ve been listening to Sara Grove’s most recent CD, and one song in particular struck a chord with me. Unfortunately, I cannot find it online to share it with you, but it’s a bouncy country-ish song called “Setting Up the Pins.” The liner notes say she wrote it while washing the dishes (which—yeah, I’m not so productive as writing while doing housework). It’s about that daily routine and how we all try to get out of it. “Let’s get rich find a way around setting up the pins for knocking ‘em down.”

The lyric that knocks me down is:

my grandmother had a working song
hummed it low all day long
sing for the beauty that's to be found
in setting up the pins for knocking em down

In a flash I see an older woman, scrubbing clothes by hand, humming and peaceful. Purposeful, even. And I wonder how to find that. To see the routine as meaningful. To take joy in washing the dishes again, in ironing the same white shirts, in cooking dinner, in packing a lunch five days a week. I know it’s possible, but in these grey winter mornings, it’s hard to see it.

And then I realize at the school gate that I haven’t really looked at my children that morning. They have been small mouths to feed and bodies to dress. I’ve been prodding my older one to brush her teeth and get her coat on and WILL YOU GET IN THE CAR OR WE’LL BE LATE. And just before I say good-bye I look into her eyes and her cold-flushed face and hug her and tell her I love her and to have a good day. And she is healthy and beautiful and bigger than life. And then the little one pulls on my hand and we amble down the driveway at toddler speed. And I remember. Oh, yeah. That’s why.

P.S. Do you see what we’re dealing with here?

Yes, she then stood up and looked at us in triumph.

And then there’s what happens when I get something in the laundry room/pantry. She got up there ALL by herself, and then started taking things off the shelf. Knocking the pins down, indeed…

7 Quick Takes, or, Hiya! We’re Still Here!

2010-01-22T21:49:00.001+01:00

1. Yes, yes, blogging has been sparse lately…again. I basically have about an hour and a half to myself during the day, during Annika’s nap. Since we returned from the States, Annika has slept through the night maybe two or three times. Last night, she cried briefly at 1 am and settled back to sleep before I got to her room. Score!

Then Katrina woke up at 4 am after having a nightmare (which is pretty rare for her). I swear,the children plot with each other to give the parents maximum sleep deprivation. And no sleep = no brain power to write blog entries.

2. Katrina didn’t tell me what her nightmare was about, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Yesterday it was announced at school that the mother and sister of a former student (who rode on Katrina’s bus last year) had been killed in a car accident. I didn’t really know the family except to wave at the bus stop, but I couldn’t stop thinking about this lovely little girl, about 10 years old, who is now without a mother and little sister. Katrina said that they would be writing letters later in the week. She composed some thoughts out loud in the car: “Dear J., I’m sad your mum and sister died. I hope that you can feel better about that.” And isn’t that exactly the sentiment that adults try to express, but more indirectly and with prettier words? Please keep this family in your prayers. I think it will be a very long time before anyone “feels better".”

3. I’ve been a bit addicted to Hillbuzz, a political Web site run by five gay guys from Chicago. They supported Hillary Clinton in the Democratic primaries and were so upset at the way she was treated by the Dems that they jumped ship to work for the McCain/Palin campaign. They don’t like Obama or the health-care bill. I don’t always agree with them, but they tell it like they see it, the writing is good, and they often have interesting ideas as well as stories about their lives.

4. Annika is walking…and climbing. Katrina wasn’t a climber, so imagine my surprise to look over and see my baby on top of the open dishwasher door…standing on the biggest dining room chair…kneeling on the top step of the step stool…

5. She also likes to “help” Mama by pulling utensils out of the dishwasher and handing them to me to put away. It is a fun way to start the morning. Unfortunately, she also wants to help in this way anytime the dishwasher is open. I have not yet made her understand that we take out utensils only after they’re clean.

6. After living in Germany for four years, I’ve gotten used to many little cultural differences. But I still cannot get used to random (to me) people knocking on my door and coming in to check stuff. Today, a guy in a car with a chimney sweep logo on his car showed up at the door to check the flue from the wood fireplace. I questioned him a bit, because we had had no fireplace at our old house. The gas people show up out of the blue once or twice a year (the meters are inside the house), but this was the first chimney sweep I’d seen. I wasn’t sure if he was official or just trying to drum up business. But he explained that it was a state law that the flue had to be checked each year. Alrighty then.

It sounds like the beginning of a MacGruff the Crime Dog PSA. But the guy came in, went up to the third floor, checked what he needed to check, and left. There you go.

7. “Glee” has finally started here. I saw the pilot on Hulu over the summer (Hulu does not work outside of the States, by the way. Curses!) and have been eagerly awaiting it’s arrival here. Love it…or at least the pilot and the first episode. After all, I was in show choir for four years in high school. The surprise is that my mostly nonmusical husband likes it, too. Although? Singing a song perfectly, the first time you see the sheet music? I don’t think so.

And I’m waiting for the all-day choreography session. Jazz hands!

For more Quick Takes, see Conversion Diary.

Snow and Sand and Sun and Snow

2010-01-10T20:38:00.001+01:00

Our Christmas vacation was nothing if not exciting. We arrived the night before the Big Snow started on the East Coast…perfect timing, since most flights were cancelled the next day, and the one we would have taken was diverted to Chicago. In a parallel world where we were responsible parents and didn’t pull our kid out of school a day early, we would have spent who-knows-how-long at O’Hare trying to get to DC. So yay us for being irresponsible!

A few days later, we drove out of snow-packed Northern Virginia four hours southeast to Virginia Beach to spend a week with my side of the family in a gorgeous beach house. It was fun to see all of the cousins together, especially since we hadn’t seen my brother’s family since before Annika was born. It was noisy chaos much of the time, what with six children and eight adults, plus various folks popping in and out to see us.

The beach was absolutely beautiful and freezing cold most of the week.

View from the front porch, about 7 am. What, you thought vacation was for sleeping in? You must not have little kids.

Notice my mom and the baby and I, all bundled up. It was about 30 degrees F and windy.

And then there is Katrina. “No, Mom, I am NOT cold. I don’t WANT my jacket zipped.”

Christmas was, as one might expect, joyful and loud, but not as chaotic as one would think. The cousins took turns pretty amiably, considering their ages. Guess who’s kids were awake first?

No, wait, girls, the grown-ups need to get their coffee/tea first…

Yes, we’re SO excited to pose for another photo while the PRESENTS are RIGHT THERE! Come ON!

Joy. Very LOUD joy. I suspect my brother’s video of the kiddos opening presents is full of Katrina’s LOUD rejoicing and my voice telling her to keep it down. Hope he didn’t want to hear his OWN kids. Ah, well.

The most notable event of the week for us, though, was Annika deciding it was time to walk. Maybe the peer pressure from her nearly two-year-old cousin finally gave her the confidence she needed.

I cannot get over those wee ponytails. Cutest. Ever.

And she’s off!

The cousins had a blast together, with a minimum of fighting.

The oldest and the youngest, early Christmas morning. Annika did not want any adult but me to pick her up, but 14-year-old C. was an instant hit. We tried to bring her home with us, but she has this irrational desire to stay with her own family. My sister and I will be lobbying her to come to the DC area for college. And take care of our kids. :)

The California girls’ first walk on the beach in 30 degrees and VERY windy. Even Katrina zipped up her coat that day.

Sisters. Aw.

Oh, and yes, all the cousins are girls. Wheeee!

The day after Christmas, we headed back to Northern Virginia for a week with hubby’s parents. A bit more low-key, but packed full of activity just the same.

Visiting college friends…the kids bonded over their brand new gaming system. And ice cream cones.

Playing piano and singing with Grandma

Look over there, Mama, while I climb the stairs! NO, wait, want to CLIMB! Dagnabbit, foiled again!

Then it was time to come back home, where we collapsed in a screaming puddle of jet lag for a few days. We got back last Sunday, and Katrina’s first day of school was Wednesday. Yeah, those mornings got a bit ugly. But snow started falling Friday night, so good fun was had by all yesterday.

And so the old year ended and another year begins.

Come Let Us Adore Him

2009-12-25T04:31:00.001+01:00

Thanksgiving

2009-11-28T15:40:00.002+01:00

Thanksgiving morning, Katrina went to school as usual. Although the Brits don't celebrate Thanksgiving, the school does a lot of cross-cultural activities. Katrina's teacher has family in the States, so her class puts on a Thanksgiving play every year. The kids chose whether they wished to be a Pilgrim or a Native American. Our girl was but one of the blonde-haired Indians.

Two kids read the Thanksgiving story, with long pauses for the rest of the class to pantomime the Native Americans teaching the Pilgrims to plant crops, for example.

The blonde braids totally make the costume.

We went to a friend's house for Thanksgiving dinner that evening. The food and company were great, but all Annika wanted to do was stalk their cat. Which would streak through the living room and then up the stairs. So we spent quality time going up and down and up and down and up and down the first five stairs.

OMG Stairs! Must go up stairs! CAT on stairs! EE-YOW! EE-Yow!

The gunk around her eye is the remains of mashed yams with marshmallows on top, which was quite a hit with her. But not as exciting as the cat.
EE-YOW!

Fun With Cooking

2009-11-24T13:53:00.003+01:00

Every few years, someone gets you a Christmas present that is...inspired. My mother-in-law really wowed my husband last year with an original 1961 Betty Crocker cookbook. She found it on eBay, as I recall. She has had the same cookbook since hubby was a child, and it's still sitting on her shelf. You can tell which recipes are family favorites by which pages are stained and warped.

Now we have the same cookbook, but with the unknown history of another family in its pages. Judging by the big red star by "spaghetti, how to cook" in the index, I'm guessing that it was originally a wedding present to a novice cook.

Today I opened it to find the stuffing recipe that hubby can't live without on Thanksgiving. While I was paging through, I came across this:

How cool! I thought. I wonder what recipes the mysterious former owner deemed important enough to tape in the cookbook. The top one is cooking instructions for...spaghetti, clipped from a Skinner's brand spaghetti box. The one under that is for "Baked Chicken Salad". But the one on the bottom, taped carefully to the page itself, is the best of all.

And what is that note on the tissue paper?

Well! I take back my original assessment. This lady knew how to cook.

You Know You’re the Parent of a Toddler When…

2009-11-21T13:00:00.001+01:00

you enter a beautifully decorated house and wince at the swathe of destruction that is surely imminent.
you breathe a sigh of relief when your host whisks the lovely runner and basket of flowers off the coffee table.
Saturdays are the highlight of your week because you get to go to the bathroom alone, with the door shut.
a ten-minute shower in the morning seems absolutely luxurious.
the bottom two shelves of your bookcase are empty.
the toilet paper is on the window sill instead of on the holder.
you have to wrestle with child locks to get a dish out of the cupboard.
you have to wrestle with a baby gate to go up the stairs.
no trip out of the house is complete without a diaper bag.
the diapers are the least important things in the diaper bag…heaven forbid you are caught without snacks or small toys in a public place.
you can accurately interpret various grunts, screeches, and gestures—but only for your own child, as every toddler invents their own “language.”
you compose long mental lists of everything you will do during The Nap, but when the time actually comes, you’re too worn out to do any of it.
it’s been so long since you had an uninterrupted conversation that you wonder if you’ve forgotten how.
you can’t believe how sweet her smile is, and you’re convinced you’ve never heard a more infectious giggle.

Have I missed anything? Add your own!

We call her Destructo-Baby.

Watching the Show

2009-11-14T12:43:00.003+01:00

Just Dancing in my Underwear

2009-11-10T13:41:00.003+01:00

In the car yesterday afternoon, I asked Katrina what she did in school that day. “I…POOPED on the CARPET!” she crowed, and then started laughing hysterically. She cracked herself up so much she had to repeat it about five times, whooping each time.

I thought only boys found scatological remarks hilarious, but apparently I was mistaken.

The audience of Herself, and Annika, who was laughing because big sis was laughing, wanted more. “And then I WEE-ED on the floor! Ahahahaha!”

“Ha, ha, well, um, interesting, so what did you do for real?”

“I, I, I, ran around in my PANTIES!” [ed. note: HI, Wendy!]

By this time, I thought I might as well join in the hilarity. “What a COINCIDENCE! That’s what I did today, too! Danced around with my underwear on my head!”

That set off fresh gales of laughter, and increasingly ridiculous scenarios from Katrina.

I am a comic genius.

That is, if you’re 7 and in a silly mood because it’s been raining for a week.

We used to have sun, and then it went away. Forecast for the rest of this week: rain, clouds, rain, rain.

Morning Rounds

2009-11-07T08:55:00.003+01:00

She wants so badly to walk. And Katrina wants to help her.

How to Cook With One Hand

2009-11-04T14:40:00.002+01:00

I don’t read many food blogs (though I do think Gluten-Free Girl is about the best writing you’re going to see, whether you’re a foodie or not), but every so often a few of the blogs I read post favorite recipes. Often they include lovely photos of each step of the process.

For me, reading these kinds of posts are like reading a fantasy novel. One reason is the rather unique demands of my family: my gluten-free diet; my husband’s and daughter’s pickiness (and are they picky about the same things? of course not!); and now, Katrina’s recent diagnosis of fructose malabsorption.

The other reason is my darling baby. Annika is 16 months now. I love this stage. Until I try to actually DO anything—like cook dinner. Without further ado, here is my step-by-step version of Burgundy Chicken…a dish the whole family enjoys, which is a rarity.

Set baby down and attempt to distract her with toys so you can sneak into the kitchen.
Get out 2 onions, 3 carrots, some celery if you think you can sneak it in without someone complaining, the olive oil, and the garlic.
Pick up baby and haul her out of the pantry, into which she crawled while you were getting the onions. Close the door to the pantry and step over her while she throws herself to the floor and wails at the closed door.
Get out the cutting board—quickly, before baby notices and comes to rummage in the cabinet.
Chop the onions, carrots, and celery while baby worms her way between your legs and the cabinet, pulls herself up by grabbing around your knees, looks up at you, and screams to be picked up.
Croon, “It’s okay, baby,” while bending at an odd angle to keep from knocking her against the cabinet and continuing to chop carrots.
Curse self for not doing chopping during naptime.
Finish chopping, rinse off hands, and pick up baby.
Set her down on the kitchen floor with a big bowl of wrapped Halloween candy and a paper bag. Hope that putting candy into and out of bag and bowl will keep her occupied for a few minutes, like it did yesterday.
Yeah, right. Wailing again.
Get out big frying pan—quick, before baby gets to the cabinet door.
Pour in some olive oil, then add carrots, onions, celery, and some garlic. While that is sautéing, open the freezer and get out the chicken.
Move baby’s hands out of the freezer.
Pick up baby and move across the floor (as she wails) so you can close the freezer door without knocking her over.
Try to give baby a snack and/or a sippy cup of milk. Anything to stop the wailing.
Baby takes two sips of milk and then flings sippy cup across the floor and starts wailing again.
Put the tea kettle on to boil, because you need to make some chicken bouillon broth.
Pick up wailing baby and settle her on your right hip. Grab a spatula with your left hand and stir the carrot mix. Angle body so that baby cannot touch hot pan, no matter how far she bends forward, going “eh! eh! eh!”
When the carrots et al., are softened, open the little bag of diced ham (hold baby on hip with right arm, grasp bag with right hand, and pull out the ham with left hand.) Add ham to frying pan with left hand while keeping it out of reach of baby’s hands.
Set baby down on kitchen floor (WAH!) to reach up to spice cabinet over the fridge. Grab chicken bouillon and bay leaf. Oh, wait, can’t find the bouillon. Need stepstool in pantry. Open door to pantry, pull stepstool out, and close door before baby gets there. Climb up one step, and find what you need.
Baby is still crying on kitchen floor. Pick her up again.
Carrot/ham mix is done. Debate relative merits of putting baby down to pick up hot pan versus spooning the food into the bowl with the spatula. Stand for several minutes with baby on right hip while spooning sautéed carrots into dish with left hand. Give up and put baby down (WAH!) so you can pick up hot pan and scrape out the rest.
Put more olive oil in pan, and then add four skinless, boneless chicken thighs. Brown on both sides.
Baby has opened cabinet with plastic storage containers and is pulling them out onto the floor. Let her do it because at least she has stopped wailing.
Tea kettle is whistling. Add one cup water to the chicken bouillion and let it dissolve.
Baby has lost interest in Tupperware cupboard and is wailing again. Pick her up and wonder why the hell hubby is not home yet. Then realize it’s only 5:01 pm.
Once chicken is browned, add half the chicken broth, half a bay leaf, and round about half a cup of red cooking wine. Add a few extra glugs…it takes two hands to measure and only one hand to pour straight from the bottle.
Turn down heat and cover. Let chicken simmer. Carry baby to family room and put her down (WAH!). Sit on floor with her and play with her sorter (giggle! smiles! cuteness!). Ask older daughter to TURN DOWN the TV!
Remember that you need to cook the noodles.
Get up and go back into the kitchen. Ignore crawling, wailing baby as she follows you (WAH!slap, WAH!slap, WAH!slap).
Get out two saucepans and fill with water. Put on stove to bring to a boil.
Wrestle baby to close the cabinet door before she gets to the glass lids.
Decide you have a beef with Gluten-Free Girl, who has a toddler just a few months younger than yours and yet makes cooking sound relaxing. Take picture of kitchen while holding baby on hip.

Carry baby on hip into pantry to get two kinds of noodles—regular and gluten-free.
Hubby is home! Everyone says “hi,” and baby waves charmingly from her perch on your right hip.
Start ordering hubby around, as it is easier on everybody’s ears than putting baby down and doing it yourself.
Hubby checks chicken and deems it sufficiently cooked. He adds the noodles to the boiling water and adds the carrot/ham mix back into chicken pan.
Ask older child to set table. Ask again. Go over and turn off TV yourself and then TELL her to set table.
Put baby in high chair (WAH!) and scoop some carrot mixture onto her tray. (The wailing stops!) Go in search of milk cup that baby threw earlier. Rinse off and give back to baby.
Finish setting table and serving food with hubby’s help.
Decide that you would really, REALLY like a glass of wine with dinner.

I don't know WHAT Mama is complaining about. Does this face look difficult to you?

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T21:57:00.002+01:00

How We Spent Our Summer Vacation

2009-09-12T10:08:00.007+02:00

Visiting with family

Swimming

Renewing friendships

Learning new skills

Taking a trip to Venice

Eating lots of pizza

And gelato

Mugging for the camera

Buying stuff

Exploring our new neighborhood

Getting very dirty

Breakthrough

2009-08-03T04:39:00.004+02:00

Limited posting because I'm on vacation in the States, but I had to post this:

Annika pulled herself up for the first time yesterday, on the first step of my parents' staircase. Today, she commenced practicing and perfecting her new skill. And then falling on her butt and crying. And then trying again. The tenacity of babies (and toddlers *sob*) is amazing to watch.

Paying Attention

2009-07-13T09:37:00.006+02:00

Sometimes in the crush of the everyday, I forget to appreciate my children. Katrina, especially, because weekdays begin with get up, get dressed, did you remember to go to the bathroom? are you dressed yet?, just a minute let me get the baby, hold on, packing your lunch, aren't you dressed YET? come on, it's been twenty minutes, here, choose your cereal, you don't want cereal, you want toaster waffles. whatever, just eat, hurry up we have to leave in thirty minutes, come on, no, you can't play your DS, you have to get ready for school, come on, brush your teeth, let's get your hair done, will you HURRY already we must leave in ten minutes, SHOES! where are your SHOES! No, you don't have time to go through every stuffed animal you have to find the one you want to take on the bus, get in the car Get In the Car, GET IN THE CAR!

And then we get to the bus stop and I give her a hug and kiss and she gets on the bus and I collapse in relief at having pulled it off again.

After school is a bit better, sometimes. Often, though, she's in tears before she hits the house because we don't have the right kind of snack or the neighbor girl's not home, or any one of a million "reasons" to have a meltdown. Transitions are hard for her, and weekdays are nothing but transitions. And late afternoon is still a fussy time for the baby, who can play pretty independently at most times of the day, but needs mom's complete attention at the exact same time dinner preparations are underway. And I have the schedule tick, tick, ticking in the back of my head all day...almost time to start dinner, so we can get baths on time, so we can get to bed on time...along with all the other and sundry details that make up a family's life, including our move starting this Wednesday when the packers come and "ending" in our new house on Friday.

So, I fall into the trap of not really looking at her, not really paying attention to the moment, because the next thing is pressing in so urgently. I'm thinking about her a lot, in that thrumming, mom-anxiety way: she's been watching too much TV, time to get her outside, what do I have for a healthy snack? does she have homework? how can I help her with homework with the baby crying and dinner cooking, and hubby has a conference call at 6 so we need to hurry things along...

On Thursday, the school had a musical production. The whole school participated. A Victorian Music Hall. And in a way, it had become just one more thing on my list for these frantic few weeks of the end of school, moving, and then traveling to the States for a long visit. Find Katrina a costume that looks vaguely Victorian--check. Get her fed early so she could get to the school by 5:15 pm--check. Pack snacks and quiet toys for the baby and hope that we could keep her quiet for the two-hour spectacular. Camera! Don't forget the camera! Good heavens, I must change out of jeans and a milk-stained T-shirt--check.

The baby behaved beautifully for the whole two hours. It helped that we stuck snacks in her mouth every time she opened it. And that the floor was carpeted so she could sit on it and look at/chew on a board book.

When Katrina's class went on stage to do their thing, I looked at her probably for the first time that day without that little agenda ticking through my head. And remembered how beautiful she is. And that I need to step back a bit more and just appreciate. There was a time when I thought I would never have children. And now look.

Just look.

I need to pay better attention to how blessed I am. How blessed this whole family is. How fast my "big girl" is growing. I was teasing her in the car the other day...that she was not allowed to get any older or grow any taller. And she said, "But then I won't be able to grow up and have babies!" My girl has problems with transitions, and the transition from only child to big sister was incredibly hard for her, I think. Now, though, a year on, and she is planning to have her own babies. "I wish Annika were my baby," she has said.

But that day in the car, she sounded so adult. "You want to grow up and have a baby? Would you want a girl baby or a boy baby?" "Oh, it doesn't matter. Either one is fine," she said. And I wanted to say again, Don't grow up so fast. But I didn't. Instead, I resolved to pay better attention.

Things I Have Pulled Out of Annika's Mouth While She Screams Like a Starving Child Chewing on Her Last Bread Crust

2009-06-26T13:46:00.008+02:00

1. Small pebble
2. Piece of bark (at the playground)
3. Piece of blue yarn (from the debris of one of Katrina's many art projects)
4. Small square of Scotch tape (ditto)
5. Desiccated cherry pit with stem still attached (cherry tree + brick patio = cherries tracked in on bottoms of shoes)
6. Little tangle of hair
7. Dirt
8. Dried-up scrap of green bean that she evidently scraped from the tile floor with her fingernails
9. Scrap of paper napkin from under kitchen table
10. Pieces of board book that she chewed on until wet and then apparently peeled off and put in mouth (I thought board books were meant to be relatively immune to chewing? Isn't that the point?)
11. Lint and fuzz of every description
12. Paper of every description
13. A pink fabric star with white bead in the middle that fell off one of Katrina's hair thingies
14. Fake plastic coin from Katrina's play cash register (I'm sensing a theme here. Soon they will be banning older siblings as choking hazards.)
15. An inch-long broken-off stick of some sort. I still don't know what it was from or how it came to be on my kitchen floor.
16. Her glasses

Things I Have Given Up On

1. Food that she threw or dropped from her high chair in a fit of disdain--whyever would you think I wanted more of this, this, SLOP?--looks pretty tasty lying there on the floor under the table. Eh, at least it's food. I'm thinking of putting a bowl on the floor for her when she gets fussy sitting at the table.

Thing That I DIDN'T Pull Out of Her Mouth in Time--I Know, Because I Saw It, er, LATER

1. Purple sequin (from aforementioned art projects). Still glittering amidst the, well, you get the picture.

Random Cuteness to Get Your Mind Off the Sequin

Who needs TV when you have a frontloading washing machine with see-through door?

The real question is, Mama, can I eat that?

How about that?

Yay keys! I wonder what THEY taste like?

7 Quick Takes

2009-06-19T09:35:00.005+02:00

--1--
We're moving in...oh, about two or three weeks. Yikes! We found a house closer to Katrina's school and to the base. It's a duplex with four bedrooms on the same floor; a smallish kitchen (true of nearly all German houses, though); a nice-sized family/dining room area; big windows that look out onto a grassy backyard with climb-able trees and some woods beyond; and a finished loft-like attic. We're looking forward to living in a place with a more reasonable layout than the one we've got. I will be sad to leave the little town we're in now, which has a playground around the corner and a wonderful woodsy park with a lake just up the hill. We're only 10 minutes away, though, so we can always drive to Baerenloch.

--2--
Annika finally started crawling a few days ago. It's been a very frustrating month or so for her. She could get up on her hands and knees and rock, but she couldn't figure out how to go anywhere. Or she would push herself backward with her hands while trying to go forward. Much frustrated screaming ensued. She's still tentative and slow, dragging her knees slightly, but she can go forward, as well as go from sitting position to crawling position and back again. About four hours after she crawled for the first time, she tried to pull herself up on the coffee table.

--3--
I was so proud of Katrina on Annika's birthday. Katrina was VERY excited (to the point of us telling her to CALM DOWN, for the love of Pete) for her sister. There was no evidence of jealousy, only being happy for her. Of course, Katrina DID get to open all of Annika's presents for her, so that might have helped.

Also, Katrina had it in her head that Annika would magically be able to say "mama" and "papa" when she turned one. So her greeting to Annika Wednesday morning was "Annika! It's your first birthday today! You can say Mama and Papa now! Can you say Mama? Mama?" And Annika obediently said, "mama," and Katrina applauded.

Of course, Annika's been saying "mama" for weeks. She doesn't appear to attach any particular meaning to it, though. But hey, she's not saying "papa" yet. Katrina said "papa" first, so I guess it's my turn in the sun.

--4--
When you have a sensitive, intense child, it is hard to know if the other kids are truly picking on her, or if it is just her interpretation of events. The other day, Katrina complained that another girl called her a "crybaby." Why did she call you that? we asked. "Because I was crying," she said in an injured tone. Why were you crying? "Because [two of the boys] were singing really LOUD and it hurt my ears so I was crying a little bit and then she called me a crybaby."

And then we tried to figure out how to put it to her gently that, maybe she should have walked away from the loudness and NOT cried.

I'm a little worried about her little heart being regularly broken because she has no "armor". No concept of self-defense socially. I don't know how to teach her that, though.

--5--
I'm a bit addicted to Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. I figured out why...it's fast-moving, and totally absorbing. An ideal way to forget about the laundry that needs folded, the stack of I-don't-know-what on the coffee table, the insanity that is moving, the planning of Katrina's birthday party, the insanity that is traveling with a 7-yr-old and a 1-yr-old on a transatlantic flight in a month...

--6--
I put it off as long as I could.

We picked them up yesterday. She's smiling here, but she is not pleased with the glasses. If I can get them on her and then distract her right away, she'll keep them on for a while. Until she tries to rub her eyes. Then she starts crying and pulling them off. They hit the kitchen floor this morning while she was eating breakfast. Good thing they're plastic.

--7--
Time to go wake the bespectacled one and take her for her well-baby check-up. Let's see...cake on Wednesday, glasses on Thursday, shots on Friday. Turning 1 is so fun! I wouldn't blame her if she were mighty suspicious the next time we give her cake.

Cake? What diabolical plan are you hatching NOW, mother?

For more quick takes, go to Conversion Diary.

First Birthday

2009-06-17T21:28:00.005+02:00

I've been writing two posts...in my head. So, looking back at the past year will have to wait. But here's what happened today!

This is at 6:50 am. Annika woke up at 5:30, Katrina at 6:15. Katrina has been looking at Annika's birthday packages for a week. She begged to open "just one" this morning, so I let her.

After dinner, we opened the others. Or, rather, Katrina did.

Yummy!

She wasn't too sure about the squishy icing at first. But all it took was one taste.

Oops. Dropped some. Must squish it in my lap.

Yay, cake!!

Ew! She's all messy!

Wait a minute! Where'd the cake go? I want more cake!

WANT MORE CAKE!!

Growing Girl

2009-06-13T14:44:00.004+02:00

This is how Gerber packages its food for toddlers. One jar = one serving.

Annika's dinner the other night consisted of about a half-cup of peas and this:

Yes, the entire can (sans syrup). Just for comparison:

Plus random bits off of my plate when the rest of us ate dinner. Maybe she's hitting a growth spurt. And I'm sure that that many peaches must put hair on your...

Uh, never mind.

Don't you make fun of my hair!

And don't mess with my peaches. I mean it.

7 Quick Takes

2009-06-05T09:58:00.005+02:00

--1--
Today is "Funky Hair Day" at Katrina's school. I am SO not good with hair, but I gave it my best shot and Katrina was happy, which is all that matters. It helps that we ran out to the 1 Euro store yesterday afternoon and found spray-on temporary hair color and hair glitter. There was a note on the hair color that it could stain blonde and fine hair. We did a test last night and it washed out, but I'll be crossing my fingers that she won't have red streaks for months to come.

--2--
I've finally instituted a regular afternoon nap for Annika. She had been napping at about 10 am and then not tired again until abut 2:30 or 3...which is when we have to go pick up Katrina from school. So the poor baby was cat-napping in the car or not napping at all in the afternoons. I picked up Weissbluth again and realized the problem was that the morning nap was too late. So, moved it back to between 9 and 9:30, and putting her back down at 2. I probably should try to move that back to 1:30 or so, but haven't gotten there yet.

She has stopped falling asleep on me, though, so it is books, bottle and singing, and then crib, with screaming. Unlike Katrina, Annika generally cries for about 5 minutes and then is OUT. Katrina had the capacity to cry for 30-45 minutes. It was awful, but we were out of options by the time we did it. (Around 12 months, as a matter of fact.)

Except for yesterday afternoon, when Annika cried for about 20 minutes before snoozing. Then I had to wake her to pick up Katrina and found Annika had pooped before falling asleep. Mean mommy.

--3--
Annika is also eating mostly table food now. I'm trying to keep her gluten free for a few more months yet (did the same with Katrina), which is actually difficult. Typical toddler food is bread and crackers and pasta. GF bread is really too dense for a baby. But GF spaghetti is downright yummy...and just as messy as regular spaghetti.

--4--
I'm recommitting to writing every day. Not necessarily here, although I do want to start posting more frequently. Since Annika's naps are more predictable now, and (ssshh! do not want to jinx it) she seems to be sleeping through the night with some regularity, I am less brain-fogged, as well. I do have a piece of fiction that I've been tinkering at on and off for a number of years, and I just want to see if there's anything there. Even if it's bad, I want to COMPLETE it. Completing things is a big deal, because I am a great idea person, and a great starter, but not so great with the follow through. 15 minutes a day writing, every weekday, during the morning nap. You heard it here. I managed three days this week. Ahem. But three is better than none!

--5--
We're looking for a bigger house to rent. Baby has moved from tucked into a corner of our room to tucked into a corner of hubby's office. Along with the guest bed. But we are particular as to where we want to move, either staying in the same town or moving into the same town as Katrina's school (where rentals go like hotcakes). It's a risk, as hubby's contract is kind of up in the air. But we've finally learned that hubby's contract is ALWAYS up in the air. We regret not moving when we had the chance last spring. But it seemed overwhelming at the time, to pregnant, anxiety-ridden me. So we're trying again. My wants are simple...for all the bedrooms to be on the same floor so I don't have to run down the steps in the middle of the night, and enough rooms so that baby doesn't have to bunk in with the computers.

--6--
Thanks to an AFN radio spot, I learned that the German Spargel is exactly the same plant as the American green asparagus. It is white because the Germans bury it to keep it from making chlorophyll. Supposedly it has a sweeter, lighter taste that way.

Still am not eating ghostly fingers. I don't care how sweet it is.

--7--
Oh, yes, forgot the funniest story of the week. After several weeks of taking showers, Katrina decided one evening to take a bath along with Annika. Things were going swimmingly, according to hubby, who is Appointed Baby Bath Master. Until (for the first time in her short life) Annika pooped in the bathtub. Katrina never moved so fast in her life. OUT of the bath and into the shower, along with a solemn vow, "I am NEVER taking a bath again!"

So far, she hasn't.

For more quick takes (probably with fewer poop-related stories), check out Conversion Diary.

Growing Up Is Hard To Do

2009-06-01T09:46:00.009+02:00

Today is Katrina's first day back at school after her week-and-a-half term break. She has about 6 more weeks of school. Now is when we pay the price for the three-term system. More vacation during the year, which I think helps with the spring school-fatigue factor. But less summer vacation, as school runs until July 21 and starts up again the first week of September.

For me, the passing of time becomes more evident in the spring. The end of the school year, the girls' birthdays drawing near, my birthday in the not-too-distant past. Last year at this time, I was still pregnant, and expecting at least a few weeks alone at home with Katrina before the baby came. I never got those weeks, as Annika decided that the first day of summer vacation was a good time to make her move.

It's been a tough year for Katrina. She does not do change well, a characteristic she probably got from me. She is most happy when everything goes exactly as she expects...which, of course, almost never happens. A baby sister was not expected nor wanted, but now that she's here, Katrina loves her and worries over her and makes her giggle like no other person can.

Oh, but the anger is right there, too. And the anxiety. Our oldest girl feels so deeply...both the highs and the lows. And she speaks about it so rarely, whether because she doesn't have the words yet, or she doesn't want to, I'm not sure. Her swim teacher (who also majored in child psychology) said last fall that Katrina takes everything on her own shoulders. My girl needs to (?) or can't help but notice everything and everyone around her. It is a burden to her, at times, I think. She worries too much. Everything should be just right...even herself. When it is not, frustration ensues. She does not want to make mistakes.

I wish I could say I can't imagine how that feels, but I do. I recognize the frustration, the perfectionism. It makes me sad to realize that that internal pressure that I've struggled with for so many years (and have only partially overcome, in no small part due to becoming a mother) is also manifesting in my daughter. I wonder whether it is a genetic predisposition, or caused by mothering missteps or 6 years spent as an only child, or, or, or...

I worry. Some days I think we're too hard on her. Other days I'm sure we don't demand enough. Some days she has a perpetual scowl on her face. Other days, she is excited and expansive. Until she asks what's for dinner and I give the "wrong" answer. "Oh, WHY don't we ever have pizza?" she wails. Even if we just had it less than a week ago. And I wonder just how my happy little 6-year-old can turn into a sulky teenager in under a minute.

But then there are the days when I fall in love with her all over again. When I make her turn off the TV and computer and tell her to find something to do that doesn't involve a screen. And I come back from putting the baby down for a nap and find this:

That is her list of things to do. 1. Book, 2. Play with stuffed animals, 3. Art. She has already read a book, she said, and was playing with her WebKinz. Pretty soon she hauled out some art supplies and found directions for 3-D pictures.

Of course, I had to talk her down after the glue didn't stick as quickly and easily as she thought it should. But I was proud of her for being so self-directed.

Another day, she knocked on the neighbor's door and asked if the kids could take a walk with us. And as she and her little friends hurtled down the path in front of me, I could almost see the tension slipping away from her. And I remember last week, when she hunted tadpoles in the lake. And last year, when we tramped through the woods. And I remind myself that my little girl needs to be outside, even if she herself would rather watch TV. Even if *I* would rather read while she watched TV. And I vow to get over my tiredness and my comfort and my agenda and put her need to absorb the sunshine and get wet and dirty and breathe the spring air above my own wishes to get work done in the house or just to relax for a few minutes I've been going all day for Pete's sake!

And I wonder which one of us is growing up the most.

Honesty Is for Suckers

2009-05-25T10:15:00.002+02:00

Thursday was the first day of Katrina's half-term break, and we were to meet some schoolfriends at the pool. This was the first time I've been in a swimsuit since before I got pregnant with Annika.

"Ugh. This swimsuit fits a bit too tight since..." I muttered, about to finish the sentence with "since the baby."

But Katrina was too fast for me. "Since you got fat?" she said sympathetically.

well, uh, YES, actually. Thanks for noticing.

Now It Gets Really Messy

2009-05-19T11:48:00.005+02:00

Spiritual Growth

2009-05-12T11:00:00.004+02:00

Dear Zondervan Publishing,

I recently bought my daughter your Kid's Quest Study Bible, which has, you say "Real Questions, Real Answers." True, there are quite a few (500, it says) of those little boxes with interesting questions and answers. The little cartoons that go with them are cute, too.

But I think you missed a few questions. Since I started reading Genesis to my daughter (who refused to start in the Gospels, but wished to begin on the very first page of the book), she has asked some questions that I think you should include in your next edition. You wish to include real answers to the questions real kids ask, right?

Let's start off with Creation. My daughter would like to know why God used Adam's rib to make Eve, instead of dust. She would also like to know if it hurt Adam and if he then was missing a rib the rest of his life. In addition, a map showing the current whereabouts of the Garden of Eden would be helpful. Oh, and an explanation of why God made mosquitos would also be a good idea. Bugs are always good for some cartoon magic.

Another question my daughter asked was why people in Bible times lived so long...Noah lived over 900 years! Can you add that Q&A to the list?

In Genesis 17, God tells Abram to circumcise all the males in his family as a sign of the covenant. I think you missed an opportunity to address an obvious question that kids would ask, and that my daughter did ask: "What is circumcision?" With that Q&A missing, I had to offer my own explanation. I'm surprised you overlooked that question. The closest section offering a Q&A was about whether angels could look human, which, really, Zondervan? Was answered pretty well in the text itself.

Also, if you are going to use the words "made love" instead of the rather more oblique "knew" or "laid with" about the prerequisite for making babies, perhaps a little Q&A box would help curious readers. My daughter has not asked what this means yet, but we're only at Genesis 21 and I'm sure there are many more references to come.

Finally, my daughter would really like to know why God asked Abraham to kill his son. As a matter of fact, I'd like an answer to that one myself. Maybe your editors could get on that.

Thanks again for your kid-friendly Bible. I'm sure I'll be writing again with more suggestions as we progress.

Sincerely,

Katrina's mom

7 Quick Takes--Typisch Deutsch Edition

2009-05-08T10:59:00.005+02:00

I realized the other day that there are a number of little things about German culture and lifestyle that I have come to take for granted. After 4 years of living here, I find when I return to the States on vacation that the American way of doing things now seems foreign. So, seven quick takes on some everyday German idiosyncracies.

--1--
Two-toned hair. The genesis for this post was my cashier at the German grocery store last week. She was in her maybe her late forties and had short, tousled dark hair. Well, dark except for the wide streak of purple in front. Now, I've seen plenty of wild colors in hair in the States. Never on anyone over, say, 30, though. But two-toned hair is no respector of age in Germany. Purple is unusual, but I regularly see well-coiffed middle-aged and older women with blond hair on top and dark hair on the bottom. Or magenta. Or orangey. Yes, the bright red-orange colors are neck in neck with the blonde. When your mother has two-toned magenta/black hair, what's a young teen girl to do? Oh, yeah...bright blue or pink.

--2--
Driving. Germany is famous for its no-speed-limit autobahns (and for its legendary traffic jams on said autobahns). But it's the little roads through towns and residential areas that you really need the driving skills for. Whether because the roads were built before the age of autos, or just to make sure cars don't whip through residential areas, the roads are narrow. But that doesn't mean you can't park on them! So, narrow roads with parked cars on one or both sides of the street equals one-lane roads. When driving along this type of road, keep your eyes peeled for 1) cars bearing down from the opposite direction and 2) breaks in the parked cars so you can pull over and let opposing cars pass you. At any moment you may have to wheel into a gap and stop. Then manuever back out into the road and go on your way. This does not seem to be much of an irritant to Germans, who generally are happy to yield right-of-way and just seem more patient and cooperative while driving.

Until you're on the autobahn of course. Now you see why, once Germans get onto the autobahns, there's no stopping them.

--3--
Speaking of which, the main rule on the autobahn is: watch your rear. If you're in the left lane, you better be passing someone on the right. And if a car is, ahem, RAPIDLY approaching you from behind, get the hell into the right lane because it is not stopping or slowing down. This key traffic law differs dramatically from the States. There are very few cars puttering along in the left lane here. It's a matter of survival as well as law.

--4--
Fresh air. Many Germans despise air conditioning. They think it unhealthy and unnatural. Few public spaces have AC, not even malls or museums. Fresh air is the cure for all that ails you...and the key to preventing mold in your house. German houses are built with concrete blocks, so moisture does not escape easily. If you don't at least crack your windows frequently (preferably every day, no matter how cold it is), you invite mold and lots of it. The tenant's responsibility to open the windows daily is written into every apartment lease.

Also, the way to air out your bedding (Germans use duvets but no top sheets) is to open your window and fold the duvet over the windowsill, so that part of it hangs outside. And dryers are expensive and unnecessary when you can hang clothes outside. German washers have a very high velocity spin cycle, so clothes come out just damp and ready to be hung outside (when weather's good) or inside on a clothes rack. Many Germans do not own a dryer.

--5--
Restaurant service. It takes some getting used to, eating in restaurants in Europe. In the States, your perky server checks in with you at least once a meal, more likely two times or more. "Everything okay? Can I get you anything else?" In Europe (not just Germany), this is seen as intrusive. The server takes your drink order, brings your drinks, takes your food order, brings your food, and then goes away, never to return unless you flag her/him down. Eating out is a luxury and a leisurely activity. There is no concept of "turning tables" at any sit-down restaurant. If you reserve a table, it is reserved for the whole night.

Also, in Germany, the food comes out whenever it is ready...no hot lamps in the kitchen or perceived necessity to bring out all the food for a table at once. If you wait to eat until everyone is served, you will have cold food. If you order pizza and your companion orders steak, you could be finished with your pizza before the steak arrives. Believe me, I know.

--6--
Sundays. Everything is closed on Sundays. Yes, that includes grocery stores. Some bakeries are open on Sunday mornings. Restaurants are open, movie theaters are open, gas stations are open. Stores are closed. Car dealers are closed.

And, from what I have seen, a common Sunday outing is to take a walk and stop and look at the cars at the closed car dealership. I don't know why...no sales pressure? But whenever we're out and about on a Sunday, we see people peering into car windows and otherwise inspecting the cars on the outside lots of a darkened dealership.

Unless, of course, the stores are open. "Verkaufsoeffener Sonntags"--open Sundays--are very popular. A particular town will announce the date of their open Sunday a month ahead of time. And the town will be flooded with eager shoppers with nowhere else to go. Often, the open Sundays coincide with some special event, like a carnival (Kerwe) or market day (we went to the Landstuhl Mai Markt last week).

--7--
Spargel! "Spargel" is German for asparagus, and Germans seem to love it. In the spring, every restaurant has a "Spargel Menu," usually including spargel soup, spargel with hollandaise sauce, and at least a few other dishes. But this isn't your petite green American asparagus spears. German spargel is white and kind of looks like giant fingers. I'm not a fan of spargel (can't get past the "giant fingers covered in sauce" thing), but when the spargel signs start going up, you know it is spring.

It's Spargel! Who needs other vegetables?

See Conversion Diary for other quick takes.

Sometimes I Envy Her the Stroller

2009-04-30T22:39:00.002+02:00

In Cologne...

7 Quick Takes...Catch-Up Picture Edition

2009-04-24T10:05:00.009+02:00

It's been a busy few weeks, what with Katrina having her 2-week term break, a trip to Cologne, and the subsequent total breakdown of Annika's sleep patterns. But last night the baby slept nearly 12 hours, so my brain fog is somewhat thinner today.

-1-
We've had extraordinarily good spring weather, with a long stretch of sunny, warm days. Easter was a lovely day, and we got a few pictures of the girls in their pretty dresses. Unfortunately, we took them in the late-ish afternoon, and Annika was just DONE with being at all charming.

-2-
Being two months premature, Annika is a bit behind on her motor skills, so her doctor recommended some physical therapy sessions. (Dubbed "baby gymnastik" in German, which sounds more fun and less medical.) It has become clear that my mellow little baby is just as strong-willed as her big sister. Annika likes sitting up. Annika LOVES sitting up. Annika will cry if you lay her down on her back to play (she is tolerating it a little better now, though). So we had been letting her sit up to the exclusion of any other position, which is not so good for learning those little skills like rolling over and crawling. Just making her lay down and putting a few toys just out of reach has made her much more mobile.

Annika previously HATED to be on her tummy. She is now tolerating it a little better, for longer periods of time. But the therapist has been having a bit of trouble with our little cutie. See, the therapist tries to demonstrate "exercises" that we can do at home, at the moment consisting of ways to roll Annika from her back to her tummy so that she can get the technique for doing it herself. Little problem: Annika resists being rolled over with all of her might. First exercise: grasp the baby's upper thigh and take one leg over the other, thus turning the whole body over. Not so fast--Annika digs the other leg into the ground, effectively turning the move into a breakdance circle (turning around on one side). Second exercise: pull one arm over the other and roll the whole body from back to front. Not so fast--now both legs and the unheld arm dig into the floor, again negating the effect. She gets to her side but no further. Now, if the therapist makes any move toward Annika, the sweetheart flings both arms out straight. Eventually, the therapist figured out that you have to hold one leg straight while grasping the other thigh to roll her...preferably while Annika holds a toy in her hand so she can't use her arms to stop the motion.

The therapist says she has never seen a baby this age who is so strong and determined. That's my girl!

Ha, ha! Just try to get me on my tummy!

-3-
Annika's top two teeth are now coming in, but at different paces. At the moment, I'm tempted to call her Ol' Snaggletooth.

What did you just call me?!

-4-
We had lovely weather in Cologne and walked all over the city. Accompanied by the whining of our 6-yr-old. "I'm Tiiiired, I'm hot, my feet hurt, I'm HUNGRY!" Katrina did enjoy seeing the huge old cathedral (built in the middle ages and practically the only thing left standing after WWII), visiting the chocolate museum, and smelling every possible perfume in Cologne's famous 4711 cologne shop (where they've been selling "Koelnisch Wasser," Cologne's most famous...cologne, for hundreds of years). But when asked her favorite part of the trip, her answer was "Dunkin Donuts!" There were two Dunkin Donuts shops in the pedestrian zone, within walking distances of the hotel. So she and hubby walked there every morning while I fed the baby in our room and ate gluten-free muffins.

I can't blame her too much. I was inordinately excited to see a Starbucks and drank a mocha latte nearly every day.

Koeln Dom

--5--
Katrina actually likes to visit the old churches. She focuses on two things: finding all of the dead people and lighting a candle. Most old cathedrals in Europe have gravestones or entire stone sepulchres around the periphery of the sanctuary or in some sort of crypt underground. The Koeln Dom had both.

I prefer to focus on the loveliness of my daughter praying "for all the people who don't have enough food" than on her demanding I read each and every memorial gravestone and asking me if the body has turned to dirt yet.

-6-
I've been reading Anne of Green Gables to Katrina before bed. The language is a bit over her head, but she still wants me to read it. Probably because Anne Shirley is almost as dramatic as Katrina is. I forgot this about Anne. But if anyone knows about being so excited that nothing else seems important, or suddenly plunging into the "depths of despair" ["what's despair, Mama?"] it would be our Katrina. I, on the other hand, am identifying more with stern Marilla, which is kind of disconcerting. And I seem to be saying "well, now" a lot, which is how Matthew Cuthbert starts every sentence.

-7-
Well, now, the baby has awoken from the longest nap she's had all week. So I'll mention just one more thing: DVR is a dangerous thing. I set it to record "Jon and Kate plus 8," which I've seen only once before. It taped about 20 episodes before I got around to watching. In the past 5 days, I've winnowed that down to about 7. I am a reality television addict. And am REALLY glad I only have singletons. And think that Katrina and Mady are very much alike. In one episode, Mady stomped into the house after school [ON HER BIRTHDAY], kicked a balloon viciously, and went to her room..for no discernible reason. Ah, yes, the school-to-home transition. I know it well.

For more quick takes, check out Conversion Diary

Yes, My 39th Birthday Is Next Week. Why Do You Ask?

2009-04-01T10:52:00.003+02:00

I had an interview and I was running late. The dress I had planned on wearing did not fit right. Since I was at my mom and dad's house, my clothing options were limited. Mom tried to find me something appropriate to wear from her closet and from whatever clothing my sister had left behind. But no matter what I tried on--green satin party dress, sleeveless yellow dress, brown slacks of Wendy's with colorful stripes on them--nothing fit me.

I realized that I needed to call Christine W.--a client who had given me work in the past and who was now starting a new editing business--and tell her I would be late. I looked for her number but couldn't find it. I couldn't believe Mom had not written down Christine's number! Finally, I found a scrap of paper with some sort of musical notes on it. "Oh," Mom said, "that's her number. I wrote it down in code." What? I couldn't figure out why she'd do that, or what the code was. Mom finally decoded it for me, and I started to call the number.

It was a white phone with clear buttons, the kind you would have seen in the 70s sitting on a side table. I started punching in the numbers, but got one wrong. I tried again, and again, each time not quite able to get it right. Mom tried to help me, but I could not see the right numbers. Meanwhile, it was growing later and later, and in the pit of my stomach I knew there was no way I would make the interview.

Still, I kept punching at the numbers, getting them wrong each time. I looked down at the slip of paper and read the name of Christine's new editing business: Tempus Fugit Editing.

7 Quick Takes

2009-03-27T14:43:00.000+01:00

--1--
Annika needs glasses. She is significantly far-sighted. I have known this for a month and have put off actually going to buy the glasses. Mostly because, those eyes! I don't want to cover them. Yesterday in the commissary no fewer than three people stopped to coo over her. And every one of them said, "Look at those big eyes!"

But I need to get over it and help the child actually SEE with those baby blues.

Look, it's that blur who calls herself Mama!

--2--
It's not every day that your child gets off the school bus with blood stains on her shirt. And blood-sodden tissues clutched in her hand. "She's got a little bit of a wobbly tooth," said the bus monitor cheerfully, which right then confirmed for me the stereotype of the British understatement. "Look, Mama!" she said, and opened her mouth to show me the blood streaking from one of her front teeth and pooling in her mouth. "I heard a crack and then it started bleeding," she said. "I need another Kleenex." Yeah, I think so.

Well, obviously the bloody tooth needed to come out. So Katrina swished salt water around her mouth, I grabbed a paper towel. and we started a-pulling. It was the little tooth on the bottom to the right of the two middle teeth. It was small. It was slippery. It was NOT coming out. After a half-hour of swishing, spitting out blood, and trying to pull out the blasted thing, we gave up. It seemed to be anchored on one side, despite the fact that I could wiggle it almost sideways. A few more "swish and spits" and the bleeding stopped.

The next day, Katrina came off the bus with her tooth in her backpack. It had fallen out all by itself while she was on the playground.

But I'm sure our efforts loosened it up. Right? Right? (Ok, no picture for this one because the first teeth coming out are Epic Photo Ops. The fourth tooth, oh, drat, almost forgot the tooth fairy thing.)

--3--
We have done our part to help the economy...of Deruta, Italy. In November, we ordered a new set of dishes. Since shipping a set of hand-painted dishes from Italy to Germany was just as expensive as you might expect, we waited until the company came to the next bazaar in Germany...and then asked our friend who works in Stuttgart to haul them home for us. They were my Christmas gift and I think food looks so much better on them. Hubby likes them but also? thinks they are Just. Plates. Nuh-uh! Look!

We make even Jennifer's cooking look good.

--4--
On Sunday, I taught Children's Church, which sounds way more fancy than it is, since it was a last-minute thing. I read the story nearly word for word from the Sunday School curriculum, then had the kids do the enclosed pre-printed craft. But the lesson has been bugging me, because it misrepresented what the Bible actually said.

The story of the day was the widow's mite. Jesus was hanging out at the temple with his disciples, watching people put money in the offering jars. Rich people put in a lot. Then a poor widow approaches, and puts in two coins, worth less than a penny. Jesus said (ahem, paraphrasing) "Look! That widow put in more than all of the rich people, because she gave all she had." End of story, on to another one.

So, the curriculum asks, was Jesus happy that the widow gave all she had? (The kids chorus, YES!) NO, says the curriculum. Jesus wasn't happy that the widow gave all she had, but because she was *thankful* to God.

What up with that?! Are the writers of the Sunday School curriculum afraid the little kiddos might actually take Jesus seriously? Bring their whole piggy bank to church the next Sunday? Couldn't have a bunch of kids growing up thinking that they need to give everything they have to God...could we?

--5--
Hmm. I just now got the irony of juxtaposing buying new dishes with the widow's mite story. This Christianity thing is HARD.

--6--
I've read several good books lately that I keep meaning to mention. One is The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister. I got this one out of the library. The book is essentially a series of stories about students in a cooking class,what their lives are like, why they came to the class, and how they intersect with each other over the eight-week course. The characters are well-drawn and the stories are poignant, but the writing itself is gorgeous, in an unselfconscious way.

Also, The Seduction of Water by Carol Goodman. This one has many of the conventions of a Gothic mystery--an old historic hotel, a missing book manuscript, a daughter trying to uncover the truth about her mother's death 30 years ago---but takes place in present day. Of course I'd be drawn to a book about two writers: the daughter, teaching writing classes and trying to finish her English dissertation; and the dead mother, famous for writing only two fantasy novels of what was supposed to be a trilogy. Woven throughout is an Irish legend of The Selkie. Loved it.

--7--
Katrina is a strong-willed person. This is obvious to anyone who's spent more than, say 5 minutes with her. Plus she's easily distracted. So, mornings and evenings are often spent repeating the same phrases over and over, with increasing force. "Katrina, go upstairs and start your bath. Katrina! upstairs, please. Katrina, NOW." She resisted to the point of tears (hers) and yelling (ours) last night. When she (we) calmed down, I said, "Katrina, the rule is that you do what Mama and Papa say the FIRST time we ask. And when I ask you to do something, the correct answer is, 'OK, Mama.' And then you DO it. The FIRST time. Or you will get a time out. Do you understand?"

She nodded gravely and said, "Yes, Mama." She was silent for a moment, and then...

"That's a new rule, Mama. You never told me that before."

For more Quick Takes, go over to www.conversiondiary.com

The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same

2009-03-23T10:39:00.003+01:00

Baby Weight

2009-03-03T11:07:00.000+01:00

There is a sort of freedom in laying down a sleeping baby. The weight of responsibility, the constant pressure in your thoughts--what does baby need, why is she crying, what have I forgotten--eases for a time. For a time, she is self-sufficient, in her crib, dreaming whatever babies dream about.

A physical freedom, as well--you can move about freely, no baby to balance on hip or sit on lap, no hands reaching to grab whatever you pass or entwining themselves in your hair. The house is silent, peaceful, quiet enough to hear yourself breathing. To hear the baby breathing, even, if you stand still beside her crib and listen.

One can never move quickly enough to do everything you have postponed for the nap. While the baby is awake, playing and laughing and crying to be held and fed and played with, your mind tick, tick, ticks, in the background, running through the to-do list of Tasks That Are More Easily Performed During the Nap. Which, to be clear, is just about everything. Plans are made, long lists organized, all while spooning rice cereal into baby's mouth and saying "yum, yum!" and smiling back at her gummy grin. And when she starts rubbling her eyes, you get positively giddy with anticipation of Time Alone.

So you get out the bottle and cuddle up and listen to her sucking get slower and watch her long eyelashes flutter shut. Finally, you hear that last sigh of surrender, as her body relaxes and she burrows into her dreams.

Her weight in your arms, against your chest or over your shoulder, becomes just a tad heavier each day. And you remember just yesterday, when your older child squirmed out of your hug after just a moment. And you feel the absolute trust this little creature has, to fall asleep in your arms. And the List disintegrates, the tasks blowing away like autumn leaves. And you sit and listen to her breathe, feeling her weight, holding your baby just a few moments longer, slowing down the world.

Then There Was None

2009-02-09T11:10:00.004+01:00

7 Quick Takes

2009-02-06T10:23:00.004+01:00

--1--
I had a conversation with my cleaning lady the other day about sex/nudity in the media. She said that Americans are prudes, that we think it's okay to watch people shooting each other, violent stuff, but not nudity, "which is natural." I gave her the point about violence; I stopped watching 24 a few seasons ago because, seriously? Our Hero Jack Bauer was torturing someone in every episode. Of course now we've gone back to watching it with the new season...New, Improved! Less torture and more burying alive!

But also, the sex thing? I listen to top 40 music on the radio, and for the most part it seems to be the same as it has always been. But the videos I've seen in passing are getting more and more raunchy. I don't know if I'd be so sensitive to it if I didn't have daughters. I just know that I do not want Katrina or Annika to grow up thinking that womanhood should look like a Pussycat Dolls or Beyonce video.

--2--
I've been involved in a writers critique group for about a year. Someone e-mails their work to the group and we give them feedback and constructive criticism at the meeting. It's so interesting to see how different everyone is and how it's reflected in their writing. I absolutely love critiqueing others' work--trying to make it better. More than I love writing my own stuff. I think I miss my former life as a copyeditor.

--3--
I'm a pretty good public speaker, at least if whatever I'm saying is written out. So I read the Scripture at church every so often. Whenever I do, I get compliments, particularly from the pastor, who probably has heard his share of indifferent or stumbling readers. But the compliments make me uncomfortable. Because it's not hard for me--I'm a reader, I love to read, out loud or not. It has nothing to do with virtue or hard work. And it actually makes me feel like I need to perform, which is not the best attitude to have while reading Scripture for the glory of God. So despite the fact that I enjoy doing it and am good at it, I don't sign up to read except once every few months.

--4--
Annika has taken 2- to 3-hour morning naps the last two days. I'm hoping it's a pattern. She has also been a bit more restless at night. I'm hoping it's NOT a pattern.

--5--
Katrina started karate last week. This week, I watched on the closed-circuit TV as she sparred with a little boy. The instructors had them all decked out in padding from head to toe, but I was still sure it would end up in tears. It didn't, though. She was just annoyed that she didn't win and that the little boy was stronger than she was. (He was also more experienced--he had a yellow belt and it only her second session ever.)

--6--
I've kept up with praying the hours, at least during the week. It gives me a bit of structure to my day. And reminds me that I am not the one in control. I have a long prayer list, suddenly, it seems. People struggling with cancer, with their marriages, with being deployed and coping with their spouse being deployed. All people I actually know personally. It helps to be reminded a few times a day there is a higher perspective...a longer view than what I or anybody can see.

--7--
My husband's been working on our taxes the last few weekends. Meanwhile, we keep hearing on the news about these prominent people who somehow get away with NOT paying them. So, the Congress spends our taxes but can't be bothered with paying taxes themselves? Nice deal if you can get it.

First Bites

2009-02-03T11:40:00.002+01:00

Annika had her 6-7 month well-baby appointment last Friday. She is doing very well, except that she is still anemic. So back on the iron. But the doctor said, "She's big!" with raised eyebrows and a surprised look on his face. (I, on the other hand, am not too surprised. We grow 'em big in this family and it was only a matter of time.) She's also about where she should be developmentally; the doc had recommended "baby gymnastics" (physical therapy) at her last appointment, which we didn't follow through on because of her surgery in November and going to the States in December. Now he still recommends it, but only in an "all babies would benefit" way.

We do need to make an appointment to see a pediatric cardiologist for an ultrasound of her heart. When she was born, she had a very small hole in her heart, which the doctors said was nothing to worry about and would probably close up on its own. Now is the time to see if that has happened.

It was also interesting to see first hand the difference a few decades make in how a doctor approaches the same issue. Annika's doc (who I'll Dr. Smith) is new to the practice, probably in his thirties. Katrina's doc (Dr. Smythe) is near retirement age (hence the addition of the young guy to the practice). Katrina has had minor stomach ailments on and off, and nearly every time I mention that I have celiac disease, and maybe we should check Katrina for it? Since it's genetic and all? And Dr. Smythe brushes me off (with the exception of the last time, when it finally seemed to register, but we still decided to see if it Zantac would help before doing other tests).

I mentioned that I have celiac to Annika's doc, in the context of when/what to feed her solid foods. Dr. Smith says, "Oh, we can do a genetic test next time we need to draw blood, just so you know if she's at risk. And she doesn't even need to be eating gluten for a genetic test." Score!

Also this week, Annika started on solids. We started with rice cereal, and I added some mashed banana after a few days. I was startled to realize how much I've forgotten about this stage. I remember Katrina loving sweet potato, but when did I introduce it? With Katrina, I did what I always do when faced with a new situation: read a million books about what to do and then decide. With Annika, I keep thinking, "I've done this before," and then totally wing it because my memory is so faulty! So, on order is Child of Mine by Ellyn Satter, which I remember as a very good book on feeding.

And, now, pictures of Annika's first feeding!

25 Random Things About Me

2009-01-28T17:22:00.003+01:00

Here's an import from Facebook, which I'm fast becoming addicted to.

1. I've been thinking of stuff to write here all day. As soon as I sat down to write, my mind went blank.

2. Perhaps that explains my lack of regular writing output, despite the stellar ideas I get while driving the car.

3. I was a professional copyeditor and part-time writer for 10 years. Yes, I do notice your grammar mistakes and misspellings. I can't help it. But I won't tell you about it unless you ask me.

4. I think that a good writer can get away with a lot of BS. Remember that next time you read the newspaper--or the next James Frey book.

5. I've not used contraception since 1997.

6. I have two daughters, 6 years apart.

7. I've had three miscarriages.

8. I was strongly encouraged by the doctor who oversaw my younger daughter's birth not to get pregnant again.

9. Every medical condition I've ever been diagnosed with was preceded by a doctor telling me how rare it is.

10. I hate the word "rare."

11. I have celiac disease. I cannot eat wheat, rye, barley, and most types of oats. Yes, that means no (regular) bread. Yes, that means no pasta. No, I did not get this disease to annoy waiters in restaurants, though some have acted as though I did.

12. Parenting has taught me how very self-centered I am.

13. I am an INFP according to Myers-Briggs. My sister has the same personality type except she is an "E" (extrovert). My husband has the opposite personality type except that we're both "I's" (introverts).

14. I am a Christian and a member of the Lutheran denomination. I love the Lutheran liturgy and resonate with the core theology. But I am too conservative to feel at home in the liberal wing of American Lutheranism (ELCA) and too liberal to feel at home in the conservative wing (Missouri Synod). The church we currently attend is a hybrid of the two (because there are not enough English-speaking Lutherans to form separate churches). I feel at home there.

15. I vote Republican but do not agree with some of their positions.

16. I am pro-life. I believe abortion hurts women as well as their unborn children. But I think the law in the U.S. will never be changed. I think the pro-life movement should focus more on changing people's hearts and helping women in crisis and less on politics. Yet I cannot bring myself to vote for a pro-choice candidate.

17. I fail to understand the fuss on the Republican/Christian right about (not) legalizing gay marriage. Let gays marry if they want to. Aren't there way more important things to worry about? Like, I don't know, war, poverty, disease?

18. All through high school I thought I was fat. Now I would LOVE to weigh what I did in high school.

19. I am easily overwhelmed by clutter, a busy schedule, too many people in one place, or a mall. Parties are fun but exhausting. A busy mall at Christmas when I have 62 people to buy for is a recipe for a very bad day.

20. I hate to make phone calls. I will IM you before I call you. I will e-mail you before I IM you. I will update my status on Facebook and assume you saw it before I e-mail you. If you call me, I will enjoy our conversation. And kick myself for not calling you sooner. And you'll probably still have to make the next phone call.

21. I wonder why I have trouble making friends?

22. Living in Germany would be perfect if only I could transplant my family and friends here.

23. I think Battlestar Galactica is the best thing on television.

24. When I am in a public place, I eavesdrop on strangers and speculate on what their lives are like. Living in a foreign country has kind of limited that habit, because people insist on speaking their native language(s).

25. Perhaps from that same impulse, I read way too many blogs. And start way too many sentences with, "This blog I read? Well, this person said..." This has prompted my sister to make fun of my imaginary Internet friends. But hey, you guys aren't imaginary, right? Right? Call me!

Just to Amuse My Siblings

2009-01-25T17:13:00.002+01:00

This will probably be funny only if you were a church kid/singer in the 80s-early 90s.

Random Cuteness

2009-01-22T20:40:00.004+01:00

Baby is still up twice a night, every night. Wake-up for me is 6:30 am to get Katrina on the bus by 8:30. Have plenty of profound thoughts, fleeting, I bet that would have been a good blog postZZZZZZZZ.

Hey, pictures!

The girls entertaining each other.

Seven degrees.

Favorite toy.

Cutest of all.

7 Quick Takes

2009-01-16T22:21:00.000+01:00

I know, the blogging has been sparse. But, I'm back to try again 7 Quick Takes from Jen at Conversion Diary. Because Annika's naps are reeeeeeally short.

--1--
In an update to my previous post, after feeling bad all day that I had no decent warm clothes for Katrina in single-digit temperatures, I asked her that night if she was cold during recess. (What? Keep kids inside on a sunny, but freezing cold day? Only an American school would do that. The Brits and the Germans? "Fresh air is good for you!")

"Were you warm enough when you went outside at lunchtime?"

"Mama," in an injured tone, "I was soooo hot and they wouldn't let me take off my coat!"

"Honey, it was very cold today--only about 15 degrees at lunchtime. Of course they didn't let you take your coat off."

"But, MAma, the sun was out!"

--2--
Toys are taking over our house. I've been packing up some of Katrina's toys that she no longer uses or which are too young for her. I have to do this without her, because she will insist that she wants to keep toys that she has not touched in a year.

Perhaps it was not the right time to read her Racketty-Packetty House--about an old, neglected dollhouse and dolls supplanted by the brand-new but soulless Tidy Castle. But it was a fun book for both of us.

--3--
I recently read Robert Benson's In Constant Prayer and it convinced me to once again try to pray the daily offices. I met Robert Benson at a writer's conference many years ago, and he impressed me with his kindness and his ability to be straight-forward, humble, and poetic all at the same time. If you are at all interested in spiritual memoir, go hunt down his first book, Between the Dreaming and the Coming True, about his struggle with depression. All of his books are beautifully written, but that one is my favorite.

Oh, and as always, something about Benson's writerly voice and dry humor reminds me of my cousin Dave. Which amuses me because their worldviews couldn't be more different. But I bet they would appreciate each other's work (and humor).

--4--
In addition to praying the daily offices (I'm using Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours), my other New Year's resolutions are to get back to exercising regularly and to write regularly. Today is the second day I exercised, and I'm feeling it.

--5--
Annika is teething, we think. She is not happy. She is especially not happy if I put her down. At all. From about noon on. So, I did push-ups and chest presses and what-not this morning during her nap (using an exercise DVD), and I spent the rest of the day carrying the baby around. Oh, and her crying has turned to screeching. Actually, most of her vocalizations get up into screeching range. She squeals for joy and she squeals in frustration and she squeals when she's hungry and...what's that? oh, just my eardrums vibrating.

--6--
Katrina is in football (soccer) club at school. Last week, I arrived just in time to see her beaned on the side of the face by the ball. She cried, of course, and sat on the bench and held her cold water bottle against her face. I was so proud when she decided to get back in the game after about 10 minutes. Within two minutes, she got hit in the head again.

And yet she went back to football club today. Good for her! And no injuries today, thank goodness.

--7--
Did I mention that Annika is teething? She did not go to sleep easily tonight, but worked herself up to crying/screaming pretty hard. I calmed her down, finally, and she started to relax in my arms and suck on the bottle. I sang a bit to get her to sleep. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and I started to relax for the first time in hours. And it appeared in my mind, a song I haven't thought of for years, "Sweet Little Jesus Boy." I couldn't remember all the words, so I hummed it to a just-barely-sleeping Annika. In my mind's eye I could see Joe Graves singing it in the church of my childhood, his gravelly voice catching on the minor notes. I searched through YouTube trying to find a similar version. The closest to the arrangement that Joe sang is the version below, sung by Andy Williams, of all people. Joe is long gone, but to me, the song will always be his, sung in a hushed, darkened church, with a spare piano accompaniment, his voice needing only a few running notes before it soared away.

They Used to Call Me Gifted

2009-01-07T11:17:00.002+01:00

Happy New Year! We are slowly getting over jet lag from our two-week trip to the States. All but the baby slept through last night, as opposed to the previous night, when Katrina (and, thus, me) was awake from about 11 pm to 2 am. Oh, and the baby woke at 1 am and 4 am. Then up to get ready for school at 7 am. Good times.

I keep seeing other blogs doing various types of "year in review" posts to start the new year. But since I skip those posts, I won't bore you with one of them here. Instead, I'll entertain you with a brand-new tale of my own stupidity. (OK, "entertain" and "tale" might be strong words to use. "Stupidity"...uh, yeah, exactly right.)

OK, so we bought Katrina a brand-new winter coat at Target while we were in the States. It came equipped with a zip-out lining (that could also be worn as a separate jacket) and a removable hood. Within a few days after we bought it, temperatures were near 60 in northern Virginia. We took out the lining and took off the hood. Stuck them in our suitcases.

A week later, in Pennsylvania, packing Christmas presents in boxes to send back to Germany. I remembered last winter in Germany, when the temperatures got below freezing maybe a few times the whole season. And when Katrina wore only the shell from her (old) Target winter jacket the whole season. The lining turned into a spring jacket. The only time I tried to have her wear them together, she complained that it was too bulky and hot. So. Lets just put the lining and the hood in the box. Less weight in our luggage, and she probably won't need it until spring, anyway. We'll get it in a week or two, anyway.

This morning, it was 7 degrees. Seven. I had to check the thermometer...surely it had been mistakenly set to Celsius. No. The high today is expected to be 15 degrees F.

So Katrina went to school in the lining from her old jacket paired with the outer shell of her new jacket. And one of those headband thingies to keep her ears warm, because...no hood, and no hat that I could find at 6:30 this morning. She DID have gloves...of course, they had holes in them from last time she used them and I haven't had a chance to go get new ones, and, hey, she didn't even use her gloves last year but once, and...

Any day now, the school will take up a collection for poor kids who have no winter coats, and Katrina will come home with an envelope full of loose change and a note: PLEASE buy this child some warm clothes!

Who would like to bet on the temperature going back up just in time for the box that contains the rest of the coat to arrive?

Annika, Child of God

2008-12-15T11:18:00.003+01:00

Annika was baptized on Sunday. We had a friend take pictures, and the light was not very good, so slightly blurry. Katrina behaved very well and seemed engaged in the whole proceeding. Annika looked around with wide eyes the whole time...even when the water was poured on her head. No crying, just looking about as if to say, "what's going on here?"

This morning, Katrina said, "Annika is part of God's family now." Yes she is, baby. And so are you. Thanks be to God for the miracle of you both.

7 Quick Takes Friday

2008-12-12T11:40:00.003+01:00

Jennifer at her excellent blog Conversion Diary has begun a meme that suits my random, sleep-deprived brain. So here are my 7 quick takes for this week.

--1--
I have not succeeded in getting Annika to nap for any significant amount of time in her crib or bouncy seat. Which is why I'm typing this with one hand. She does sleep well in her crib at night, up one or two times per night but usually quickly back to sleep after a bottle.

She slept from 9 pm to 7 am the night before last. Hopes were raised.

She was up at 2:30 and 4:30 am last night. Oh, the desolation (mine, not hers).

--2--
My computer keyboard is broken. The numbers five and six, the hyphen, and the page up key do not work. I've been using the "on-screen keyboard" for those keys. I use the hyphen/dash a LOT. For the second time, now, I get to go computer-free soon so HP can fix it. I think we bought a lemon laptop.

--3--
A friend brought us dinner a few days after Annika's surgery. Until yesterday, I had been holding her dishes hostage because I kept forgetting to either call her to drop them off, or in one case, actually take them with me when I was going to see her at a meeting. And yet I can recite the jingle for a local shoe store from my childhood (Super Shoes, for those playing along). Maybe I need to write my to-do list in rhyme.

--4--
Katrina played a cloud in "Scarecrow's Christmas" at the school. She had one line and delivered it admirably. The cast included the preschool, kindergarten, and first grade ages. They were all adorable. I was relieved that Annika, though awake through the performance, did not make a peep.

--5--
We traded in our Volkswagen Passat for a Mazda 5, mostly so we could fit more people than just the four of us. The Mazda was the smallest vehicle we could get that seated six. I like it so far. Katrina was very sad that we got rid of the Passat and had to go through some time of mourning. You know, until she discovered that she could open and close the Mazda's cool sliding doors herself.

--6--
I'm reading a book called Making Work Work for the Highly Sensitive Person. My mother-in-law gave it to me mainly because of its interesting concept of work being either Drudgery, Craft, or Calling. But as I'm reading it I realize that I fit into way more personality traits of highly sensitive people than I thought. I thought I was just pretty introverted, itself in the minority in American culture. Now I'm highly sensitive too, which the book says is only 20% of people? I really am a bit out of step.

And did everyone else already know this about me (being highly sensitive, not out of step :) ), because now I'm thinking, well, duh, of course?

--7--
I think everyone should go watch my cousin Dave's porcupine videos. Katrina was fascinated and now wants to "see a REAL porcupine, not just on the computer."

Advent

2008-12-11T09:06:00.002+01:00

Advent is a time of preparation, church folks hear nowadays. Not the preparation of buying and wrapping gifts, but preparation for the coming of Jesus. Not too long ago, my pastor noted last week, it was a time of repentence, like Lent. The two aren't too far apart. In Scripture and in other spiritual writings, the holy Presence always shows us that we are not holy. The same robes of righteousness that look white in the grey of early dawn turn out to be dirty rags when the sun breaks through.

Perhaps that's why Advent speaks to me more than Christmas. The longing, the waiting, the awareness that what we see is not quite right. Perhaps because the world seems oh, so dark right now.

But "those who have lived in darkness have seen a great light." We know that there is something wrong in the world. Those of us who are Christian as well as those who believe in something else, or nothing else. We know it, bone-deep. Something is not right.

Christians believe that once upon a time, God came to earth to heal it. And that he will come again. And we wait...for the child, for the Christ, for the healing.

"Tears are falling, hearts are breaking
How we need to hear from God.
You've been promised, we've been waiting..."

Me, Too

2008-12-10T11:13:00.002+01:00

Ode to Obnoxious Christmas Letters.
Send me your Christmas letters! I read and enjoy every word. I'm working on mine right now...you just may get it in time for New Year's.

In Which I Channel My Dad

2008-12-06T15:58:00.004+01:00

So the stereotype is that women worry about turning into their mothers as they get older. I, apparently, should worry about turning into my father.

I was getting dressed the other day and rummaged through my sock drawer. And then I thought, "You know what I really need for Christmas? Some new socks."

Thankful

2008-11-28T21:29:00.003+01:00

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

2008-11-26T20:57:00.004+01:00

These are the three books Katrina chose at bedtime.

Together, they just about sum up her personality.

In other news, Annika and hubby went up to Mainz today to get Annika's stitches out. Because of her prematurity, the anethesiologist is being extra careful and keeping Annika overnight in the hospital just to make sure she has no adverse reactions. So it's awful quiet this evening. I have one picture of the "new, improved" baby, taken with hubby's phone, so not my usual stellar photo quality (it's hard to write that with a straight face). So, here is the preliminary "reveal" of Extreme Makeover: Baby Edition.

More pictures to come, of course.

But for tonight, a good night's sleep. A luxury...if I could just stop feeling like there's something (someone) missing.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

2008-11-21T14:12:00.002+01:00

Annika and I are home from the hospital! The surgeon said the surgery went perfectly. Her nose is already looking much more symmetrical. Her incision is covered with thin strips if medical tape, making her look like she has whiskers. But her upper lip looks nearly normal to me, except for the vertical line of black stitches slightly left of center.

She doesn't seem to be in much pain, and is smiling off and on. Eating is a bit of a challenge. She seems to be trying not to engage her upper lip too much, which makes for somewhat messy feedings. On the other hand, when she does use her upper lip, the milk comes a bit too fast for her and she chokes a bit. We may experiment with slower-flow nipples as she heals a bit more.

My husband will take her back up to the hospital next Wednesday to get stitches out; she will need general anaesthesia for that, so they may stay the night just for observation afterwards.

Annika's face will continue to change over the next year. It should be interesting to watch. Right now, we're relieved it all went well.

Before

2008-11-17T22:11:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow Annika checks into the hospital, with me rooming in. Wednesday morning, she will have surgery to correct her lip. Germans like their patients to stay in the hospital a bit longer than in the States. Doc said she'd be an inpatient for 5 days. Stay tuned for "after" pictures once she's healed a bit.

If everything goes as planned, we should both be back home by Sunday night. Keep us in your thoughts and prayers, please. "See" you next week.

Everything's Gonna Be Alright

2008-11-07T14:48:00.004+01:00

Katrina's had a tough few months, what with the addition of a brand-new baby and starting at a brand-new school. And being the little extrovert that she is, all of her feelings are expressed...loudly. Trust me, unless you have been here to witness it (hi, grandparents!), you have NO IDEA how loudly.

But things seem to be calming down a bit. And Katrina's fallen in love with the baby, bit by bit. And Annika's first real laugh, just a week ago, came when Katrina leaned into her line of sight and smiled.

The other morning, I mentioned the upcoming surgery to mend Annika's cleft lip (November 19).

"Oh, poor Annika!" said Katrina.

"I know, but she needs it to fix her lip," I said.

"No she doesn't! She's cute the way she is!"

And, that, folks, is when I fell in love all over again with my amazing older daughter.

Typisch Deutsch

2008-10-20T11:24:00.006+02:00

One Friday evening in late August, we returned home from a dinner out. As we got out of the car, we heard music from across the way and walked over to investigate. It was the Kindsbach Kerwe. I took the opportunity to take pictures of a typical German event. Now, I believe Kerwe is dialect for the anniversary of the founding of a church, which is also considered the founding of the town itself. In real terms, a Kerwe usually is a festival of some sort...the Kaiserslautern Kerwe is a week-long carnival. Here in the small town, the Kerwe includes a small carnival and some evening events.

And what does one do to celebrate the founding of the church? Well, pull the beer truck up to the church grounds, of course!

Don't get me wrong, though, bratwurst and beer equals socializing and celebration, not (necessarily) drunkenness, here. It's just a bit unusual to raised-a-Methodist (founded during the Temperence Movement) me.

Anyway, it's also not a German celebration without long tables under a tent, conducive to communal talking, eating, and drinking. Very few individual tables.

Music, too, is essential. We hear live music pretty regularly coming from the church grounds. I don't know if community bands, orchestras, and singing groups are more common in Germany than in the States, or if they are just easy to overlook in the DC suburbs as opposed to a small town.

And really, what's music without dancing?

OK, OK, so my kid was the only one dancing. And I was the only one taking pictures. Yeah, we blended well. But I wanted to record this typically German celebration. Wherever you go around here, you can find these elements...beer, brats, music, long tables, white tents, community.

I Want...Compare and Contrast

2008-10-16T08:53:00.004+02:00

I listen to both Christian contemporary music and whatever is on the radio. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between the two. And sometimes the differences are striking. Case in point...

The Pussycat Dolls "When I Grow Up" is about doing what it takes to become famous. Being "nameless" is seen as bad...the goal is for people to know your name. This YouTube version has the lyrics written out so you can see what I mean.

Are these the values that American pop culture is pushing now? Being famous as the highest goal? I know that some people look up to celebrities, and, sure, having that much money might be fun, but, really? I can't believe that being famous or rich gives your life much meaning.

Contrast with Sara Groves "When the Saints." (Unfortunately I couldn't find a video with lyrics attached.) Where the highest goal is to be part of the company of people who live what they believe. Whether you're famous or not.

I think these two songs point up a key difference between (one type of) a so-called secular worldview and a Christian worldview. Which seems more attractive? More meaningful? More realistic? Do you think the Pussycat Dolls song is typical of the values of our current pop culture?

Becoming Solid

2008-10-13T11:45:00.000+02:00

After Katrina was born, I did not call her by name for months. "Baby Girl," I would say, with all of the love and wonder and paranoia in me. At first, it seemed bad luck to call this little stranger by name quite yet. She was small and fragile and I was drained of blood and of sleep and of my old solitary self. She was always there, all the time, unlike anyone else I could remember. I had been freelancing for five years by that time, used to long stretches of time alone in the house. I was never alone now.

Baby Katrina

My first came into the world with a vengeance, with a loud voice and seemingly constant need. She took over, as first babies are wont to do. She was fire and passion and noise. She made me a mother, which for me--and I suspect, for most women--was a profound shift in my heart, my soul, my thinking. Everything was different. And despite my initial anxiety, Katrina made her impact within weeks. I was taken up with her, and everything else fell away. I could not imagine anything other than mothering her.

Annika was Annika from the beginning. The name sounded strange in my mouth, but I said it often, to make her real for Katrina. But she was even more fragile, delicate, translucent skin stretched over bony limbs. I looked at her through clear plastic, judged her health by the sounds of the beeps. Went home and put on a good face for Katrina. Others would say, "oh, it must be so hard not to have her home." And it was, but not as much as they thought. Subconsciously, I kept some distance, I think, just to survive. When I was home, Annika was like a dream. I tried not to think about her (often unsuccessfully), lest fear overtake me. When I visited her, she was real, but not quite solid. She was light in my arms, always pale, usually quiet. Ethereal. And after almost losing her, I found it even harder to trust that she would come home.

So when she finally did come home, it all still seemed quite unreal. Newness usually does, to me. Some quirk of mine. I was juggling baby care with older sister care. Katrina remained fiery and loud, a giant next to her baby sister. She took up so much space.

Annika still seemed ethereal, waking only to be fed, making her thoughts known fiercely, but briefly. I held her close, or others did, trying to make up for those weeks in the warm, hard incubator. But the distance remained. In the back of my mind, I worried. Despite her hard entry into the world, she did not make the splash in my heart that Katrina had. Perhaps because I was already a mother. That shift had already occurred. Perhaps the weeks of suppressing worry, fear, and maybe? love as we drove back and forth to the hospital had taken their toll. I loved her, of course I did. But the all-encompassing surge I remembered with my first baby, well, that did not happen. A futile attempt at self-protection.

Slowly, though, Annika grew and changed. She gained weight. She now has chubby cheeks and fat legs and little creases around her wrists. Her weight in my arms, or lying on my chest, is noticeable. And one evening, last week, I held her to me, the unmistakable weight of warm baby on my chest, and everything changed. She no longer seems breakable, a translucent fairy child in a world of giants. Finally becoming solid, deepening her imprint on my heart.

Self-protection and motherhood just don't mix.

Baby Talk

2008-09-24T11:00:00.002+02:00

Eh, eh, eh, eh (accompanied by head moving back and forth) = "Mother, I'm feeling a bit peckish."

Eh, eh, eh, ehEHeh, EHHHHHH! = "I'm starving! Gimme food NOW!"

WAH! (accompanied by arching of back or drawing up of legs) = "Oh! The agony of gas pains! OWIEEEEEE!"

AhAHah, ahAHah, AhAHah = "You're not moving fast enough! Pick me up/give me bottle/get me out of this car seat NOW!"

(grunting, with face going red) = "Oh! The agony of pooping! Better gear up to change diaper!"

And finally...

"I can hold the baby if you need help." = "Give me my grandbaby. Now."

Double Digits

2008-09-17T13:38:00.003+02:00

Annika is now 10 pounds! We had a follow-up appointment at the preemie clinic, and the doctor deemed her normal and doing well. She is still slightly anemic, but we were able to cut her iron dosage in half. Someday I'll have enough brain cells and quiet time to write an actual...post whatchmacallit...that makes--whatdoyacallit?--sense...and lasts longer than, well, this.

Aw, no one cares about the words. Bring on the baby pictures! Well, only one today. What a blog slacker.

Snoozin' on Grammy...don't you dare put me down! I will scream the scream of the the lonely and unloved! I don't care if you're hungry, thirsty, or unclean...as soon as I touch the crib/bassinet/bouncy seat I will wake up, and you. will. be. sorry.

First Day of School

2008-09-02T17:04:00.002+02:00

Bleary and Disjointed

2008-08-28T09:39:00.008+02:00

The house is in chaos, of course; it's iffy in the best of times, but the advent of a newborn with her attendant stuff, added to the getting-to-be-severe sleep deprivation of mom and dad, leads to piles of laundry--clean and dirty--lying everywhere, to books and toys and papers and dishes and cardboard boxes (that used to hold the stuff) scattered over every horizontal surface. And, apparently, to run-on sentences.

Annika is doing well, and Katrina also. Katrina has had way too much TV and computer time, in between running and fetching for a mama with hands full of baby. She starts school on Tuesday and will ride the bus for the first time. Rather, the mini-bus--according to the transport person, there are only 4 children on the bus. Advantages of a small school.

I backed into a parked car last week. I blame the sleep deprivation. It was a beat-up old van in need of a paint job, thank goodness, so the owners were not terribly upset. A few hundred euros and they were satisfied. Good thing, too, since they live right around the corner from us. I was upset with myself. My husband was very tolerant, however. "I'm not mad," he said. "These things happen..."--he smiled just a little--"to you." I had to laugh, because he was right. My spatial perception is just not all that good--particularly when backing up the car. No wonder we've been looking for the smallest car we can get away with that would still have space for two car seats and an additional passenger or two.

So Annika sleeps peacefully...during the day. Her longest and most peaceful stretches of sleep are during the afternoon and then again between about 8 or 9 and midnight. By peaceful, I mean quiet sleep, without grunting and arching her back and struggling to get gas out. Her cleft lip prevents her from making a tight seal on the bottle nipple, so she gets a lot of air in her little tummy while feeding. We started giving her Mylicon drops, but haven't seen much of a difference. She is over seven pounds now, and her cheeks are getting chubby. She looks like a baby now, instead of an old man. When we take her out, people comment on how tiny she is. But to us, she looks ever larger and more solid.

She studies the world around her with dark-blue eyes. She sucks on the bottle and stares up into my face, sometimes with furrowed brow, as if wondering who this person is that holds her. She smiles sometimes, to herself, just a flicker across the mouth and then gone. I think of her as a plugger, hanging in there, trying her best...to suck with a bum lip, to sleep even through tummy discomfort, to live despite a too-early arrival, to figure out this strange and wondrous world, so different from her little incubator.

We saw the lip surgeon two weeks ago. He was personable and confident. He said that he'd like to wait until at least November to perform the surgery on her lip, until she was stronger and bigger. We go back in late October for another check and to decide for sure on the surgery. The biggest issue in deciding is not the procedure itself, which by his description is relatively simple, but in her tolerance for the anesthesia. He will do the least that can be done--sew the muscle around her lip together. No extensive work. Once the muscle is where it should be, he says, we wait and watch. Often the growth of the face with the restored muscle re-shapes the (now-flat) nose. Further surguries may or may not be needed. Orthodontic work may or may not be needed later. She will be in the hospital for a week. I can stay with her.

The surgeon put a dental mirror in her mouth to examine her lip and palate. He pushed gently down, testing her muscle tension. "She has good muscle tension," he said. "Some babies have very little muscle tension--a bit floppy. She's a fighter!"

She sure is.

Home

2008-08-08T21:51:00.003+02:00

Annika came home Monday late afternoon. We're all doing well, though sleep-deprived.

Almost But Not Yet

2008-08-02T20:42:00.005+02:00

Friday, the doctor said Wednesday night. If she continued to do well, we could take her home on Friday.

Thursday was hot. Very hot. No air conditioning in the hospital. Annika was dressed in a onesie, a long-sleeved shirt, and fuzzy velour-like pants. And socks. And two blankets on top. She had multiple instances of shallow breathing, leading to drops in heartrate (bradycardia).

We're not happy about the shallow breathing, the doctor said Friday morning. We'd like to keep her until Monday, and then re-evaluate.

No bradycardias today or yesterday, only Thursday. So, maybe Monday.

In the meantime, pictures!

Mean Girls

2008-07-23T22:30:00.003+02:00

Katrina (in aggrieved tone): K. was mean to me today.

Me: Oh, yeah? How was she mean to you?

K: Well, I stuck out my tongue at her...

Me: That wasn't very--wait. YOU stuck your tongue out at HER?

K: Yes, and I said I was sorry, but she made me feel SO BAD.

Me: ...

Vigil

2008-07-17T22:30:00.001+02:00

"She looks sick," said the doctor, turning her back and forth after examining her. The words echoed in my head, and my mind leapt to that old sleepover game, when all the girls put two fingers under a girl lying down in the middle, and each repeats "She looks sick" and then...

No! Don't think about that!

So she went back up to intensive care, after three days on the regular sick-baby ward. The IV went back in, the feeding tube went back in, antibiotics and infusions were started. And Saturday night, the nurse assured us that she looked okay. Her heart rate and blood oxygenation levels were very good. We should go home and get some sleep.

The phone rang at 9:15 am Sunday morning. We needed to get to the hospital immediately. There was something wrong with her abdomen. She needed to be transferred to another hospital, one with pediatric surgeons. When we arrived, our baby was naked in the isolette because, the nurse said, just the touch of the diaper around her tummy pained her too much. She laid on her right side, her legs drawn up. Her stomach was hard. She whimpered and sometimes cried in her sleep. She was too pale.

Within minutes of our arrival, her isolette was surrounded by doctors. It was clear they had no idea what the problem was. Infection, they said, but from an unknown source. Or a twist in the bowel. Or meningitis. Or, or, or. Her vitals remained steady, which each doctor reminded us of just after he or she mentioned one more horrifying possibility. And the monitors did chug steadily on, the only reassurance.

An enema seemed to relieve some of the pressure. Her tummy became soft again. But she was still in pain, still clenched in a ball, her little legs drawing up as far as they could go. The doctor decided to wait two hours and then re-evaluate. She remained stable. They took blood again. Her white blood cells were down, her hemoglobin declining. Both indicators of infection...somewhere.

They made us leave the room for the lumbar puncture. When they let us back in, she was lying so still, with a sheen of perspiration on her face. The sedative, they said. It would take several hours to wear off. At least she wasn't in any pain.

By this time, it was 2:30 pm. Time for the nurses' shift change. The kind nurse who had cared for Annika since the early morning hours peered into the isolette one more time before she went home. "Her color looks a little better," she said. "This morning, she looked gray. It's hard to describe, but her skin looked...yes, gray. Bad. Her color looks better now," she repeated. We took some comfort from this. Nurses can tell, right? They have seen many sick babies.

Through the long afternoon and evening, we waited and watched and reached our disinfected hands into the isolette to cup her head or hold her hand. Each time the doctor came back, we asked more questions. He admitted that he just didn't know. She didn't have enough of the right symptoms to add up to any one diagnosis. She got an X-ray and an ultrasound. We saw her intestines, liver, gall bladder, kidneys, brain. All clear. They would wait another few hours (again) and then re-evaluate (again).

Sitting there, watching her, I was seized by the urge to go home. To go home to my healthy, robust 6-year-old, where I could do something. Hug her, talk with her, put her to bed. Contribute to her well-being. Anything but watch and wait and cry and pray and think entirely too much.

Finally it seemed that she was going to remain stable, that perhaps the worst had been in the morning, that maybe, maybe, she was holding her own. We left the hospital at about dinnertime. We'd had only a snack or two all day. Grandma, who has been taking care of Katrina, made dinner. We ate together, trying to be cheerful for Katrina's sake. My husband went back to the hospital immediately. I stayed behind to read stories, sing songs, provide a bit of normalcy to Katrina before bed. When she was asleep, I went back, as well.

Annika was the same. Holding her own, vitals stable, but still very sick. Her anemia (low hemoglobin) had nearly reached the point where a blood transfusion would be needed. Last blood draw had showed hemoglobin of 8.3. If she went below 8, she would need a transfusion. One more blood draw, at about 9:30 pm. Results would be back in a few hours. I decided to stay for the results. My husband went home to get some sleep.

I sat in the darkened NICU beside the isolette, the only adult in a room with five sleeping babies. I must have dozed a bit, because the doctor was suddenly there, kneeling down to my level in the chair. "We got the results back and her hemoglobin was up slightly," she whispered. "There will be no transfusion tonight." I smiled wearily and thanked her, then patted my baby one more time and left for the night.

It was midnight. She had made it through the day. We would start again tomorrow.

-----------------------------------------------

Since Sunday, Annika has improved. The doctors have not yet made a definitive diagnosis and are still testing for a variety of possible bacterial, viral, and fungal infections. The leading contender at the moment is some sort of virus. The doctor said to me yesterday, "Doctors treat, but nature cures."

After several days with no milk, just a glucose and vitamin infusion (plus three different antibiotics and immunoglobulin), they started her on just a few milliliters of sterile formula diluted with water every few hours. Today they went to undiluted formula, just 4 milliliters every three hours. Thanks to the infusion, she has continued to gain weight even through this crisis. She is still pale but pink, and is now lying comfortably on her back, stomach, or side with no apparent pain. She is still anemic, but not enough to require intervention. She managed to pull out her feeding tube yesterday and, in one doctor's words "killed" her IV today. So, mostly back to her active, kicking self.

But I don't think her father and I have recovered yet.

Before the crisis

Lovely Lullaby

2008-07-01T19:13:00.000+02:00

Perspective

2008-06-29T14:12:00.004+02:00

It's hard to tell in pictures just how small Annika is. Of course, there are babies in the NICU who make our little one look large and robust. Anyway, perhaps this picture can give you a better idea.

And another one, just for fun. She often has her hands up around her face, and when she deigns to open her eyes, she looks around, brow furrowed, as if to say, "How in the world did I get here?"

In Between

2008-06-28T21:33:00.002+02:00

It all feels just a little bit skewed. I'm no longer pregnant--no longer waddling around, feeling kicks, wondering what is to come. But I have no baby at home, either. And when I'm at home, giving birth, having Annika, all seems like a dream. Life seems normal--taking care of Katrina, thinking about what to have for dinner, planning playdates and trips to the playground. I'm pumping around the clock so that Annika can have breastmilk, but other than that, moment-to-moment, it seems like nothing has changed. Except a vague feeling that something's missing.

Until I arrive at the hospital, and see my baby in the isolette. She's becoming familiar now. She no longer looks impossibly small--even though she still is. The lines of her face, her cleft lip and slightly flattened nose, her long fingers, her muddy bluish eyes...she's no longer a stranger. I stay as long as I can, just holding her, a little gnome wrapped in a towel, sometimes looking at me, mostly sleeping. It is often peaceful in the room; monitors beep every few minutes, but nurses generally speak in hushed tones. And I talk softly and sing softly and feel the weight of her on my chest or in my arms. And that missing part falls into place, and for the only time that day, everything feels right. I am where I am supposed to be, holding my child, cupping her small head, telling her I'm her mama.

And then I have to leave, to tend to my beloved older child, to go home and pump once again, to eat, to sleep. So I give my baby back to the nurse, and tell her good-bye, and walk away.

And it just feels wrong.

So I give myself a pep talk, and try to put aside my longing, and go home. And again home feels the same, yet different.

Something's off. Someone's missing, a someone who hasn't even been here yet.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2008-06-27T22:31:00.009+02:00

A friend of ours is working in Baghdad for about six weeks. He's a contractor working on computer-type stuff for the military. With his permission, I'm posting some of his pictures and thoughts. I thought you all might find it interesting.

I’ve been consistently pulling 16 hour days so I come home and crash pretty fast. [My wife] sent me a box the other day with some cash and our little camera so I finally have some pictures to share.

This first shot is walking up towards Al Fah Palace where I work. We’re on a bridge over or at least next to the water. The two guys in front of me are my co-workers/friends here. M. is the big guy on the left, and the Navy guy on the right is CDR B. They’re running my project for the government. Both are terrific people. We have lunch and dinner together every day along with a few other people from the office. It’s nice to have companions that you enjoy spending time with.

One of the others is an Army SFC and behaves exactly the way a senior NCO should. He respectfully guides the 1LT in our group while taking good care of the whole office. He has something like 13 kids. Seriously. The guy has the biggest heart. It’s a bit of “hers, mine, ours and theirs”. They have been adopting children and fostering children for some time. His wife is in Hawaii living on post in special housing because of the number of kids. He grew up poor and can’t believe how lucky he is to be in the Army and able to provide for his family. Amazing guy and a good dose of perspective for us all. I’ll have to find a picture. Oh yeah, his favorite word is hoo-ahh, but it’s the fun, friendly style, not the aggressive one. On his wall he has a list of 15 definitions of hooahh for the Air Force and Navy guys.

If you look at the palace you’ll see some black SUVs. Those are General Petraus’ vehicles. I sit within earshot of his morning briefs and use that conference room for my training. Hooah! Can you say ring-side seat to history?

Below is a common sight, but it still gets my heart rate up. I love seeing the helicopters take off low and fast.

Sunset around the palace. I think we were walking back after dinner.

My bed. They take a single wide trailer and divide it in thirds. Then two people share each third. So it’s basically just enough room for a bed and your clothes. I walk about 100-200 yards down a set of gravel roads to go to the bathroom or take a shower. I wake up every morning to my bladder telling me to get moving. You have to get dressed and make the walk. Sounds silly but it is almost always an emergency and is the worst part about living here (beside being away from my family). Be sure to show M. [my son] his picture on my wall.

These are the toilets in the palace. Picture doesn’t do the palace justice. The detail work is all some sort of gold. It’s quite a luxury to have these bathrooms. The palace is pretty amazing. The overall workmanship isn’t always the best, but the sheer volume of detail work is amazing.

Another shot in the bathroom.

Walking out of the palace. This is the exit along the same bridge. Notice the white blur in the sky. That is one of the blimps that is tethered to the ground and always out there presumably monitoring Baghdad. Also, look at the tower on the left. When you get close you can tell that it obviously took some hits during the war.

I miss you all terribly. I don’t know how these guys do these long deployments. I’m only over here for a month and I’m already dying to get home. Thankfully the work keeps me busy and is something I mostly enjoy. I’m also getting lots of runs in and am getting into better shape, although not marathon shape.

Love,

J.

Fingers and Toes

2008-06-23T09:21:00.006+02:00

Quick update: I'm home from the hospital and doing well, with hubby and Grandma playing fetch and carry for me. Annika is staying stable and has gotten back to her birth weight plus about an ounce (as of yesterday). She's sleeping most of the time, so has not taken much nutrition by mouth...too sleepy to suck. But the gastric tube is doing its job.

And now, pictures!

The Daily (Hourly) Cry

2008-06-22T11:31:00.002+02:00

I ordered a CD by Sara Groves before all the drama of this week and I just put it in to listen this morning. Haven't gotten past the first song yet. "Song for my Sons." I couldn't find an official video on YouTube, but I did find a pretty good amateur video using the whole song. This mother has daughters, not sons, just like us. But the song works just as well. I can't wait to have video of Katrina and Annika playing together, just like the girls in the video.

I needed the reminder today...life doesn't always go as planned. But God is always there....and so are friends, family, the precious ones who have been given to us and to whom we have been given.

An Early Arrival

2008-06-21T20:06:00.003+02:00

Annika Stefanie was born at 1:14 am on Tuesday, June 17, after a day-long but unsuccessful attempt to delay her birth. She was 3 pounds, 3 oz. and 17 inches long. Despite her early arrival, at 31 weeks’ gestation, Annika is doing very well. Her APGAR tests were 9/10/10…amazing for a preemie. She is breathing on her own with no need for extra oxygen or a respirator. She’s receiving nutrients intravenously and formula/breast milk through a small stomach tube, but can also suck well and will get more and more nutrition by mouth as she gets bigger and stronger. For the foreseeable future, she’ll stay in the Kaiserslautern hospital’s Kinder Klinik (NICU), until she’s big and healthy enough to come home.

Annika was also born with a cleft lip, which will be corrected with cosmetic surgery sometime in the next year. Luckily, the cleft only affected the soft tissue of the lip, and did not include the palate (the bony part of the top of the mouth). So the defect is only a cosmetic issue, not one that impairs the working of her mouth.

We think she’s beautiful, anyway.

I’m doing well, after an eventful c-section and recovery that, ahem, “challenged” the doctors. The senior doctor on call did a stellar job in saving my uterus, and my life, with little of the loss of blood that caused my very hard and slow recovery from Katrina’s birth. The medicine that effected this minor miracle unfortunately had the side effect of bronchial spasms, so I spent the twelve hours or so after Annika’s birth clutching my poor midsection, coughing, and trying to breathe. It gave me a whole new sympathy for people with asthma.

Once the coughing abated, though, I’ve recovered pretty well…I’m surprised at how well I do feel, compared to my state after Katrina was born. It does help that I’ve been through it before and know what to expect (for example, the copious crying for no apparent reason arrived right on time, about 24 hours after the birth. Sniff.) As I write this, it is Friday night, and the doctor said I could go home on Saturday if I continue to feel well tomorrow.

When I was a teenager, a friend of mine had a button on her backpack that said “Why Be Normal?” When you’re a kid, normal is boring. Average is a dirty word. Believe me, though, that in this situation, being normal, average, and boring is a good thing. One does not want to be interesting to a doctor. If your doctor thinks your case is average, or perhaps ignores you a bit, be grateful. Interesting cases are hard cases. I can’t wait to get back home and be uninteresting again.

Katrina is doing as well as could be expected with the upheaval of our lives the past few days. She spent two nights with friends of ours who have a little girl the same age. She had a lot of fun but very little sleep, which all of us are paying for at the moment, especially my poor harried husband. The biggest issue for her right now is that she can’t see her new sister; children are not allowed in the NICU. So we’re trying to make do with pictures, but it is hard for her to wait outside with Papa while Mama spends time with the baby (and vice-versa). Grandma was able to get an earlier flight than originally planned and arrived this morning, which will make the mix of taking care of Katrina at home and Annika in the NICU much easier. Plus, another person to give Katrina much-needed attention while my husband and I are more distracted than usual will, we hope, make the transition to “big sister” a bit easier for her.

This could get very long if I include the million and one little stories and details of the last five days. I’ll try to include some in the upcoming days and weeks, as well as keep you updated on Annika’s progress. Right now we’re just so grateful that our little one has arrived safely and is in capable hands. Nothing like a miniature baby to remind us of both the fragility and strength of life. Though she looks impossibly fragile right now, our Annika has already proven her strength.

Thanks be to God for his marvelous gifts.

The Fog

2008-06-06T14:11:00.002+02:00

My normal state is one of disorganization. It takes a real effort for me to focus and accomplish much of anything minus a deadline (and that deadline must be, like, tomorrow. I am a skilled procrastinator.). After many years of standing in front of the fridge at 5 pm trying to figure out what to make for dinner, I have managed to both start and maintain for a number of years (since Before Katrina, a long span of time, indeed) weekly menu planning and grocery shopping. That's about the only thing that's kinda organized. But I have now descended far below my normal state. I didn't think it was possible.

At the moment, the pregnancy nesting instinct is at war with the pregnancy brain fog. In practice, it looks like this: Must make a list of things to do/buy before baby is born! Must write thank-you notes for baby gifts! Must plan Katrina's birthday party and order random crafts from Oriental Trading!...yawn. Soooo sleepy. Must...take....nap. Oops! Time to pick up Katrina from school. Wait! What have I been doing for the last six hours? What day is this again?

So at some point I will post a few pictures from Katrina's exquisitely cute kindergarten graduation--you know, if I can find the camera and remember how to plug it in. She has one more week of school, which includes two field trips. The child is so DONE with school, and frankly, so am I. Looking forward to NOT badgering her to get dressed as soon as she wakes up. (Instead, said badgering will happen, oh, two hours later or so. She does love her pajamas.)

Oh! and good news! My computer is back from HP in Texas and working again! No more Ominous Beeps of Doom. No more clunky web e-mail interface. I'm so very glad, I might have to take a nap to celebrate.

Anxiety

2008-05-28T13:06:00.003+02:00

It's there all the time, when I'm pregnant. I stave it off, sometimes, by immersing myself in other people's lives: books, TV, activity, conversation. But it thrums beneath the surface.

...what if something's wrong? what if I'm fooling myself? I shouldn't have smiled and told that person that everything's okay, i'm just asking for trouble... any minute, it could all go horribly wrong. just have to get to the birth. just hold on, baby. a few more weeks. what's that twinge? is this the beginning of the end? should I call the doctor? no, just wait, see if it passes, look there's a kick, everything's fine, but what if it's not? how would I know? what if my water just broke? what would I do next? I'm deluding myself, I shouldn't expect everything to be fine, that's exactly the point at which it all goes wrong....

Then the fun times when it is not beneath the surface, but washes over me. Nightmares, yes, but also waking attacks. A something, a different sensation, a negative thought or story. My skin prickles and gets hot, my face flushes, muscles tense. I am positive that Bad Things are beginning. I start to calculate my baby's chances out in the world, to figure out what to do if I need to go to the hospital Right Now. I'm nauseated and breathless and tears come to my eyes but do not overflow. Crying would be a relief, but my body and mind are too wound up in the dark spiral of "what if."

...oh my God, what if something's wrong? what if I'm fooling myself? any minute, it could all go horribly wrong. just have to get to the birth. just hold on, baby. what's that twinge? is this the beginning of the end? should I call the doctor? no, just wait, see if it passes, look there's a kick, everything's fine, but what if it's not? how would I know? I'm deluding myself, I shouldn't expect everything to be fine, that's exactly the point at which it all goes wrong....

"Call if something doesn't feel right," the doctor said kindly. She probably says that to everyone. Althought she smiled sympathetically when I told her that one of my pregnancy symptoms is high anxiety, I doubt she really understands that if I really called whenever "something doesn't feel right," the poor woman would be deluged.

Anxiety, and melancholy, seem to be natural parts of my personality, even when I'm not pregnant. Even panic attacks, though it was only years later that I recognized what they were. In pregnancy, though, everything is magnified. Anxiety walks with me every day, rather than just once in a while when I'm under stress. My rather precarious reproductive and medical histories don't help. It is difficult even for my doctor to tell me what physical symptoms would be normal or not. Because I am not normal. I have a concrete medical history of abnormalities. Relatively rare ones, at that.

...I'm sorry my womb is not the right shape, baby, can you hold on anyway? what if something's wrong? what if I'm fooling myself? any minute, it could all go horribly wrong. just have to get to the birth. just hold on, baby. what's that twinge? is this the beginning of the end? should I call the doctor? no, just wait, see if it passes, look there's a kick, everything's fine, but what if it's not? how would I know? I'm deluding myself, I shouldn't expect everything to be fine, that's exactly the point at which it all goes wrong....

Turning down the thrumming, trying to talk myself out of the anxious spiral, have side effects. I rarely "trust my gut." I wonder if anyone who deals with higher anxiety does. MY gut tells me darkness is descending, even when it's not. My gut tells me I will be exposed as weak and stupid and useless. My gut says I'm foolish to believe everything will turn out all right. I hear people refer to their instincts, their gut feeling that something is right or wrong. To function right here, right now, I must mistrust such feelings.

Sometimes I wonder how much I miss because of that...the real communications from my body, my spirit, even from my family and from God, that get lost while I hunker down and wait out the next anxiety wave. (Don't talk to me, Katrina! I'm busy obsessing over here!)

Ironically, that's my biggest fear: that in trying to control my fear, I'll miss something I really should be afraid of.

The Joy of Spring

2008-05-16T11:10:00.003+02:00

Young Women of Character

2008-05-07T11:25:00.001+02:00

If by the grace of God, we can raise Katrina to have the compassion and character shown by the young women in this clip, we'll be satisfied.

"Mama, I'm Nervous About the Baby"

2008-05-02T10:06:00.002+02:00

We've been reading How to Be a Baby, by Me, the Big Sister every night this week, by Katrina's choice. We talk about both the baby to come and Katrina's birth a lot--again, mostly at Katrina's instigation. Some days she pats or kisses my (growing! fast!) tummy more than she kisses me. And at other times...

--Mama, I'm still nervous about the baby.

--What are you nervous about, sweetie?

--I don't know.

--Do you have any questions?

--No.

(pause)

--Sweetie, what do you think is going to happen when the baby comes?

--What if I get a trophy from soccer or from doing really good art, and I don't want to put it up high, because I can't see it as well up high, so I put it low, and the baby comes into my room and breaks it?

(Note that she is not currently involved in soccer or in anything art-related that would bring a prize; we have talked about signing her up for soccer in the fall if she wants to play, and about perhaps taking an art class over the summer. So any trophy is purely theoretical on her part.)

--Well, sweetie, the baby won't be doing much moving around on her own for a while. And by the time the baby can crawl or walk, we'll figure something out. Remember baby Taylor? Could she move around and break things?

--No. But what if the baby kicks me?

--I think if the baby kicks you, it wouldn't hurt, because she'll be so small. Did Taylor kick you when you held her?

--Yes.

--Did it hurt?

--(half-smile) Yes!

I laugh and tell her I don't think that's true, and we move on to other important questions, such as how the baby is going to come out and the exact day I knew that the baby was in my tummy, and how did I know that, anyway? Which, ironically, I find much easier to answer than how we will prevent the baby from invading Katrina's room and destroying all of her stuff, both the stuff she has today and imagined, future stuff. Because, really, it would be untruthful to tell her that her young sibling will never get into her belongings or break anything.

Now that spring has finally reached Germany, it is bittersweet. We're in the last month and a half of school, and "Kindergarten graduation" has appeared on the school calendar. I used to think that was a silly thing to do, but in this situation, the kids really are graduating, in the sense that they will leave this school and go on to first grade in a different school. And this year, those new schools will be scattered across the United States and Germany. It will be a true good-bye for most of the kids in Katrina's age-group.

And as we think ahead more and more to the new baby's birth, these months are a good-bye to something else--the current structure of our little family. We've gotten comfortable together these past 5, almost 6 years. Katrina has had the mixed blessing of being an only child--lots of attention, having her own space, not having to share except when friends visit, not getting as much social interaction as she'd like, not needing to learn how to compromise as often as kids with siblings, plenty of one-on-one time with mom and/or dad. Soon she will have the mixed blessing of being an older sister. I think she will probably love and hate the experience in equal measure, with the love winning out, but perhaps not for a while. The age gap will mean she will hopefully be able to understand more about the needs of a new baby and better express her own feelings so we can talk her through the inevitable jealousy and discomfort with change; but it will also mean that her new sister (or brother) will never be a true playmate. I suspect being the object of hero worship is in her future, which has to be good for any kid's self-esteem!

I find myself hugging her a little more closely and often, praying that I'll have enough emotional resources to care for both her and the baby, and just being very aware that we are on the cusp of a huge change. And, like her, thinking a lot about the start of Katrina's life, and marveling anew at the gift she has been and continues to be to us. (As well as marveling that this long-legged, sun-kissed blond, articulate creature could have come from that tiny, squalling, orange-skinned baby!)

So, anticipation, love, saying good-bye and hello in the same breath. You know something, my darling firstborn? Sometimes I'm nervous about the baby, too. But I also know that we'll treasure this new gift from God, because that's what we did with you.

I Don't Know Why He Didn't Win PA

2008-04-23T14:38:00.004+02:00

Unrelated note: My computer is seriously ill. It makes a sad beeping sound and will not start up. We think the videocard is dead. It will be going back to HP for repair soon. So, if you don't hear from me for awhile (especially on e-mail), that's why. I'm at the library right now, because after only two days, I'm going through Internet withdrawal. Pathetic, I know.

The much-quoted quote from Obama about his Pennsylvania trip (but I couldn't resist anyway):

"You go into these small towns in Pennsylvania and, like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing's replaced them...And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not.

And it's not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Wow, those people sound really unpleasant. Good thing I don't know anyone in those God-forsaken small towns in Pennsylvania (um, wait...) who cling to their silly religion (like going to church every week? and maybe even like, trying to do good stuff and all? hmmm...) and want to use actual guns to kill innocent creatures (oh, you mean like deer? I seem to remember having a school day off for hunting season. And, venison bologna? Yummy.).

Yes, I remember all of those bitter people just sitting around waiting for the government to save them from their horrible fate. Like, when the paper mill closed? And the town fell through the cracks of the Bush administration, never to be seen again. And...oh, wait, didn't a local group of investors end up re-opening the mill a few years later?

Yeah, I think I'm over Obama. I knew I didn't agree with him on many issues before, but this statement along with the one equating an unexpected pregnancy with an STD, has finished off any illusion that I could vote for him. What really got me about the Pennsylvania quote is the sheer condescension. Like he was slumming for a while and then went to San Francisco to tell the other smart city folk what he had learned about those poor schmucks who don't have the sense to move out of hick country (pause for irony check re: my current whereabouts).

Still, the people Obama are talking about are not familiar to me. There are bitter people everywhere. There are fanatics about religion or guns or anti-whatever everywhere. But I just haven't met too many of them, in small-town Pennsylvania or anywhere else. And the whole story line of these poor benighted towns who are waiting for the federal government to save them just doesn't ring true to what I've experienced. I've listened to plenty of bitch sessions about what is wrong in this or that town, this country, the world, but rarely has the conclusion been that it's the government's job to solve it. (Unless we're talking about things like the war, that is.) I'm not even convinced the government really has the capacity to do much to help the economy. We did that to ourselves, with the crazy lending and borrowing practices, the frenzy to buy over-priced homes, etc.

And I suppose that's where I part ways on much of what Obama and Clinton are saying. I just don't think that the federal government can or should solve many of the problems in our country.

The war, well, that's a whole different post.

Hi, There.

2008-04-17T11:04:00.002+02:00

Um, yeah, like, I'm back. What with getting ready to go to the States, being in the States, getting back from the States, and taking a little side trip to Euro Disney, just haven't had the time or brain power to blog. And even if I had something to write, my little one has renewed her obsession with Webkinz and has been on my computer at every opportunity.

This morning, Katrina not only read her homework but used her two Webkinz (a stuffed pink pony and a smaller stuffed white unicorn) to act out Harriet Tubman's flight to freedom. (Harriet Tubman for a five year old: "Harriet wanted to be free. She ran in the dark. Men with dogs chased her. She ran in the creek. The dogs couldn't smell her. She hid with friends. She ran and ran until she was free.") The white unicorn was Harriet. The pink pony was the dogs. She paused after each sentence to make one or the other talk. High voice: "I'm running in the creek!" Shaking pink pony: "Ruff, ruff, I can't smell her anymore!" Who needs Uncle Tom's Cabin when you have such a stellar dramatic interpretation at your own kitchen table?

In other news, baby is doing fine. I'm at 22 weeks and had a doctor's appointment yesterday. Everything looks good, and I got to see the little one sucking her thumb and hiccuping on the sonogram. Yes, her. At least, that's what the sonogram shows (or, rather, doesn't show). She is now in a transverse position (lying horizontally across the uterus), which is the exact same position Katrina was in from this point to the end of pregnancy. So getting a lot of kicks on the right side. A LOT. And getting stronger. Another "very active" baby. You mean there are other kinds? Since having Katrina, I do get amused at the assumption that boys are higher energy than girls. Because, my word, it's hard to imagine a toddler boy being any more active than my daughter was. Now that she's older, I do see a difference in her being more verbal than *some* of the boys. But at two? It was off to the races.

That's about it for now, except for me whining about the weather. It was 35 degrees this morning. We had rain and hail yesterday afternoon. Last year at this time it was 70 degrees (which, admittedly, was highly unusual for Europe in April). I want it to get warm! WAH!

Happily Ever After

2008-03-14T13:52:00.003+01:00

Once upon a time, a baby girl was born. She was beautiful and smart; she had to be, to survive. You see, the girl's mother was troubled. She either couldn't or didn't know how to take care of her daughter. The girl often stayed with friends or relatives of her mother, who sometimes didn't take care of her well, either. Even when she lived with her mother, the little girl didn't have enough to eat, and she often had to find or prepare food for herself. She was three years old.

Eventually, people found out about the little girl and her neglectful mother. And the mother made perhaps the only good decision she had ever made about her daughter: rather than let the state take away her daughter, the mother would give her daughter a new mother, a new father. She contacted someone she knew through an acquaintance. Would this woman take care of her daughter?

The woman had already raised her own two children. She was looking forward to a new phase of life. But she could not get the plight of the little girl out of her head. So she said, yes, she would take care of the little girl. But only if the little girl could be hers and her husband's forever. They would adopt her.

It took some time, and some money, and a lot of paperwork. Finally, the woman flew to the little girl's home, and drove the little girl's mother two hours away to a lawyer who specialized in such things. As the woman waited for the mother and the lawyer, her hands shook. She was afraid the mother would change her mind, and that would be terrible, for the woman already loved the little girl. But the mother did not change her mind. With her signature, she gave her small daughter a new family, one that could love her and take care of her.

At age three and a half, the little girl had a new mother. But they hardly knew each other. On the plane to her new family's home, the little girl dropped something on the floor and used the words she had always heard around her. Her new mother looked at her, shocked (as did the other passengers), and told her gently that such words were not used in their family.

When they got to her new home, the little girl stood, speechless, in front of the full refrigerator. She had never seen so much food in one place.

When her new mother wanted her to get in the bathtub, she screamed and fought. She remembered being put into deep water when someone was angry with her. Water was dangerous. But her mother was patient. She got into the tub with the little girl, every night for months. After a long time, she stopped being afraid.

Now the little girl is six years old. She is happy with her new family, who is now just her family. She's learning so much in school. And she's taking swim lessons once a week. She swims in the deep pool, practicing the crawl, the backstroke, and treading water. She has fun at swim lessons. Her swim teacher is pretty and nice, and her class is all girls around her age. One of her swim friends is named Katrina.

The little girl doesn't know she is a heroine in a fairy tale. But to anyone who hears her story, she is. And so are her mommy and daddy. At least, the mommies of her swim friends think so.

Attention Easter Bunny

2008-03-05T10:38:00.003+01:00

Katrina doesn't like Jelly Beans. They are "too sour." Um, ok, the first ingredient is sugar and the second is high-fructose corn syrup, but whatever. Not liking candy is a good thing, health-wise.

But peas are now off the (short) list of acceptable vegetables. Last time I served them, she ate them and liked them and asked for more. Last night? "I don't like them anymore."

Rice, plain or flavored? "I don't like that anymore." Rice, people! The blandest food on earth!

This is in addition to disliking anything remotely spicy, such as chili or goulash, two of our (former) easy-meal standards.

And yet she now likes my relatively spicy Amy's Cheese Enchiladas. Even though she's tried and said "too spicy" at least five times in the past year. Now I must buy one for her and one for me. She does like tacos, as well (no salsa or lettuce, please).

She still likes corn...but only the way we make it on the stove. When she eats frozen kids meals (occasionally), the corn there goes uneaten.

Bananas and grapes no longer hold the appeal they once had, although she does not dislike them, per se. She no longer likes plums, though.

Oh, and no peanut butter.

And then there was the other day at the commissary, when for the second or third time, she begged me to buy Cocoa Pebbles. Since one of her usual cereals wasn't there, I complied. As we were standing in line for the register, she suddenly said, "Mama! I forgot! I don't like those anymore!"

A rotating menu of spaghetti, pizza, fish sticks, fried chicken, and schnitzel (but only at a restaurant, not homemade), with liberal helpings of french fries and mayonnaise, maybe an apple once in a while, would be just fine with her. Or, we could just give up and buy an industrial-sized barrel of Chee-tos.

On the other hand, she has recently decided that she likes cottage cheese and apple butter. Maybe there's hope yet.

Meanwhile, I've been eating a lot of green olives. And grapefruit juice. And garlic hummus with potato chips. And more green olives. And pickled beets for a change. And queso cheese dip. And maybe just a few more olives. And Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs, which are a poor substitute for what I'm really craving. But only between the hours of about 10:30 am and 2:00 pm. By the time it's time to make dinner, I'm feeling a bit queasy. I blame it on the pregnancy, but it could be all those olives. I bought cheese-filled green olives at the German grocery store the other day. Isn't it about lunch time?

Toothless Wonder

2008-02-26T10:08:00.003+01:00

Minus 1...

Minus 2.

No more are loose at the moment. The tooth fairy left 2 Euro coins for each tooth. Katrina was happy, thank goodness, because apparently other families' tooth fairies have been a bit more generous, and the kids have been talking at school. "N. got lots of dollas and a new nightgown, Mama!" Um, that's nice, honey, but I think you and N. may have different tooth fairies.

Perspective

2008-02-13T11:09:00.002+01:00

I just finished reading a Stephen Donaldson book called The Runes of the Earth. One thread running through the book is that ordinary people, faithful in service, can change the world. Which is pretty interesting for a fantasy novel with a plot centered around finding a particular object of power.

Ordinary people, without magic powers, with no particular talent, just being faithful.

How much do you know about the ordinary person sitting next to you in church, or living in your neighborhood, or working In the Cubicle Next Door?

Unorganized Thoughts On Being Undecided

2008-02-11T12:58:00.000+01:00

I vote Republican. Rather, I have always voted Republican.

I liked a number of the Republican candidates. Unfortunately, none of them actually succeeded.

A strong reason for my voting Republican is my unshakeable belief that abortion is wrong, that it is taking a life, that it hurts not only the unborn but their mothers and fathers and society at large.

But...

Republicans have been in power for a while now. Other than Bush's stand against federal funding for stem-cell research, Republicans have done little that I can see on a national level to reduce abortion. (State levels might be something else, but having been away from the U.S. for a while, I'm not up to speed on that.)

I have felt for some time that reducing/eliminating abortion will not be achieved through politics and laws. Only through a cultural change, changes of heart, compassion for women in trouble, and concrete help for women in crisis pregnancies and their families. The pro-life movement needs to stop fighting the government and put more energy into helping women. They already do, actually...I volunteered at a crisis pregnancy center in Virginia. They did really good work on a shoestring budget...they stayed with their clients (no matter what their religion) throughout their pregnancies and births, and did their best to supply them with what they needed for their babies. That's what should be at the core of pro-life movement.

I think Republicans in power have ignored the poor. Democrats may not have the right solutions for helping the poor, but at least they talk about it.

I think John McCain is a blowhard. I thought that before this election, every time I've ever heard him talk on TV, for years.

Hillary Clinton's voice makes my teeth hurt. And oh, so many other things about her.

Barack Obama is one of the most pro-choice candidates. And he doesn't have the substance of any of the other candidates still in the running. But damn, the man is inspiring. He seems honest and sincere. (One can be sincerely wrong, of course.) He's refreshing.

SO. What does a good little Republican do? I'm not sure.

It will be interesting to see if the Democrats shoot themselves in the foot again like they did when they nominated no-personality Kerry. The Republican party is fractured right now. I think the only thing that would get out the Republican vote (assuming McCain wins the nomination) is...Hillary.

Details & Updates

2008-01-31T10:03:00.000+01:00

I'm 11 weeks pregnant.
My previous losses all happened between 5 and 8 weeks.
I've had two sonograms already--at 8 weeks and 10 weeks--and have seen/heard a strong heartbeat both times. Measurements were right where they should be at 10 weeks.
We've heard a heartbeat before, at about 6 weeks, before one of our previous losses, so it wasn't as much as a reassurance at 8 weeks as the doctor seemed to think.
I love the German reliance on sonograms--one in every exam room.
The doctor also copies each sonogram session to a CD and gives it to us to take home. But she says it won't work with Windows Vista, which is what we have, of course.
My due date is August 18.
Katrina's due date was August 21.
Katrina's birthday is July 15.
The hospital at which my OB works has no NICU. We have to decide whether to stay with my OB or switch to a different one at the bigger hospital a bit farther away.
My fun pregnancy symptoms: nausea/lack of appetite (which is starting to abate); crippling fatigue paired with brain fog (or more fog than usual); shortness of breath; constant low-level agoraphobia paired with periodic high-level anxiety/panic attacks just for variety; and because of all of the above, irritability, whining, self-absorption, and a marked reluctance to leave the couch.
I'm a joy to live with. Pray for my poor husband.
We've decided not to move to a bigger house, so we may have company in our room for some time to come. Our bedroom is upstairs, and the other bedrooms are downstairs. There's no way we're trotting downstairs X times a night for feedings.
We're delaying telling Katrina for as long as possible. One, in case something goes wrong, better for Mom to just be sick and getting better. Two, she'd want to see the baby right NOW and drive us crazy with asking when, when, when?
Thanks so much for your kind comments and prayers. We appreciate you all so much.