Mama's Musings

Let Freedom Ring!

The blustery, arctic blast lifted the white grains of snow heavenward this morning. Munching on a reheated roll, I considered my options at breakfast. Either I was going to have a fit about the meterological status of this country, or I was going to make lemonade from the lemons God lobbed at us today. I decided lemonade tastes better than an argument I wouldn't win. I unearthed my cross-country skis and braved the frigid temps and snow to work off a Starkbier (brown ale or stout) I had the other night. It felt good to "detoxify" myself as I hopped up the road on my thin skis.

The Authentic Self

Teaching is one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had. For one brief moment in time (and for the students who take the intensive, nine-hour per day English language course, it MUST feel like a lifetime), we are allowed to connect with people on a profound and mysterious level.

Why is this so? What is the magic behind the instructor's mask?

Today I believe it might have something to do with our authentic selves. We allow people to be who they are -- beautiful, sensitive human beings with incredible potential. We strip away their fears and anxieties, bringing out in them their personal truth. They can do it. And you know what? They do! Being witness to such greatness is awe-inspiring, thought-provoking, and heart-warming. I feel blessed to have this job, to touch lives with a flipchart, some playing cards and a magic marker. I believe in magic. I saw it happen today.

Deconstructing Mommy

The New York Times has once again featured motherhood in its Sunday section. This time, Judith Shulevitz has dedicated her book review diatribe to Judith Warner's book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety. What I find perplexing is how much time the Times has spent on deconstructing motherhood, all the while criticizing those who reflect on modern parenting and how to do it better.

A lot of ink has spilled over the subject of "overparenting", anxious moms and dads who jettison their progeny to fame and fortune, from the romper room to the board room. Amongst all the voices defaming parents who care, parents are left confused and completely without direction.

Why is that?

Perhaps it is because I believe we are faced with an impossible task. Raising children in this day and age, with every media outlet putting us under a microscope, has been made a little more impossible. These aren't supportive voices who say blogging parents are narcisstics pansies, shouting for attention like their toddlers. Where else are we to go when the critical voices become white noise in the background of our lives, sending subliminal, harsh messages to obliterate our efforts?

I used to live in Boston. I was privvy to the Gymboree mamas and their three playgroups per week. I witnessed overscheduled, strung out children being pulled from one babysitter to the next. I saw stressed out parents with rings under their eyes, struggling to keep it together without losing their minds. There are people such as the ones depicted in Warner’s book. But we aren’t all like that.

Maybe that is why I am so happy to be where I am today -- nestled in a Bavarian village with little traffic and few distractions, virtually shielded from the conflicting messages that the Times brings forth. We can go to the BIG CITY, if we so choose, but we can also stay home and literally play with rocks and sticks. The kids only watch hand-selected videos (Nickolodeon -- what's that?), and it is simply easier to control outside influences. We do not live in a commune by any means. It is simple living, and it feels good.

What these upper-class Washington DC-women have in common, according to Warner's book, is a profound desire for achievement for their offspring. I'm all for teaching your kids the basic skills, and if a Gymboree class is going to do it, by golly, that's okay. Of course there are people who will overdo it. Her example of the cheering dad at the baseball field as his son approaches the plate is reminiscent of the prototype of the overzealous father who coaches Little League and has aspirations to bring the World Series to Anywhere, USA. These people mean well. Are they harming their kids in the process?

Dissecting every aspect of modern mommyhood has made me feel tense and vaguely uneasy. Working parents are viewed as overstretched machines with little imagination and even less time. The term "quality time" was coined in the 80's for this group of working stiffs. Spend 45 minutes of your undivided attention on your little one and all will be well. Drug use rose, violence did, too. What we ended up with were school shootings and a "lost generation" of characters who’ve clocked too many hours on their Atari sets. Blame is laid all too often on parents. Let's look at society for a moment.

The United States government does precious little to provide an incentive to families. People are obliged to go from the birthing room back to their cubicles in a matter of weeks. Legislation dictates people's lives more than they realize. After the birth of my first child, the issue of health insurance forced me back into the workplace even when I didn't want to. I kept a job which gave me little satisfaction. I was a working stiff, leaving my three-month-old in day care for ten hours two days a week. I felt miserable.

What are the solutions? I offer them here:

• higher family subsidies (give people the ability to stay at home if they choose)

• socialized medicine à la Canada, our Northern neighbors

• a shift in mentality -- it is okay to take time off

• the realization that workaholism is a disease

The people who report on mommy madness are more than likely working parents, too. I wonder if they’d lend their soapbox to a stay-at-home mom, or would that be too threatening to their righteousness?

It is five a.m. do you know where your skier is?

Our son woke us up at 5 a.m. this morning. We went skiing for the weekend. It was the second time this season, and the kids just love it. When we enrolled them in a weekend ski course, the receptionist eyed Jackson and asked how old he was.

"Three and-one-half," I remarked, emphasizing the one-half part. She said they had an age limit of four, and he couldn't attend. We told her he had already partaken in a ski class and if she didn't let him attend, well, you know.

She smirked as she filled out his enrollment form.

Jackson is a born skier. In fact, he is a born athlete, as you can tell by the photos.

He insisted on sleeping with his ski boots, then woke us up before dawn this morning to "go skiing". Andreas actually got up (after insisting he lie back down until 6 a.m.) and took him outside to fool around in the snow on his skis. I couldn't believe the boy's tenacity. And his skill! When I watched them both in the course later today, I saw how Sophia had gained such confidence, too. The teacher said she was the best in the class, which Sophia proudly touted.

I predict Jackson will be an Olympic Gold Medalist in downhill skiing. Andreas and I will have the dark circles under our eyes to prove it!

The Birds, the Bees, and My Big Red Face

It has happened already. My baby’s grown up. That she is two months shy of six years old doesn’t matter. She now knows all about the birds and the bees. It was a snowy Monday morning, and I was completely caught off guard.

Closer to Me

Pressure. PRESSURE! I've got to write it. I've just got to. But first, let me alphabetize the books on my shelf. And do my 2004 taxes. And file my toenails...okay, back to writing. Now, where was I? Oh yes! Blank screen, pulsing cursor. Hmmmm.....

For the first time in my life, I froze today. Maybe it was because there's an editor who likes my stuff and who's willing to pay for it. Maybe it's because I've been writing about the same old stuff for months now. It was time for a change.

And then it hit me.

Writing Parent Quiz

Are you a writing parent? Here's a quiz to find out!

Carnival, snowsuits, and frozen jelly donuts

It is Carnival season in Germany. Before you squawk "Lucky Duck!", let me tell you the true story about Carnival. As a mother of two preschoolers, it is no fun at all.

Okay, I tried. I dressed up as Snow White and went to a party with seven Dwarfs. Even met my Prince Charming (read: my husband) and had a few hours of fun on the dancefloor. The moment the room "tipped" into drunken mode, we were out of there before you could say "Where's my coat?" I don't know. I just don't find watching other people dance on tables when I'm completely sober to be a fun thing to do.

I am so unfair!

“What is an ordinary day really like for a stay-at-home mom?”  My latest book (release date: May 2005) answers this question.

Alarm clocks have a short life span in our house. They either get bashed during rather rough pillow fights or fall to the ground on the sidewalk after a busy afternoon of teaching, food shopping, and shuttling children to and from various activites. I don’t own a watch. I don’t need to. The church bells ring on the quarter hour in the rural Bavarian cow town in which I live.

The dishes stared at me from their grimy tower this morning. The church bell told me it was quarter past the hour--which hour I could only guess. It was light out, which was a good sign. The children battled downstairs in their morning ritual of vying for position of importance. I shuffled to the bathroom first to wash my face. Toweling off, I went into my office and flipped on my computer. Sixteen e-mail messages awaited me. Four were really great; the rest were newsletters or spam. I attempted to write down a story idea or two which had come to me in the middle of the night. Pattering feet signalled the end of my concentration.

“Hi Mama! Want coffee?” My three-year-old son grinned up at me.

“Oh yes Fair Prince!” I clasped my hands in glee. A moment later my daughter showed up with honey and butter toast. I kissed their angelic heads and sent them on their way.

Two minutes later, they entered my office again. This time, I was less formal.

“Yes?” I asked them both as they jumped on the recliner in the corner of the room. They both fought for room on the same armrest. My daughter, Sophia, began to discuss various breakfast alternatives for herself.

“Candy, gum, or ice cream, Mama. Which will it be?” She blinked at me with her five-year-old eyes.

“Out.” I commanded. My husband showed up thirty seconds too late and the scampering began. Pillows, blankets, pajamas flew through the air as the children decided to make a “boat” out of the bed covers. This had to be done naked, of course. That it is -14 degrees Celsius outside did not matter. They knew what they wanted and what it took to get it.

Trying desperately to snatch a few more minutes, I clacked away at the keyboard and reluctantly left my post right before my husband needed to leave for work. It was 7:45 a.m. As we waved him goodbye, the church bell responded in kind, donging eight times to signal the beginning of my day as a full-time stay-at-home mom.

We have rules in our house which are worth following. Things such as no candy before lunchtime, no videos before 10 a.m., and a quiet hour from 12-1 p.m. serve to give our lives a certain amount of order amongst the chaos that raising children brings. On any given day, my children seek to test our family guidelines by crying for gum as they wipe the sleep out of their eyes at 6 a.m. A multitude of tears has been shed over our refusal to cave in to their desire for chocolate for breakfast.

I am so unfair!