This year I turn 40. I have been dreading this for a good five years now, so I am fully confident that when I get to the other side of that number I will realize that life has not ended and I am just in a new marketing demographic. The part that makes it tough for me is that it is also the year that I get an empty house. The youngest goes to kindergarten, the middle one is wrapping up his elementary career,and the oldest to middle school. It signals an end to a period of life that seems to have lasted forever, being a full-time stay-at-home mom. I just realized that I have been caring for kids for as long as it took me to get from kindergarten to college, and that was an eternity when it was going on and still seems like it was too two days longer than forever to get through. Now I realize that in an additional twelve years, I might be a grandmother (please,no), but I really will be an empty nester. Since Stefan is twelve years older than me, that will be the year he can also seriously consider retirement.
I am all over the map about this because somewhere in all of this caring for other people, I disappeared. Of course I dreamed about getting married and having kids, but somehow it never occurred to me that that would be ALL I did. I have never held a "real" job, made a major purchase on my own, or even traveled to a place that was where only I wanted to go. I have had a fabulous life for which I am completely grateful, but it is time to make it more mine and less everyone else's. So that is what I am dedicating the next twelve years to - being selfish, getting a big girl job, shoving the chicks out of the nest, and traveling somewhere that does not come with the Disney Channel.
Speaking of chicks leaving, I am at a complete loss as to why the Bunny is so thrilled about going to middle school. Does a LOCKER contain that much allure? She has studied her combination with far more dedication than she did one test in elementary school. Does she not know what is coming next? All the weird growth that is about to happen all over her body? That her hormones are about to take her on a ride bigger than any roller coaster? That her peers will start forming wolf packs that roam the halls looking for the weak to devour? That her hair is about to become a SERIOUS ISSUE? Nope, not the bunny. She has always been delightfully indifferent to her peers' opinions on most things and suddenly she is lying out outfits for the week. She has a secret crush, her first crush since preschool. Her father choked when I told him that, but I reassured him that she has excellent taste in men since she is following her mother's role model. I stare at awe at this person who still truly loves me, but she really doesn't seem to need me like she did.
Meanwhile, her brothers' are completely indifferent to the beginning of school. Monkey Boy refused a haircut, so he will be Cousin It the first few days so people will be able to recognize him. Boo's only concern was that he can't remember his kindergarten teacher's name. I have pushed him suddenly to learn how to write, but once again, my husband's genes have overcome mine and he will have handwriting indecipherable in any language. They are also like their father that once they leave my presence, they completely forget my existence. The great thing about this is when they DO see me again, it is always with a look of delight that they had forgotten something they like so much. Which is, of course, why disappearing for twelve years really was worth it.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Low level Weirdness....
Went to Mississippi again. It was not weird, which makes it weird. Met no crazy people, but that may have been because I only associated with people I have known for more than 20 years. After that length of time, you kind of lose your sensitivity to their particular weirdness.
But there was one person - I discovered that someone I know in Greenville is a vegan. This is sort of like finding Mormon missionaries in Kabul. I imagine the difficulties are approximately the same. I have known this man for approximately 25 years, but until the visit, I never realized how much I liked him. It isn't often you can meet a man who can take a conversation from an ashram in India to a urinal story involving Lamar Alexander and Ross Barnett. Ross Barnett was MS's famously racist governor from the 1960s who pledged to keep Ole Miss lily white and which resulted in the National Guard visiting Oxford. Mississippi, of course, named its' capitol city's water source after him. Anyway, he was telling a story about when he was growing up he went from having CNN's Ted Turner as a big brother at boarding school to having Mr. Plaid President-want-to-be Lamar Alexander as his fraternity big brother. Well, because his family has roots so deep in Mississippi that they probably walked the real Natchez Trace, his family knew everyone, including Mr. Barnett. So, he (I need to come up with some distinctive name, so I will call him Walker) is standing at the Cotton Bowl with Lamar peeing in the 1960s. Well, he looks over and Mr. Barnett is peeing on the other side. So, after making introductions along the lines of "Politician meet future politician," Ross, without skipping a beat, swaps hands he is using for his package and reaches across Walker to shake Lamar's hand. Lamar waited until after soap. Makes me like Lamar just a tiny bit. Anyway, in addition to Walker knowing the universe in Mississippi, he has also traveled a lot, including time on an ashram where he became familiar with the Swami who moved to Oregon with all his Rolls Royces and attempted to poison the town's drinking water. Walker "didn't like him."
So, the other day I made my mom cry. This is not new, but she gets really, really upset about how much I hate Greenville. She tells me I will never be happy anywhere I live, which is completely possible, but I do, honestly, strongly dislike my hometown. Talking with hubby and friend one night, we were talking about how much we liked college vs. high school. Hubby and friend's wife were in favor of high school, and I said, "I would rather eat my own eyeballs than go back to that time." What I have come to realize is that I always felt like people around me growing up were only interested in their tiny little portion of the world, and anything that disturbed that or was different or forced them to change was BAD. Girls making good grades is BAD. Religious curiosity is BAD. Voting Democrat if you are white is EVIL. There were a couple of times when I heard and saw stuff this visit that were so racist and ignorant that it took my breath away. That was appalling, but more appalling to me was my unwillingness to address those comments and attitudes. I was completely willing to walk away, which made me feel like I was back in 1986 and living there again.
This sounds so judgmental, and I know I am, but it really isn't a Mississippi overall thing. It is the only place I know all the bugs and trees. I spend hours trying to figure out how I can justify to my husband the need to buy land and plant a pecan orchard in Mississippi. He can't do it because it would mean he never had another bit of dietary roughage and he is quite proud of his colon's health. And it is hot. And he doesn't understand one word anyone says to him. We were sitting on our porch at the Shack Up Inn, and I said, "I can't believe I have nothing to do." And he said, "Sitting here in silence and sweating IS doing something." So, that is what I did this trip. Sweated. Is that the past tense of "to sweat"?
Oh, here is a project for you. When you travel, always be sure to check out the magazine rack in the gas stations. You can learn so much about the community that shops there from it. One place in Tennessee where we stopped apparently likes only these things: 1) Female genitalia. Lots of porn magazines focused below the waist. Boobie fans are out of luck. 2) Marijuana. I learned there are 4 magazines that specialize in it. 3) Ty Pennington, the host of Extreme Makeover. They keep back issues in case your collection is not complete. 4) The stars of Disney. These were arranged between the titties and the marijuana, which kind of frightened me. 5) Hairstyling magazines like you find at Supercuts. That was it. Not one monster truck, hunting, cooking, travel, or current events magazine, but I now know that Selena Gomez broke up with her boyfriend AND there are lots of animal names used for girl parts, but which are necessary to know for understanding the covers of the gentleman's publications. So, while you are waiting for your child to choose the sugar bomb that will make him talk without breathing for 2 hours in the car, you might want to learn something new from the magazine rack.
But there was one person - I discovered that someone I know in Greenville is a vegan. This is sort of like finding Mormon missionaries in Kabul. I imagine the difficulties are approximately the same. I have known this man for approximately 25 years, but until the visit, I never realized how much I liked him. It isn't often you can meet a man who can take a conversation from an ashram in India to a urinal story involving Lamar Alexander and Ross Barnett. Ross Barnett was MS's famously racist governor from the 1960s who pledged to keep Ole Miss lily white and which resulted in the National Guard visiting Oxford. Mississippi, of course, named its' capitol city's water source after him. Anyway, he was telling a story about when he was growing up he went from having CNN's Ted Turner as a big brother at boarding school to having Mr. Plaid President-want-to-be Lamar Alexander as his fraternity big brother. Well, because his family has roots so deep in Mississippi that they probably walked the real Natchez Trace, his family knew everyone, including Mr. Barnett. So, he (I need to come up with some distinctive name, so I will call him Walker) is standing at the Cotton Bowl with Lamar peeing in the 1960s. Well, he looks over and Mr. Barnett is peeing on the other side. So, after making introductions along the lines of "Politician meet future politician," Ross, without skipping a beat, swaps hands he is using for his package and reaches across Walker to shake Lamar's hand. Lamar waited until after soap. Makes me like Lamar just a tiny bit. Anyway, in addition to Walker knowing the universe in Mississippi, he has also traveled a lot, including time on an ashram where he became familiar with the Swami who moved to Oregon with all his Rolls Royces and attempted to poison the town's drinking water. Walker "didn't like him."
So, the other day I made my mom cry. This is not new, but she gets really, really upset about how much I hate Greenville. She tells me I will never be happy anywhere I live, which is completely possible, but I do, honestly, strongly dislike my hometown. Talking with hubby and friend one night, we were talking about how much we liked college vs. high school. Hubby and friend's wife were in favor of high school, and I said, "I would rather eat my own eyeballs than go back to that time." What I have come to realize is that I always felt like people around me growing up were only interested in their tiny little portion of the world, and anything that disturbed that or was different or forced them to change was BAD. Girls making good grades is BAD. Religious curiosity is BAD. Voting Democrat if you are white is EVIL. There were a couple of times when I heard and saw stuff this visit that were so racist and ignorant that it took my breath away. That was appalling, but more appalling to me was my unwillingness to address those comments and attitudes. I was completely willing to walk away, which made me feel like I was back in 1986 and living there again.
This sounds so judgmental, and I know I am, but it really isn't a Mississippi overall thing. It is the only place I know all the bugs and trees. I spend hours trying to figure out how I can justify to my husband the need to buy land and plant a pecan orchard in Mississippi. He can't do it because it would mean he never had another bit of dietary roughage and he is quite proud of his colon's health. And it is hot. And he doesn't understand one word anyone says to him. We were sitting on our porch at the Shack Up Inn, and I said, "I can't believe I have nothing to do." And he said, "Sitting here in silence and sweating IS doing something." So, that is what I did this trip. Sweated. Is that the past tense of "to sweat"?
Oh, here is a project for you. When you travel, always be sure to check out the magazine rack in the gas stations. You can learn so much about the community that shops there from it. One place in Tennessee where we stopped apparently likes only these things: 1) Female genitalia. Lots of porn magazines focused below the waist. Boobie fans are out of luck. 2) Marijuana. I learned there are 4 magazines that specialize in it. 3) Ty Pennington, the host of Extreme Makeover. They keep back issues in case your collection is not complete. 4) The stars of Disney. These were arranged between the titties and the marijuana, which kind of frightened me. 5) Hairstyling magazines like you find at Supercuts. That was it. Not one monster truck, hunting, cooking, travel, or current events magazine, but I now know that Selena Gomez broke up with her boyfriend AND there are lots of animal names used for girl parts, but which are necessary to know for understanding the covers of the gentleman's publications. So, while you are waiting for your child to choose the sugar bomb that will make him talk without breathing for 2 hours in the car, you might want to learn something new from the magazine rack.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Topless bathers and peeing in the ocean
We are back from yet another trek across the ocean. Growing up, I never went on vacation really. Going to Jackson only happened twice in my memory, and that was only 1.5 hours away. You went to see your relatives an hour away once a year. The only times I left Mississippi were when I went to visit my father, and among my group of friends, I was exotic because I was the only one who had ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line. I went to the beach twice before age 18. None of this is a complaint, but rather an observation as to how different the lives of my children are from my own. When you ask Bunny where she wants to go next year for vacation, the answer is inevitably, "Venice." None of my children consider going to Europe every single year a vacation. It is just a long trip to see the family with the perk of 8 straight hours of watching TV on a plane without mommy making them stop to eat, blink or sleep. And a grandmother who will let you eat 5 pieces of cake at one sitting. So, I find this somewhat disturbing to hear the five-year-old say, "Spain is hot and boring." WHAT? I don't know how to cope with this - all this travel is inevitably making them smarter and more worldly, but will there come a day when they look at something amazing and don't feel a sense of awe anymore? I think soon we will have to take them either the "supersights" route to the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State building, and the Taj Mahal, or the natural route like Victoria Falls or the Grand Canyon before they are impressed. They have no sense of 1,000 year old history being really old and rare. They don't even know how crappy the beaches of Spain are compared to Florida's because they have NEVER BEEN THERE. Well, Miami Beach doesn't count because that is just as weird as going to Spain.
As to the Spanish beaches and European beaches in general, I think it is important to clear up a misconception. All the women going topless. Honestly, think about this. How many women do you know that are not on a reality show that you really want to see the breasts of? As a woman, do you want to expose even more of your body for critique? As I sit happily on the beach in my burkha (well, the European equivalent, a one-piece suit, EVERYONE wears a bikini, including the men), I must admit I do a lot of looking at boobies. I am generally happy with my own, so this is mainly to determine if 1) this person has given birth 2) this person has original boobies 3) how many layers of support garments are necessary to restrain those bubbies. However, 99% of the time, it is just boring. European women have outstanding body self-esteem, and they really don't care much about how they look either in or out of a swimsuit. Almost all the beautiful people keep theirs covered, as well as all the natives. And I am kind of wondering how you handle it when you go on vacation with friends. When your best friend whips off her top and she has mogambo boobies, is your husband/boyfriend not allowed to notice? And if he does notice, how does he not look repeatedly? I have a suspician at to why all the sunglasses on men in Spain are black. Sometimes, you get a stunner on the beach. I have no idea how old this person was, but if you have ever seen one of those people that they periodically find buried in the bogs of Denmark, you get the idea. Well, this woman was in good shape, about 60 years old (I am guessing) and she had breasts that looked like leather. When she lay on her back they would kind of be stretched taut because all the moisture had been sucked out of her skin years ago, and there was no give. After an accidental glance, my husband was so disturbed he wouldn't even turn his body that way. I am just grateful that the European fondness for weenie bikinis on men seems to be passing. The Spaniards missed the message, but the lily white British men are avoiding it at least, for which I am grateful.
Just wondering. When your son asks if he can pee in the ocean, and he is ten-years-old, should it not follow that means you sit to do it, not that you stand with you back to the crowd and squirt toward the horizon? Is this something I should have to explain?
Spain is lovely. Spain is brown. Spain loves to put plastic greenhouses on every possible surface. Spain is still a country where goat herding is a profession. Spain has signs at every exit to the interstate pointing out you can not ride horses on the interstate. Spain has no sand on their beaches, just tiny rocks. Spain has crappy pizza but great orange ice cream. Spain has a radio station where they play every song from your 1980s prom in rotation. Spanish people love children. Spanish people shut down civilization for a two-hour nap everyday. Spanish people don't hate Americans and don't pretend they can't speak English. Even if you drive to the highest point in the Sierra Nevada, it is still brown. Southern Spain has not one freaking thing to see after you go to Grenada. Gypsies are scary. I lay on the beach and fantasized about going to Morocco. Southern Spain is, sadly, a place that I really have no desire to go to again.
After 13 years of marriage, don't you think one of the two people would remember the date before 10 p.m.? Clearly, my husband is not under pressure to come up with something romantic.
I have to stop reading books. Of course, that would mean I have to watch yodeling on the German TV, BUT it would keep me from going off on crazy tangents. Whatever book I am reading directly impacts my behavior. Survivalist novels result in my hoarding food. Victorian novels will causes words like "prithee" and "verily" to be said at some point. Zombie novels are just too horrifying to comprehend. On this trip, I read a whole bunch of novels that caused me to 1) want to be a cop 2) become obsessed with British imperialism and resolve to determine what the status of the Irish Republican movement is 3) consider dog breeding as a job 4) attempt to understand medieval alchemy 5) willing to accept almost any conspiracy theory out there that doesn't involve Jews or the Romanov dynasty and my person favorite, trying to determine if bilocation is possible. You know when you are simultaneously in two places at once? All the good medieval Saints did it. So, supposedly this event happens when both sides of your brain are both turned on and listening or are "in convergence." No, I don't believe it, but now that the obsession to become a crack shot with a rifle has passed, I am going to go and study the mysteries of the mind. If I show up for a visit unexpectedly, just ask me if it is really me or just my shadow self. Later. All those hoarded dirty clothes followed me from Spain.
As to the Spanish beaches and European beaches in general, I think it is important to clear up a misconception. All the women going topless. Honestly, think about this. How many women do you know that are not on a reality show that you really want to see the breasts of? As a woman, do you want to expose even more of your body for critique? As I sit happily on the beach in my burkha (well, the European equivalent, a one-piece suit, EVERYONE wears a bikini, including the men), I must admit I do a lot of looking at boobies. I am generally happy with my own, so this is mainly to determine if 1) this person has given birth 2) this person has original boobies 3) how many layers of support garments are necessary to restrain those bubbies. However, 99% of the time, it is just boring. European women have outstanding body self-esteem, and they really don't care much about how they look either in or out of a swimsuit. Almost all the beautiful people keep theirs covered, as well as all the natives. And I am kind of wondering how you handle it when you go on vacation with friends. When your best friend whips off her top and she has mogambo boobies, is your husband/boyfriend not allowed to notice? And if he does notice, how does he not look repeatedly? I have a suspician at to why all the sunglasses on men in Spain are black. Sometimes, you get a stunner on the beach. I have no idea how old this person was, but if you have ever seen one of those people that they periodically find buried in the bogs of Denmark, you get the idea. Well, this woman was in good shape, about 60 years old (I am guessing) and she had breasts that looked like leather. When she lay on her back they would kind of be stretched taut because all the moisture had been sucked out of her skin years ago, and there was no give. After an accidental glance, my husband was so disturbed he wouldn't even turn his body that way. I am just grateful that the European fondness for weenie bikinis on men seems to be passing. The Spaniards missed the message, but the lily white British men are avoiding it at least, for which I am grateful.
Just wondering. When your son asks if he can pee in the ocean, and he is ten-years-old, should it not follow that means you sit to do it, not that you stand with you back to the crowd and squirt toward the horizon? Is this something I should have to explain?
Spain is lovely. Spain is brown. Spain loves to put plastic greenhouses on every possible surface. Spain is still a country where goat herding is a profession. Spain has signs at every exit to the interstate pointing out you can not ride horses on the interstate. Spain has no sand on their beaches, just tiny rocks. Spain has crappy pizza but great orange ice cream. Spain has a radio station where they play every song from your 1980s prom in rotation. Spanish people love children. Spanish people shut down civilization for a two-hour nap everyday. Spanish people don't hate Americans and don't pretend they can't speak English. Even if you drive to the highest point in the Sierra Nevada, it is still brown. Southern Spain has not one freaking thing to see after you go to Grenada. Gypsies are scary. I lay on the beach and fantasized about going to Morocco. Southern Spain is, sadly, a place that I really have no desire to go to again.
After 13 years of marriage, don't you think one of the two people would remember the date before 10 p.m.? Clearly, my husband is not under pressure to come up with something romantic.
I have to stop reading books. Of course, that would mean I have to watch yodeling on the German TV, BUT it would keep me from going off on crazy tangents. Whatever book I am reading directly impacts my behavior. Survivalist novels result in my hoarding food. Victorian novels will causes words like "prithee" and "verily" to be said at some point. Zombie novels are just too horrifying to comprehend. On this trip, I read a whole bunch of novels that caused me to 1) want to be a cop 2) become obsessed with British imperialism and resolve to determine what the status of the Irish Republican movement is 3) consider dog breeding as a job 4) attempt to understand medieval alchemy 5) willing to accept almost any conspiracy theory out there that doesn't involve Jews or the Romanov dynasty and my person favorite, trying to determine if bilocation is possible. You know when you are simultaneously in two places at once? All the good medieval Saints did it. So, supposedly this event happens when both sides of your brain are both turned on and listening or are "in convergence." No, I don't believe it, but now that the obsession to become a crack shot with a rifle has passed, I am going to go and study the mysteries of the mind. If I show up for a visit unexpectedly, just ask me if it is really me or just my shadow self. Later. All those hoarded dirty clothes followed me from Spain.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
Has anyone else noticed that the world falls apart in May? Everything except taxes and Christmas happens then. I have been busier the past two weeks than I am in some months. And it is all busy work - signing things, driving to events, moving piles from one place to another (snow shovel under house, box of pool crap out from under house). And then stuff starts GROWING. I have these illusions of having a green thumb, but only in a survival of the fittest sort of way. I am about to dig up my 6th dead dogwood that I have personally planted and promptly killed. I plant stuff and if it lives, great. If not, I don't mourn. However, whatever I seem to plant that does live tends to take over the other three closest plants. So far, I have learned not to plant miniature roses (mine is now about a four food wide bush and took over my herb garden), elderberry (who cares if birds love it? it is bigger than most of my trees and that is after hacking it to the ground yearly) and oregano, which is completely indifferent to dog urine and is therefore inedible but has essentially become ground cover. My rosemary bush could supply an Italian village because it failed to get the message that it doesn't like clay soil. Every year I plant stuff in my little garden and about 90% of that goes to feeding bugs, but the next year I come back and plop more stuff in and repeat the cycle. This year I decided to start tomatoes from seeds. This was surprisingly easy, except what do you do with 10 yellow tomato plants? Do what I did - stick them in the ground, promptly kill 7, then go to the store and buy 6 more tomato plants to replace them. And this year I planted some zucchini, my husband's favorite vegetable right after okra and mustard greens (got those darlings, too). My lettuce is growing nicely and I have lots of peas. My cherry tree may break under the fruit. And the best thing about all of this? They will ALL be ripe while we are out of the country, so the bugs literally will get to eat them. One year we actually wanted our cherries so we covered the tree with a net. A bird still got in and ate EVERY SINGLE ONE and sacrificed at least half of his feathers during his escape. I was mad, but that didn't last long because I had to go and drink a beer so I could have residue to kill slugs. I am so happy beer kills slugs. It is the best of all worlds. I drink enough to make me happy, then use the rest to kill my archenemy. This year I am also growing a very healthy crop of poison ivy. Both daughter and I are allergic to it, so it is someone else's responsibility.My husband, being German, can't identify it so he went out there and pulled up the last batch with his bare hands (honey! There was some vine growing up the tree, but I pulled it all down!), but unfortunately he won't do that for me anymore, so I have to hire "Yard Boy" to come and do it. He will do just about anything for me for $10 an hour, and he is teaching me about "sexting" (no, not to me, just how common it is among teenagers and how my children can sneak things past me) and all the nifty things my phone can do (it has a calendar! it can take pictures!). I love spring. Except for the fact I have to go and battle some weeds now and plant these little plants I grew from seed but don't know what they are. Except they aren't pumpkins.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Vacation torture
If I had lined up every male on the planet 20 years ago and said which one are you least likely to marry, I am pretty sure that my husband would have been that person. Or at least in the small cluster of people that included Kalahari bushmen, Communist Special Forces, and dog chefs of Korea. This is not a negative toward him, but I am pretty sure I would not have given him the time of day because I was shallow as a birdbath. He is the polar opposite of me - not spontaneous, responsible, eats yogurt willingly, puts himself to bed when sick, doesn't like ceiling fans, and is completely indifferent to People magazine. He is what I would like to be more like, but I have decided that I am serving my purpose by letting him live vicariously through me and my escapades. When we were first starting to date, I think he pretty much decided that I was drunk between the ages of 18 and 21, had avoided all contact with nature, went through men like others go through toilet paper, and only read mystery thrillers. There is a chunk (not a grain) of truth in that, so it delights me when I can prove him wrong about ANYTHING or rattle him. Mainly because he is always right. Because he is always right and so methodical that entire decades can pass without a major decision, I love to rock his world. I have managed to do it a few times - the surprise that is Boo, telling him I ran track in high school and seriously thought about going to the United States Military Academy. He hates spur of the moment decisions, which brings me to the whole point of this post. Vacation planning.
We go to visit his family in Germany every year. He grew up in a lovely, charming village in the north of Germany that is primarily an agricultural region. We saw everything remotely interesting 15 years ago, so each summer is a challenge for me to entertain myself. It is impossible to carry the amount of books that Bunny and I need. His parents insist on watching lip-synching leider (folk music) shows with the occasional bike race (note to self - bike racing is more boring to watch than golf or bowling) thrown in which rules out TV even if it is only basic German cable. The local bookstores do not carry any English language journals so it is the equivalent of stepping into a time capsule for the three weeks we are there - I have no idea of what is going on in the world unless he tells me. His mother brightens my day with her cooking so I come home fatter if not happier. One of my favorite activities while there is being a "schnecker jaeger" or slug hunter when I walk around with my salt dispenser. His parents used to have a huge garden so I could at least dig potatoes, but they took the garden away from me about 8 years ago because it was easier to go to the market. My husband knows I do this trip for him and because I love the theoretical concept of grandparents spending lots of time with their grandchildren, so every other year he throws me a bone of a real vacation.
This is vacation year. For unknown reasons, I decided that he was going to do it all. This has been sort of like asking Dick Cheney to mind his own business in terms of difficulty for me. I make graphs of opening times and prices for museums before trips and doctoral dissertations are written based on less research than I put into a vacation. So, he started looking. Every time he came close to making a decision, I would throw out a new country. We tentatively decided on Greece since we knew we would eat the food, it had beaches, and it was fairly cheap. I was strongly advocating for Norway or Morocco, but he more strongly resisted. Germany loves the package vacation and we were going to squelch our individuality and go on a package tour where you got the hotel and food and a beach for the low, low, price...So, husband spends lots of time looking for the perfect place. Then I tell him, I don't know if I want to go to Greece. I want to go to Turkey. In fact, I start looking for HOUSES in Turkey because I don't want a package deal anymore. We figure out that for one week it would be a giant pain in the posterior, so we go back to Turkish package deals. I learned that Russians love Turkish package deals and there were so many complaints about loud, drunk Russians we went back to Crete as the plan. Many, many, many hours into his labor, I get on the internet and say, "Look! Spain is cheaper!!!" He isn't convinced, but then he says, "Grenada! Alhambara!" and we were done. So, smart man that he is he immediately booked the tickets before I could change my mind again. I decided that no matter how miserable I am, I will be able to eat olives and good sausages and drink sherry every day, so I will probably make it. I will just have to avoid the British package travelers. Here is how to find a British female tourist on the beach. There is a better than average chance that she is the topless one smoking a cigarette while lying on her back and dragging her breasts out of her armpits (in their defense, they shave all appropriate areas). In America, she would be in a mumu, but in Europe she will be in a thong. When we went to Crete a few years ago, I realized that I don't like package tourists so I am going to struggle with my prejudices.
So, I am now going to add Spanish to the languages that I need to know but don't. At least I can count to 10 which is more than I had in Italy.
We go to visit his family in Germany every year. He grew up in a lovely, charming village in the north of Germany that is primarily an agricultural region. We saw everything remotely interesting 15 years ago, so each summer is a challenge for me to entertain myself. It is impossible to carry the amount of books that Bunny and I need. His parents insist on watching lip-synching leider (folk music) shows with the occasional bike race (note to self - bike racing is more boring to watch than golf or bowling) thrown in which rules out TV even if it is only basic German cable. The local bookstores do not carry any English language journals so it is the equivalent of stepping into a time capsule for the three weeks we are there - I have no idea of what is going on in the world unless he tells me. His mother brightens my day with her cooking so I come home fatter if not happier. One of my favorite activities while there is being a "schnecker jaeger" or slug hunter when I walk around with my salt dispenser. His parents used to have a huge garden so I could at least dig potatoes, but they took the garden away from me about 8 years ago because it was easier to go to the market. My husband knows I do this trip for him and because I love the theoretical concept of grandparents spending lots of time with their grandchildren, so every other year he throws me a bone of a real vacation.
This is vacation year. For unknown reasons, I decided that he was going to do it all. This has been sort of like asking Dick Cheney to mind his own business in terms of difficulty for me. I make graphs of opening times and prices for museums before trips and doctoral dissertations are written based on less research than I put into a vacation. So, he started looking. Every time he came close to making a decision, I would throw out a new country. We tentatively decided on Greece since we knew we would eat the food, it had beaches, and it was fairly cheap. I was strongly advocating for Norway or Morocco, but he more strongly resisted. Germany loves the package vacation and we were going to squelch our individuality and go on a package tour where you got the hotel and food and a beach for the low, low, price...So, husband spends lots of time looking for the perfect place. Then I tell him, I don't know if I want to go to Greece. I want to go to Turkey. In fact, I start looking for HOUSES in Turkey because I don't want a package deal anymore. We figure out that for one week it would be a giant pain in the posterior, so we go back to Turkish package deals. I learned that Russians love Turkish package deals and there were so many complaints about loud, drunk Russians we went back to Crete as the plan. Many, many, many hours into his labor, I get on the internet and say, "Look! Spain is cheaper!!!" He isn't convinced, but then he says, "Grenada! Alhambara!" and we were done. So, smart man that he is he immediately booked the tickets before I could change my mind again. I decided that no matter how miserable I am, I will be able to eat olives and good sausages and drink sherry every day, so I will probably make it. I will just have to avoid the British package travelers. Here is how to find a British female tourist on the beach. There is a better than average chance that she is the topless one smoking a cigarette while lying on her back and dragging her breasts out of her armpits (in their defense, they shave all appropriate areas). In America, she would be in a mumu, but in Europe she will be in a thong. When we went to Crete a few years ago, I realized that I don't like package tourists so I am going to struggle with my prejudices.
So, I am now going to add Spanish to the languages that I need to know but don't. At least I can count to 10 which is more than I had in Italy.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Barfing on Your Shoes
So, if something has a $325 price tag on it, isn't it reasonable to suppose you won't get it if you offer $60? Two weeks ago I went to a silent auction to support Monkey Boy's soccer team. They had all this stuff, absolutely none of it I needed or even wanted. However, there was one item that I thought, "Well, I need to drive the price up on this one since right now there is a $300 difference between list price and sell price." And, thus I began my run down the pathway to hell.
Much to my horror and despite two hours passing during which every single person in that room let me down, I left the auction as the owner of an exercise Boot Camp. I have been in hysterics ever since. I can make myself laugh out loud whenever I think about this. With the exception of pedophiles, food from Taco Bell, and the hunting of elephants, there is not much on this planet that I hate more than exercise. I GUARANTEE that if hell is what you hate most, I will be mopping while on a treadmill while chatting with someone who wants to talk about programming languages. I hate exercise. The only things that would make me exercise is 1) the threat of having to wear a bathing suit on Oprah 2) them having to remove a wall to get my fat butt out of the house when I was dead if I don't lose weight or 3) paying for said exercise.
So, I downloaded the nifty packet that comes with LOTS! OF! EXCLAMATION! POINTS! and threats. If someone else wakes up with a hangover and doesn't show up, then *I* get to do extra sprints. If someone in my class turns up dead and that classmate has skipped a class, I guarantee you should consider me a suspect. The only thing that gets me out of this class is THUNDER. Snow, rain, dead family members, and boils on my butt are not excuses. AND we get to do it M-F, with for those willing, a FREE!!! Saturday class thrown in. Oh, the joy. And I have to write down every single bite of food I put in my mouth. I guess I need to eat all my Girl Scout cookies this weekend before they give me the log book.
So, they give you four free classes so you can get in touch with your inner masochist early. I went to one of the warm-up classes yesterday. A woman who was way too happy was leading the 6:00 class (note to all - those people are crazier than me) asked me if I was excited to take this class and I said honestly, "I would rather have dental work done without medication." She blinked a couple of times and left me. So, I got to be the fat, slow, old girl at the class yesterday. I did not die and I am able to walk without moaning today, and I am going back tomorrow morning. And be the slow, fat girl again. I am hopeful for a couple of things - the promise of dropping a clothing size that the literature promises and that elusive "high" that other people seem to get when they exercise. The only "high" that I have ever felt when exercising was when it stopped and I could lie on my back and watch the pretty clouds pass overhead. My friend, Chris, compared a good exercise high to great sex, but I know for a fact he is insane so I am going to ignore him. Have you ever seen a runner smiling? Except after they have stopped? Nope, me either. They all look like they are trying to have a painful bowel movement.
I am done now. Pray for me over the next month.
Much to my horror and despite two hours passing during which every single person in that room let me down, I left the auction as the owner of an exercise Boot Camp. I have been in hysterics ever since. I can make myself laugh out loud whenever I think about this. With the exception of pedophiles, food from Taco Bell, and the hunting of elephants, there is not much on this planet that I hate more than exercise. I GUARANTEE that if hell is what you hate most, I will be mopping while on a treadmill while chatting with someone who wants to talk about programming languages. I hate exercise. The only things that would make me exercise is 1) the threat of having to wear a bathing suit on Oprah 2) them having to remove a wall to get my fat butt out of the house when I was dead if I don't lose weight or 3) paying for said exercise.
So, I downloaded the nifty packet that comes with LOTS! OF! EXCLAMATION! POINTS! and threats. If someone else wakes up with a hangover and doesn't show up, then *I* get to do extra sprints. If someone in my class turns up dead and that classmate has skipped a class, I guarantee you should consider me a suspect. The only thing that gets me out of this class is THUNDER. Snow, rain, dead family members, and boils on my butt are not excuses. AND we get to do it M-F, with for those willing, a FREE!!! Saturday class thrown in. Oh, the joy. And I have to write down every single bite of food I put in my mouth. I guess I need to eat all my Girl Scout cookies this weekend before they give me the log book.
So, they give you four free classes so you can get in touch with your inner masochist early. I went to one of the warm-up classes yesterday. A woman who was way too happy was leading the 6:00 class (note to all - those people are crazier than me) asked me if I was excited to take this class and I said honestly, "I would rather have dental work done without medication." She blinked a couple of times and left me. So, I got to be the fat, slow, old girl at the class yesterday. I did not die and I am able to walk without moaning today, and I am going back tomorrow morning. And be the slow, fat girl again. I am hopeful for a couple of things - the promise of dropping a clothing size that the literature promises and that elusive "high" that other people seem to get when they exercise. The only "high" that I have ever felt when exercising was when it stopped and I could lie on my back and watch the pretty clouds pass overhead. My friend, Chris, compared a good exercise high to great sex, but I know for a fact he is insane so I am going to ignore him. Have you ever seen a runner smiling? Except after they have stopped? Nope, me either. They all look like they are trying to have a painful bowel movement.
I am done now. Pray for me over the next month.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The youngest...
No good mother will ever admit that she loves one child more than another, and since I like to think I am a good mother, I don't love one of my children more than another. I love whichever child with whom I can get some alone time. I love one child for theological reasons, another for the humor, and then there is Boo. Boo has been known as many things - the mistake, the extra gift, the love baby, the Valium baby, the child that has created pregnancies in others. He is all of those. He is also the child about whom I am the most emotionally fragile. He is the child who has been to the hospital twice and actually been scary sick. He is the child who I can not ever see any bad in anything he does and can love his way out of anything with me. After he was born, I literally felt like the final piece of my heart was in place. His sole flaw is he does not want to wipe his butt, and it is not like you can let him "cry it out" on the toilet because he will sit there for 45 minutes waiting for you, and I have decided that I would rather wipe his butt than deal with a child with hemorrhoids. He also does not like anyone to see him naked. A friend recently recounted a story where she walked in on him and her daughter, and the daughter was naked, and Boo announced, "I don't like to be naked around other people." Even on German beaches where there is not a covered butt on a child for 100 yards, he would be fully dressed and completely happy. I am banking on that because with his ferocious skills at manipulating women, we would have a difficult life after puberty set in.
Last night, he announced, "I am tired" and went to bed by himself at 8:15. This is sort of the equivalent of Newt Gingrinch showing up somewhere in a tiara and high heels. It doesn't happen. So, he sleeps until 6:18 a.m. when he wakes up just like he does ever day of his life. To the minute. He lies in bed beside me (Husband is out of town) and tells me he is thirsty, hungry, sick, unhappy, etc., until finally I concede defeat and we get up at 7:30. I carry him downstairs and lay him on the couch and he immediately falls right back asleep and sleeps for three more hours. He has never once in his entire life from infancy on gone back to sleep immediately after waking up. He surfaces for around 2 hours and consumes a slice of bread and tells me he wants to go back to sleep. I have by this point called the doctor and asked "Is it possible for a child to sleep too much?" The short answer is no, but in my mind he has already had cancer, diabetes, and a brain tumor today. I think it is the flu, though, and I am not digging the thought of that one, except he doesn't have fever, and I didn't get the shot for him because I have never actually known a child to get the flu.
That is all. I am going to go and watch him sleep.
Last night, he announced, "I am tired" and went to bed by himself at 8:15. This is sort of the equivalent of Newt Gingrinch showing up somewhere in a tiara and high heels. It doesn't happen. So, he sleeps until 6:18 a.m. when he wakes up just like he does ever day of his life. To the minute. He lies in bed beside me (Husband is out of town) and tells me he is thirsty, hungry, sick, unhappy, etc., until finally I concede defeat and we get up at 7:30. I carry him downstairs and lay him on the couch and he immediately falls right back asleep and sleeps for three more hours. He has never once in his entire life from infancy on gone back to sleep immediately after waking up. He surfaces for around 2 hours and consumes a slice of bread and tells me he wants to go back to sleep. I have by this point called the doctor and asked "Is it possible for a child to sleep too much?" The short answer is no, but in my mind he has already had cancer, diabetes, and a brain tumor today. I think it is the flu, though, and I am not digging the thought of that one, except he doesn't have fever, and I didn't get the shot for him because I have never actually known a child to get the flu.
That is all. I am going to go and watch him sleep.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Children stupid actions
So, life has been dull lately, for which I am amazingly grateful. The highlight of the last two weeks was the fact that I have REALLY disciplined my children for the first time. I am not talking about the psychotic mommy screaming at them which you know will be the bread-and-butter of future "My mom is insane" stories and which still reduces them to tears but has zero long term impact, but where there is a slim chance they will remember it. At least one of my children will, at least. My middle child who is the one making the majority of the stupid personal decisions (I can quickly think of at least 3 times with squealing brakes and shattered looking faces on drivers when he ignored the fact it was a street) is also the one who seems to retain the message the longest. I am not an overprotective mother, but I do like to have the vaguest idea of where my kids are, even if it is simply "outside." The other day Monkey Boy went outside and my only instruction was tell me where he was going. If you go inside somewhere, tell me. Of course, he did not do this. I knew he was one of two places, but there is that embarrassing phone call to the wrong parent (oh, 2 hours after I should have made it?), "Do you have my kid?" and they don't. I finally called the correct parent and told her, "Tell him to run. He is in trouble." My son is FAST and he ran in screaming "I KNOW! I FORGOT TO CALL!" So, he lost all screen time (video, tv, computer) for 4 days which culminated in him literally lying on the couch moaning, "Can I do ANY chore to make this end sooner?"
Meanwhile, Bunny got herself grounded for two weeks. She is almost a pre-teen, which means that she is starting to think about lying. A lot. Nothing makes me crazier than a liar. Except a liar who blames the mistake on her five-year-old brother. So, she has been grounded for two weeks. She is oblivious. She is secretly defiant. She sits and "reads" while Boo watches TV. She tells Monkey Boy how to navigate a page (which is sort of like telling A-Rod how to play baseball). Next time she is grounded, I am going to add "NO Books." If she can read, she isn't being punished.
Yesterday I told her I was going to show her something on the computer. She happily bounced upstairs, just so I could go through a power point presentation on the perils of methamphetamine, lingering long over the rotten teeth and abscesses in the arms from shooting up. She was begging me to quit, but, oh, no, I had a platform. My poor kids - I have been on a two year tirade about drugs and sex, and I feel fairly confident that they are going to see through many smoke screens that might get thrown up in their faces. Of course, this has been a long time coming.
I have always been offended by calling parts "weenies" and "down there" and so I have always used the technical language. This has come back to bite me, one instance in particular. My children were sitting in Target (they were 3 and 4) in a shopping cart. We were waiting to check out on a particularly busy day, so they decided it was time to talk anatomy in the LOUDEST POSSIBLE VOICES. DS: Do you have a PENIS? DD: No, I have a VAGINA. Girls have VAGINAS, boys have PENISES!!!!!" The woman in front of me was standing straighter and straighter while the mother behind me was openly laughing. DS went through a period where he was always checking to make sure his "package" (there I go with an euphemism, but it is a blog for all) was still there. I don't know why boys do this, but he spent a good 6 months holding his friend. I tried to ignore it or do the "this is for private time" thing, but I should have just told the washing machine for all it mattered. Anyway, Christmas Eve rolled around. It was the family service. He trotted down to the front alter to listen to the story and stood by the storyteller so he could see. He immediately checked to make sure he had brought his stuff with him. My church looks very much like a European cathedral, and it has the accompanying acoustics. Anyway, I watched this for about 5 minutes in total mortification until I couldn't stand it and he didn't respond to the flailing hands of his mother at all. So finally I went and snatched him up and whispered in his ear, "Get you hand out of your pants!" And which point he screamed and the whole church got to hear, "I LIKE TO TOUCH MY PENIS!!!!!" Yes, I will tell this to his prom date, first girlfriend, future wife.
Husband dear is trying to woo me to Europe this year. For most people, they don't view this as a trial, but he comes from a very beautiful, extremely boring (and rainy) part of Deutschland. This year he has promised an "extra" vacation where we actually go somewhere fun and warm and with ANYTHING to do. Whenever we go to Eutin, one of my highlights is going into the back yard with salt and killing slugs. Yes, I actually look forward to this because I am slug-phobic and killing them soothes a deep part of my soul. And I am happy to concede that my mother-in-law is a far better cook than me.
So, this year he is dangling Crete in front of me. I am quite happy about this, but I don't expect it to happen. However, he is giving me time to plan my trip. Every time a place is suggested, I go and strip the library shelves and spend six months in preparation, watching, reading, organizing, etc. I make plan books that list the opening times/dates of museums, the highlights you must see, the restaurants we need to eat. I would have been fantastic as a planner of D-Day. By the time we get to the vacation spot, there is no opportunity for saying "Oh, I didn't know that!" I can be led astray by pretty flowers and shiny things or fried foods, but for the most part, I love planning our lives completely on a trip. I am so type A about this, I HONEST TO GOD had us be the first car in the Disneyland parking lot. And I started screaming at them to "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!!!" because cars were coming in after us and we would not be first in line at the breakfast buffet with Chip and Dale. We were done with Disneyland in two hours because of the extreme amount of planning. The next day I did not plan and we were unable to get on the Dumbo ride because we went there oh, whenever...So, right now I am immersed in Minotaurs, caves, beaches, Minoan archeology, etc. Even if we don't go, it has distracted me from my disobedient children.
Meanwhile, Bunny got herself grounded for two weeks. She is almost a pre-teen, which means that she is starting to think about lying. A lot. Nothing makes me crazier than a liar. Except a liar who blames the mistake on her five-year-old brother. So, she has been grounded for two weeks. She is oblivious. She is secretly defiant. She sits and "reads" while Boo watches TV. She tells Monkey Boy how to navigate a page (which is sort of like telling A-Rod how to play baseball). Next time she is grounded, I am going to add "NO Books." If she can read, she isn't being punished.
Yesterday I told her I was going to show her something on the computer. She happily bounced upstairs, just so I could go through a power point presentation on the perils of methamphetamine, lingering long over the rotten teeth and abscesses in the arms from shooting up. She was begging me to quit, but, oh, no, I had a platform. My poor kids - I have been on a two year tirade about drugs and sex, and I feel fairly confident that they are going to see through many smoke screens that might get thrown up in their faces. Of course, this has been a long time coming.
I have always been offended by calling parts "weenies" and "down there" and so I have always used the technical language. This has come back to bite me, one instance in particular. My children were sitting in Target (they were 3 and 4) in a shopping cart. We were waiting to check out on a particularly busy day, so they decided it was time to talk anatomy in the LOUDEST POSSIBLE VOICES. DS: Do you have a PENIS? DD: No, I have a VAGINA. Girls have VAGINAS, boys have PENISES!!!!!" The woman in front of me was standing straighter and straighter while the mother behind me was openly laughing. DS went through a period where he was always checking to make sure his "package" (there I go with an euphemism, but it is a blog for all) was still there. I don't know why boys do this, but he spent a good 6 months holding his friend. I tried to ignore it or do the "this is for private time" thing, but I should have just told the washing machine for all it mattered. Anyway, Christmas Eve rolled around. It was the family service. He trotted down to the front alter to listen to the story and stood by the storyteller so he could see. He immediately checked to make sure he had brought his stuff with him. My church looks very much like a European cathedral, and it has the accompanying acoustics. Anyway, I watched this for about 5 minutes in total mortification until I couldn't stand it and he didn't respond to the flailing hands of his mother at all. So finally I went and snatched him up and whispered in his ear, "Get you hand out of your pants!" And which point he screamed and the whole church got to hear, "I LIKE TO TOUCH MY PENIS!!!!!" Yes, I will tell this to his prom date, first girlfriend, future wife.
Husband dear is trying to woo me to Europe this year. For most people, they don't view this as a trial, but he comes from a very beautiful, extremely boring (and rainy) part of Deutschland. This year he has promised an "extra" vacation where we actually go somewhere fun and warm and with ANYTHING to do. Whenever we go to Eutin, one of my highlights is going into the back yard with salt and killing slugs. Yes, I actually look forward to this because I am slug-phobic and killing them soothes a deep part of my soul. And I am happy to concede that my mother-in-law is a far better cook than me.
So, this year he is dangling Crete in front of me. I am quite happy about this, but I don't expect it to happen. However, he is giving me time to plan my trip. Every time a place is suggested, I go and strip the library shelves and spend six months in preparation, watching, reading, organizing, etc. I make plan books that list the opening times/dates of museums, the highlights you must see, the restaurants we need to eat. I would have been fantastic as a planner of D-Day. By the time we get to the vacation spot, there is no opportunity for saying "Oh, I didn't know that!" I can be led astray by pretty flowers and shiny things or fried foods, but for the most part, I love planning our lives completely on a trip. I am so type A about this, I HONEST TO GOD had us be the first car in the Disneyland parking lot. And I started screaming at them to "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!!!" because cars were coming in after us and we would not be first in line at the breakfast buffet with Chip and Dale. We were done with Disneyland in two hours because of the extreme amount of planning. The next day I did not plan and we were unable to get on the Dumbo ride because we went there oh, whenever...So, right now I am immersed in Minotaurs, caves, beaches, Minoan archeology, etc. Even if we don't go, it has distracted me from my disobedient children.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Samsonite Children
I love to travel. I love to travel so much that I will give up almost anything to go somewhere else. The only thing I need in that "somewhere else" is a place to sleep. I don't care about the quality, the pillows, the sanitation. Just need to know it exists. I think this stems from growing up in Mississippi where a trip is anything longer than 45 minutes. I don't think I had gone to Jackson, the capital of Mississippi, more than 5 times before I went there for college. I never actually went to Memphis except to get on a plane. My parents' divorce worked to my advantage because Daddy clumped his visitation into long periods, so I got to go to wherever he was stationed - West Point, NY (cadets!!!), Shippensburg, PA (Amish!!!!), and San Antonio, Texas (pinatas!!!!). He even got a year of me while in Germany. The point of all of this is I had long, long, long periods of nothing with brief flares of adventure.
One of my favorite things about my husband is even though he is one of the least spontaneous people I know, he loves to travel as much as I do. We work well as a team. He needs the promise of food; I need the promise of rest. Together we can do all. Except we had kids. Kids have a few more needs than sleep and food. Regular schedules and all of that. Not mine. We broke them of that very young. My oldest was probably 8 years old before she realized that most people never go to Europe and most people her age go on vacation without using a plane. She honestly thought a vacation required a 24 hour endurance march before hand. My middle child has fallen asleep TWICE on the floor during waits to go through customs. He also has never slept on a transatlantic flight. As soon as they could walk, they were given a backpack with wheels and told to pull it and anything they needed to eat or play with better be in that bag.
The "big two" have traveled cross-country with me (without husband) where one of them was in a stroller and the other was strapped in a carseat on one of those foldable suitcase rolling thingies. While we lived in Europe, they sold these cool little skateboards that you could attach to the back of your stroller so an older kid could ride standing up and the younger one could sit. Bunny quickly learned how to put 3/4s of her body into the basket under the stroller, her knees remaining on the board, and take a nap. She was photographed by stunned onlookers in at least 5 countries doing this.
So, because we go almost every year to Europe, I am going to give you tips on how to prepare for each country we have visited.
Poland. - Krakow has something called cobblestones. They also have lots of inner city nature. Like giant slugs and pigeons that are all prone to diarrhea. And big hills. And no handicapped accessibility. And the men and women go in different doors to get to the toilet and end up in the same place. There is absolutely nothing on the menu that my children would eat so they lived on a diet of bread.
London (separate from England)
London has rude people who don't care about how long it takes to put your stroller on a bus. They will start driving with half of your family on the bus and half off. Also, in London, they don't have any protective cording around priceless sculptures in museums, so yes, your kids can touch them. That is when the alarms go off. Modern art museums are perfect for preschoolers. You can do shape searches. However, installation art can be a problem if part of it involves a TV loop where a woman goes from simulating an orgasm to talking to you. My daughter stood transfixed for fifteen minutes and wanted to know why the lady kept crying. The acoustics in the British Museum are concert worthy, and loud hooting echoes really well. And all the guards at the Tower of London are used to being fondled by small children. And your child screaming, "Where is Paddington Bear?" as you hurdle through the Paddington Station is generally considered funny, no matter how loud. The London Eye (the ferris wheel) is the best thing you can ever take a kid on in London.
England (well, Newcastle)
All the nice people in England live in Newcastle. Maybe it is because they make good beer. They are very indulgent of children. They find it charming when your 6-year-old daughter eats 5 sausages in one sitting. They don't mind when your children barf all over the hotel floor (cleaning standards aren't as high there, so this requires a bigger effort on the part of the staff). The subway conductors take your word for the fact you have lost your ticket. They will reimburse you for all the children's tickets you didn't need to buy that you did and apologize for the worker who sold it to you. You don't actually have to get off the bus. Ever. You can stay on the continual loop until your kids wake up from their nap. Just like London, you can buy an entire prepared meal in a grocery store. Cheese by the slice.
Cyprus - Greek people love kids. They don't blink when you walk in a restuarant with them. Your children do not have to remain in their seats. You can convince your child that octopus is a french fry. Sometimes. Mosaics are not as fascinating to kids as they are to adults. The people with tops on on the beach are the Greeks and the Americans. The British are the ones with cigarettes. The French are the ones whose boobies don't slide off of their chests into their armpits. It is worth it to rent an umbrella on the beach.
Sweden - I love Sweden. Sweden is the most child-friendly place in Europe. However, they never knew what to do with my children because Swedish children don't have temper tantrums in restaurants. Generally, there is not a kids' menu and they will make something for your kid and not charge you. If they do, it is minimal. You can live a completely cash free life in Sweden. Credit cards everywhere. If you go to the grocery store, watch your kids because there tends to be bins of candy at the end of the checkout line and your kids can eat an AMAZING amount of candy while you are looking the other way. And the grocery stores do not have bathrooms. Ever. Nor do any of the stores. You are not allowed to pee anywhere in Sweden. But when you get to go to the bathroom, be prepared. Every bathroom has an emergency cord you can pull which will set off an alarm and bring someone to rescue you. Your child will do this the minute you pull down your pants. Every single time. You turn it off by pulling it again. I left a lot of alarms blinking before I figured that out.
We have gotten calmer about traveling with the arrival of #3. I will save some stories about travel with 3 for the next blog. I am running out of stuff to say.
One of my favorite things about my husband is even though he is one of the least spontaneous people I know, he loves to travel as much as I do. We work well as a team. He needs the promise of food; I need the promise of rest. Together we can do all. Except we had kids. Kids have a few more needs than sleep and food. Regular schedules and all of that. Not mine. We broke them of that very young. My oldest was probably 8 years old before she realized that most people never go to Europe and most people her age go on vacation without using a plane. She honestly thought a vacation required a 24 hour endurance march before hand. My middle child has fallen asleep TWICE on the floor during waits to go through customs. He also has never slept on a transatlantic flight. As soon as they could walk, they were given a backpack with wheels and told to pull it and anything they needed to eat or play with better be in that bag.
The "big two" have traveled cross-country with me (without husband) where one of them was in a stroller and the other was strapped in a carseat on one of those foldable suitcase rolling thingies. While we lived in Europe, they sold these cool little skateboards that you could attach to the back of your stroller so an older kid could ride standing up and the younger one could sit. Bunny quickly learned how to put 3/4s of her body into the basket under the stroller, her knees remaining on the board, and take a nap. She was photographed by stunned onlookers in at least 5 countries doing this.
So, because we go almost every year to Europe, I am going to give you tips on how to prepare for each country we have visited.
Poland. - Krakow has something called cobblestones. They also have lots of inner city nature. Like giant slugs and pigeons that are all prone to diarrhea. And big hills. And no handicapped accessibility. And the men and women go in different doors to get to the toilet and end up in the same place. There is absolutely nothing on the menu that my children would eat so they lived on a diet of bread.
London (separate from England)
London has rude people who don't care about how long it takes to put your stroller on a bus. They will start driving with half of your family on the bus and half off. Also, in London, they don't have any protective cording around priceless sculptures in museums, so yes, your kids can touch them. That is when the alarms go off. Modern art museums are perfect for preschoolers. You can do shape searches. However, installation art can be a problem if part of it involves a TV loop where a woman goes from simulating an orgasm to talking to you. My daughter stood transfixed for fifteen minutes and wanted to know why the lady kept crying. The acoustics in the British Museum are concert worthy, and loud hooting echoes really well. And all the guards at the Tower of London are used to being fondled by small children. And your child screaming, "Where is Paddington Bear?" as you hurdle through the Paddington Station is generally considered funny, no matter how loud. The London Eye (the ferris wheel) is the best thing you can ever take a kid on in London.
England (well, Newcastle)
All the nice people in England live in Newcastle. Maybe it is because they make good beer. They are very indulgent of children. They find it charming when your 6-year-old daughter eats 5 sausages in one sitting. They don't mind when your children barf all over the hotel floor (cleaning standards aren't as high there, so this requires a bigger effort on the part of the staff). The subway conductors take your word for the fact you have lost your ticket. They will reimburse you for all the children's tickets you didn't need to buy that you did and apologize for the worker who sold it to you. You don't actually have to get off the bus. Ever. You can stay on the continual loop until your kids wake up from their nap. Just like London, you can buy an entire prepared meal in a grocery store. Cheese by the slice.
Cyprus - Greek people love kids. They don't blink when you walk in a restuarant with them. Your children do not have to remain in their seats. You can convince your child that octopus is a french fry. Sometimes. Mosaics are not as fascinating to kids as they are to adults. The people with tops on on the beach are the Greeks and the Americans. The British are the ones with cigarettes. The French are the ones whose boobies don't slide off of their chests into their armpits. It is worth it to rent an umbrella on the beach.
Sweden - I love Sweden. Sweden is the most child-friendly place in Europe. However, they never knew what to do with my children because Swedish children don't have temper tantrums in restaurants. Generally, there is not a kids' menu and they will make something for your kid and not charge you. If they do, it is minimal. You can live a completely cash free life in Sweden. Credit cards everywhere. If you go to the grocery store, watch your kids because there tends to be bins of candy at the end of the checkout line and your kids can eat an AMAZING amount of candy while you are looking the other way. And the grocery stores do not have bathrooms. Ever. Nor do any of the stores. You are not allowed to pee anywhere in Sweden. But when you get to go to the bathroom, be prepared. Every bathroom has an emergency cord you can pull which will set off an alarm and bring someone to rescue you. Your child will do this the minute you pull down your pants. Every single time. You turn it off by pulling it again. I left a lot of alarms blinking before I figured that out.
We have gotten calmer about traveling with the arrival of #3. I will save some stories about travel with 3 for the next blog. I am running out of stuff to say.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Fire Ants vs. Me
So, we survived Christmas. We went to Mississippi. We survived Mississippi. So, we went to New Orleans. All I can say about New Orleans is it loses some of its charm when you travel with small children and you have to continually be on the lookout to prevent their awareness of the things that many people come to New Orleans to see. "Mama, what does it mean when it says the Men are prettier than the girls?" "Why are those women in this picture licking each other?" "Mom, why is that person singing out loud in the middle of the day?" "What does it mean to suck their heads and eat their tails?" There are also the great moments - the beauty of the Garden district, all the live oak trees that were made to be climbed, the sheer otherworldliness of the French Quarter. It made me be proud to be Southern again, even though New Orleans is another planet from the Mississippi Delta. However, it DOES have one thing in common with my beloved Mississippi - FIRE ANTS.
Growing up, my mother loved to scare/thrill me with stories of African Killer Bees. I remember always thinking, "This is the year they attack!" However, it never happened. But the fire ants did come. And they do kill people. For some very horrible reason they like nursing homes and I believe at least two people have expired from fire ants bites. Anyway, fire ants are BAD. I have been stung by bees, wasps, and yellow jackets. I will take them any day over a fire ant, mainly because you generally only get one of the flying nasties. The fire ants bring all their relatives and near neighbors. And they don't die after they bite. The first time I was really bitten by fire ants was in college. It was dark. I was out with a friend, being generally irresponsible, when I realized I had to pee. And there were no options on the Natchez Trace at night, like all self-sufficient women out there, I decided to just use the side of the road. The problem was I had consumed just enough irresponsibility to have delayed reaction time. And that delayed reaction time was way too much between when I started using the fire ant pile for my personal latrine and when I realized that I was covered with fire ants and they did not like being aquatic ants. I had 62 bites between my knees and my toes (sandals and all, you know). No shoe the next day. Which brings me to the point of the story. There are fire ants in downtown New Orleans and they found me. In broad daylight. I found this out as I was walking through the French Market, and I am pretty sure I looked like I had been voodoo cursed with all the sudden jumping and slapping of myself and the occasional moan. I would have been screaming expletives except I had the children with me, but since I was inhibiting their full shopping experience of tourist crap, I probably could have cursed like a drunk sailor and they would not have noticed. I didn't get that many bites, but I learned it is better to be bitten on the toe than on the tender insides of your knees. And, like many a visitor to New Orleans, I barely made it back to my car before I was yanking off my clothes, but as my friend Adrienne referred to it, I am glad they died before they got to my personal French Quarter.
Growing up, my mother loved to scare/thrill me with stories of African Killer Bees. I remember always thinking, "This is the year they attack!" However, it never happened. But the fire ants did come. And they do kill people. For some very horrible reason they like nursing homes and I believe at least two people have expired from fire ants bites. Anyway, fire ants are BAD. I have been stung by bees, wasps, and yellow jackets. I will take them any day over a fire ant, mainly because you generally only get one of the flying nasties. The fire ants bring all their relatives and near neighbors. And they don't die after they bite. The first time I was really bitten by fire ants was in college. It was dark. I was out with a friend, being generally irresponsible, when I realized I had to pee. And there were no options on the Natchez Trace at night, like all self-sufficient women out there, I decided to just use the side of the road. The problem was I had consumed just enough irresponsibility to have delayed reaction time. And that delayed reaction time was way too much between when I started using the fire ant pile for my personal latrine and when I realized that I was covered with fire ants and they did not like being aquatic ants. I had 62 bites between my knees and my toes (sandals and all, you know). No shoe the next day. Which brings me to the point of the story. There are fire ants in downtown New Orleans and they found me. In broad daylight. I found this out as I was walking through the French Market, and I am pretty sure I looked like I had been voodoo cursed with all the sudden jumping and slapping of myself and the occasional moan. I would have been screaming expletives except I had the children with me, but since I was inhibiting their full shopping experience of tourist crap, I probably could have cursed like a drunk sailor and they would not have noticed. I didn't get that many bites, but I learned it is better to be bitten on the toe than on the tender insides of your knees. And, like many a visitor to New Orleans, I barely made it back to my car before I was yanking off my clothes, but as my friend Adrienne referred to it, I am glad they died before they got to my personal French Quarter.
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