My husband is working, thankfully, in one place for the next two weeks and had found a decent vacation house in the countryside.  It’s an ideal situation to be able to tag along on a work trip and actually see each other while he attends to the wind turbines.  So I of course did what any normal person would do; I cleared the house out for vacay mode,  packed the car, loaded the kid, and with absolute blind faith in my GPS (which my daughter calls “the Nabie”) I hit the road for a 10 hour drive into the French countryside.

I really don’t know how I ever survived without the Nabie.  Yes, I can read a map.  And yes, I’m pretty good at getting myself where I need to go, but the Nabie just makes life, and therefore car travel, so much easier.  I only had one moment of doubt in the Nabie the whole trip.  We were still in Germany and the Nabie told me to turn around and back track in an area under total construction.  I felt a little niggle of concern when I remembered the Nabie has been asking for an update for over a year now.  Still, they’re roads and can’t move far, right?  So I drove on.

Germany turned into Belgium with its decaying streets and light lined autobahn.  I was impressed by the lights lining the entire freeway, as I’m always amazed by how dark it gets in conservative and conserving Germany, but I couldn’t help but think what a fortune all that electricity costs, and if you can’t keep the roads up what’s the point of a light?   Then again, I shouldn’t judge Belgium by the one stretch of road I happened to travel on.

Belgium turned into France, which, since we’re on the subject of roads, has very nice roads, I’m assuming thanks to all the tolls France collects in order to pay for them.  All in all I paid 40 Euro one way in tolls to get to my destination, so note to others driving in France: have cash!

And then we hit Paris during rush hour.  Now, any big city during rush hour is a nightmare, and the parking lot the roads had become reminded me a whole lot of LA.  However, with all the interchanges, the motorcycles hurling themselves through the lines of cars with seemingly nothing but a death wish, and the amount of itty bitty Twingo’s appearing from nowhere and wedging themselves into the slightest centimeter of space between you and the car in front of you, I can’t believe there were no accidents.  The people were patient.  I guess that’s just what you do.  You heard music and laughter, and NO honking.

Of course at that point of time my daughter started whining and asking to go to our hotel room.  I, being a bit overwhelmed and frustrated (oh yeah, and tired) begged her not to flip out.  I explained that the traffic was scary and heavy and I had to pay very close attention, but that I really just wanted to scream because we weren’t moving.  “DON’T SCREAM, MAMA”, came the very forceful response from my daughter.  And then she read a book.

At which point in time, I need to give a little shout out to my daughter.  She’s two, almost three, and was able to accomplish traveling like a pro.  She traveled for 10 hours in her seat and ENTERTAINED herself with the stacks of books, magazines, coloring pages, and toys I had provided for her.  She actually cut our three breaks shorter than I had intended herself because she was so excited to get here and see her papa.  And seriously, she traveled better than some adults I have witnessed.  I’m so proud and impressed!!

All in all our trip turned into eleven and a half hours, but when I pulled out of the last toll station my husband was there waiting for us.  We then drove further into nowhere and as we pulled up to this I shook my head.  “How in the world do you find these random places”, I asked.

But this is what I walked into, proving yet again that you can’t judge a book by its cover.

There are all kinds of abbeys and castles around us to explore, we’re in the middle of a major wine producing area, it’s quiet and peaceful and sunny and warm, and most of all, the three of us can see each other and pretend to have a normal family life for the next two weeks.  La vie est belle.

After a quick run through of our restaurant rules we went in and chose a seat upstairs by a window.  Within 5 minutes Ruby, clearly our two year old in this story, started pitching a fit, rules-be-damned, about needing a different table.  Thankfully someone in the city had an emergency and two huge fire engines screamed by, barreling down the tiny city streets with lights, sound and action.   And just like that the table upstairs by the window was interesting and exciting.

Dinner was delicious.  As my husband and I finished eating we let Ruby explore the upstairs dining area, which had a creaky wood floor and secret room in back providing plenty of nearby, safe adventure.  We watched her run, hide, peer through the heavy old-fashioned banisters at the diners below, and go from empty table to empty table chatting some sort of inaudible something in a game only she understood.  We decided to take a little walk and get an ice cream.  Ruby, of course, heard the magic words and came running over to her dad.

“Can you check her diaper?  I think she might stink”.  I watched as my husband lifted her up and sniffed her butt, something you vow to never do before having kids but that just happens anyway.

“No.  I don’t smell anything”.

Either he just didn’t want to deal or this is the reason he can stand himself on the toilet for 45 minutes at a time, so I took a look to be sure.  “How can you not smell that”, I exclaimed.  “By the way, it’s sooo your turn”.  And with that, we tried to discretely change a diaper in a restaurant without a changing table.

Now, those of you with children know that nothing happens discretely.  The innocent and honest observations of small children make doing anything on the sly impossible.  Yet, if you’re like my husband and me you still try, on the off chance that you pull off changing a stinky diaper in a restaurant just long enough to get out the door before someone discovers the hideous odor coming from the bin you’ve thrown it in.

There was no one else upstairs so my husband chose a corner out of view from the diners downstairs.  As he went to work I heard my husband’s “Sshhhhh!!  Sshhh!!” and then, quite loudly; “Ich habe so viel gekackt”!!!!  (Translation: “I sure crapped a lot!!”)  The conversation downstairs noticeably died down and I saw a few people glance upstairs and then away.  We were caught, and all I could do was laugh.

Her little voice got even louder as she said, “Boooooo!  Das schtinks!”  (Ew!  That stinks!)  And then louder still, “HEY, MAMA!!  CAN YOU SMELL THAT?!”

All eyes were on us as we left, smiling, curious, and entertained, and the three of us laughed all the way to the ice cream shop.

Not so long ago my daughter was more of a Curious George and Yakari girl.  But then something happened, and I believe it started with the pink princess overnight bag.  I needed a kiddy piece of luggage intended for fun instead of our standard no-nonsense travel gear.  My daughter was going to stay with Oma while the parents had some long due adult time.  My criteria for this bag were fun and cheap, so I went to the cheapest place I could think of and found I had two options.  Not wanting Pooh Bear (I can’t stand Pooh) my only other option was a pink rolly deal with three princesses framed in a heart.  I was excited it had a moon shaped reflector.  My daughter ogled over the beautiful posing princesses.

My daughter looked at those princesses with pure fascination.  “Who’s this”, she’d ask.  “That one’s Belle, that one’s Cinderella, and that one’s Sleeping Beauty”, I told her.  This went on repetitively for a few days until she could remember who was who and say their names almost perfectly.  And then not long after that I made the ultimate mistake and bought Snow White.

Snow White for a 2 year old is pretty scary.  Snow White for a, well, me, is super cheesy and I cringe to think I might have to watch it again.  Ultimately, what Snow White did was reinforce a love of princesses, which brought us around to Cinderella.

I wanted to watch a movie, which for me is a pretty rare treat simply because I’m usually so tired at the end of the day I could care less.  But I wanted a movie on this particular day and took my daughter with me to the DVD store to see what I could find, and of course promised my daughter she could pick a movie out as well.  We walked down the aisles of kids DVDs.  My daughter touched almost every DVD cover and I followed behind trying to keep the place organized.  And that’s when she saw her.  “CINDERELLA”, she cried out, pointing a finger at that particular DVD.  “Is this the one you want”, I asked, like there was even any question.

We watched Cinderella that night, and then again the next day, and it became her favorite game to play for weeks after.  I watched as my daughter danced around pretending to dance with the prince, babble away to a team of stuffed animals about a pumpkin and a mouse, and jump around the house yelling “Bibbity, bobbity BOO”!!  She would put on her princess skirt and tell me about the fairy Godmother.  She would fall asleep in said skirt, sneaking it on in the dark after I had put her to bed.  She would run around the living room in her sparkle shoes and loose one occasionally.  And my favorite: she ran up to me one day as I was cleaning, threw her arms around me, patted my back and said, “Oh, Cinderelly, Cinderelly.  It’s OK.  Don’t cry”.

And before long I found I was buying plastic princess cups and plates, stickers, clothing, magnets, lip balm, you name it.  If it had a Disney princess on it and my daughter could somehow convince me (definition: be so dang cute I couldn’t say no) then it’s found its way into our house.  And lately I’ve been using it as bargaining power.

My daughter is a 2 year old perfectionist.  She doesn’t like getting things wrong, and will keep herself from doing things until she knows she can get it right.  For example, when she trips and falls her coping mechanism is to lay on the floor like she meant to be there, start snoring and pretend to be asleep.  So when it came around to potty training, and she was becoming aware and wanting to try it out, I had to come up with something that made making a mistake OK, and Bibbity Boobity Boo!  a green bag filled with princess paraphernalia appeared, heavy on the Cinderella.  So now, when my daughter sees a 2 Euro trinket she thinks she can’t live without, I buy it, and it goes into the green bag for the next time she wants to try using the potty.  I don’t have to push, and my daughter can decide when she is ready, and at the end she gets a little Cinderella.  And you know what?  It’s working.

We just went through half a day in princess panties, with no accidents and a whole lotta reassurance that yes, in fact she can get it right.  The proud look in her eyes and the swish in her waltz says it all.  And while I realize things can easily take a step back, that 2×2 inch Cinderella magnet will always be treated like a piece of gold.  (It’s currently under her pillow as she sleeps.)

I better figure out something I can put on paper and attempt to get it grammatically correct.  *sigh*

“What are you doing”, I asked.

“I need to pack and go somewhere”, she told me.  She peeled off the princess skirt she was wearing and stuffed it into the bag.  Wearing a Tinkerbell shirt, diaper, and purple shoes with giant rainbow, heart shaped (plastic) gems she looked at me, took the cell phone out of my hand and threw it in the bag, followed by her panda bear and a throw pillow.

“Where are you going”, I asked.

“Menorca”, she replied, as she hefted a Oprah Magazine into the bag.  “I need to buy bread, milk and broccoli”, and she lugged the bag across the room again, to what I suppose was Menorca, and unpacked.

What 2 year old buys broccoli?

My daughter fell off the bed this morning.  Again.  As in, NOT the first time, or even the second, for that matter.  And of course the situation has been different each time, but she managed to fall off the bed again.

I was right there too.  She seemed perfectly safe, sitting still and watching me expectantly with about a foot and a half of bed between her and the edge, however when I went to pick her up, in true kid fashion she flipped around, still playing and trying to run away from mom, and LAUNCHED herself off the bed, falling face first onto the rock hard floor.  She now has a very pretty egg shaped lump on her head, complete with a few floor burn marks at the top.  Mom of the year, right here.

So I am feeling like a total crap mother today.  I’m thinking I’m going to have to put a ban on my daughter being in my bed altogether, which totally screws up our cuddly morning routine.  But I can’t afford to surround the bed with gym mats or safety netting, and I can’t risk my daughter hurting herself anymore.  I mean, I was being careful, and watchful, and it STILL happened.

sigh

And to top it off, my husband calls me back after hearing the story, to give me instructions about what I should or shouldn’t be doing.  Isn’t that nice?

In order to distract myself I picked up the weekend advertisements.  This is actually somewhat of a ritual I have left over from long ago lazy Sundays in bed with the Sunday paper and a ball game.  Now it’s a stack full of ads selling things I really don’t want, or need, or will even really save a bundle of money on for that matter, but I enjoy browsing the ads none the less.

My distracted browsing went something like this tonight:

Flip. Oh, bell peppers.  Yeah, that round of rattling windows was a bit extreme.

Flip.  Not eating meat for Lent.  Flip.  JESUS!!  Is the roof going to stay on?

Flip.  Uh huh.  “American style”, for… an Oscar party.  I wonder what that means?

I started to glance at the page of American style food packaged and sold here at the local grocery store in Germany.  There were the typical items: ready to go beef or chicken hamburgers, hotdogs, bags of bbq flavored or mac-n-cheese noodle helper, crap white bread, and frozen pizzas.  There were a few interesting items such as dried cranberries, hamburger sauce (whatever THAT is), and bagel sandwiches.  I wasn’t really surprised by anything until I got to the bottom right corner: Jack and Coke.

Now, I realise Coca-Cola is a worldwide, highly recognisable American brand, and Jack Daniels in itself is a pretty famous American sour mash, and in all fairness the grocer did advertise whiskey cola with a bottle of Jack.  Furthermore, I am used to being stereotyped in all types of means and manners, but I have never really felt a kind of affiliation with being American therefore I am Jack Daniels.  (Although, there was a point in time I will admit to imbibing in these adult beverages.)  And there is nothing wrong with Jack and Coke.  It’s the drink of choice for some of my favorite people.  It’s more the combination of items that bewilders me.  My point being, the advertisement, to me, read, “Crap.  Crap.  Crap.  Wait, WTF”?

I mean, an Oscar party, at least to me, involves bottles of wine, martinis, decent clothes, and a little cru’ de tet.  Boxed donuts, frozen pizza and Jack and Coke are an entirely different type of affair, that involves wife beaters, bring your own pork rinds and a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon.  (Which I will admit to actually liking.  The Pabst, that is.  You can keep the pork rinds.)  I am really hoping this is just a funny and that “American” is not becoming synonymous with all things white trash, which, sadly, I fear might/is/has happened.

All I can say is keep it classy, America.  People worldwide are watching you.  And what is hamburger sauce anyway?

for me.

It’s a strange feeling to love someone so much and want to throw them out of the window at the same time.  I’ve been told by other mothers that I would feel this way.  I just didn’t know how guilty these feelings would make me feel.  Needless to say, while my daughter is/ was completely wanted and loved, I stumbled into this last night and laughed.

I have a hundred memories of her that demand my attention.  Like the way she always made me pancakes in the shape of gingerbread men with hats.  (Of course this stopped as I grew older.)  Or how she would always whip out a map whenever I was talking about somewhere I was going or had been.  Or how she seemed to know something about almost everything; there was always a story connected to a story connected to yet another story, which leads me to believe she had quite a bit to do with my love of stories.  (Verbage: very Grandma.)  Mostly, that in that house I was always loved unconditionally.  Because of this, I set out today with a mind to do things that would honor my grandmother, whatever they might be.

I got up early.  (Very grandma.)  I was in the car, organized, packed (kids take a special kind of organization) and on our way by 9am.  (On time, again, very grandma.)  We were on our way to see a friend I haven’t seen since before Christmas.  I was going to have big girl time for the first time in weeks.  My daughter, however, wasn’t going to be having any of it.

OK.  So she’s 15 months old, and to some of you that might seem harmless, but she’s smart and strong willed (Gee!  Wonder where she gets THAT from!)  and in trying to be a sensible parent I am trying to teach about choices.  (And trust me, I am not a monster, and she does get it.)

It started with breakfast.  My little terrific eater turned passive aggressive, almost sensing things weren’t all about her.  Getting dressed turned downright ugly.  I couldn’t get anything warm on the kid other than a pair of tights and a long sleeved shirt.  She screamed for her red boots versus the warm comfy (yet not as fashionable) boots I would have picked.  Not wanting to fight, I finally gave in and let her do it, knowing if we were lucky it would be zero degrees out today.  And so this is how things actually went:

Once outside and walking around my daughter started screaming because she was cold.  (Go figure.)  We went inside to change her diaper and she let me put her warm clothes on.  (Of course I took them with me!  What kind of person do you think I am?)  Once warm and cozy she proceeds to run amok through the department store we happened to be in.  Not usually a problem, however, any time I tried to re-direct her she screamed.

Now, my daughter doesn’t have any ordinary scream.  She never has.  In fact, the day she was born she knew she could scream like the best actress in a horror flick about to be killed, only my daughter is by far more convincing.  Long story short, a lot of people came rushing down aisles to make sure everything was ok.  Some realized it as a tantrum, others saw me as a devil.  I really didn’t get the chance to catch up with my friend, and once we were in the car and on our way back home the kid started giggling and babbling like it was the best thing ever.  (Insert own perceptions here.)

As a result I am exhausted.  Homage to Grandma hasn’t really gone very far and the most I could do for her today was light a few candles under the Virgin Mary in the Paderborn Dom for her.  I am drinking wine (so not Grandma) and ignoring a pile of laundry (again, not Grandma) but considering making a cake on Sunday for the family (back to being very Grandma).  The best thing I can say is this; “I love you.  And I know you are with me regardless of what happens”.

I did what any normal person would do.  I went out and checked on Benjamin (yes, we call our beloved Ficus “Benjamin”) and made sure he was OK.  Then I went to the computer and googled “dream interpretation”, only to find out that dead plants in your dreams signify a dead end in your life.  To see indoor plants suggests my growth is being stunted and that I am experiencing a lack of independence.  To see dead plants suggests I am at a standstill in my life.  A rut.  A need for change and challenge.  Which is kind of funny to find out because that is exactly what I was contemplating at 5 a.m.

I find this all fairly interesting because my life is extremely rich.  I am married to a wonderful man.  I have a beautiful and incredibly awesome little girl.  I am comfortable, clothed, well fed and enjoy nice surroundings.  The one thing I know I am missing is this: Me.  I cook.  I clean.  I care for.  I bathe.  I wash.  I buy.  I run around.  I play.  And while, yes, admittedly I do these things for myself as well, I mostly do things for others.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am not complaining.  But in the process of becoming a wife and a mother I have completely lost sight of myself, my goals, my dreams.  So I’m left in a spot where I would like to get those back, in some form, and not be in the bloody rut I find myself in.

Last week, literally, last week I decided I needed to find more people I can directly relate to, be it English speakers or even better, English speaking Americans.  I even spent an entire evening searching the web for English speaking forums in Germany.  Most of the people out there were in Berlin or Munich.  I am close to neither. However the God’s are seriously looking out for me because two days ago, in a toy shop while I was waiting in line to pay, I struck up a small and insignificant conversation with the woman in front of me.  And guess what?  She’s and American!!!  Needless to say this small and insignificant conversation started winding and weaving and ended up being someone to spend Thanksgiving with, a friend, a mother of a little girl just slightly younger than mine, and the heads up on an upcoming job opening.  Amazing!

I have always believed this of the universe.  What you put out there you get back full fold.  If you need something, you will be given it in some form.   This isn’t the first time I have asked and received, it just happens to be the most recent.  Some might find it insignificant, a meer coincidence.  Others believe in the power of miracles.  I like to think I am in very good hands, lovingly shaped by good friends and family and the karmic ebb and flow that keeps us all interconnected, or rather, what makes this that small world we all tend to comment on.

I could wax poetic forever on this, however, I am tired.  So if you will please excuse me, I have some houseplants that need some serious TLC tonight.