Mama's Musings

Hallow's Eve in Germany

It is almost 6 p.m. on Halloween evening. Germans are great. They actually tell you when Halloween will begin. So I have set up a shrine we like to call "Spookyville". It consists of a ceramic haunted house, a white ceramic ghost and a carved pumpkin. When the kids ring the doorbell, they will see the lights first. I'm almost as excited as the kids, who have traipsed up to the preschool to meet their friends for an evening of trick-or-treating.

I made Andreas wear a lion's mask we made yesterday. Am I cruel? Actually, I just want him to bring home some good chocolate for me!

Meanwhile, I await the first ding-dong...

Mother Daze

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Powerful Families, Powerful Lives

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"Mother Daze" - an excerpt from Powerful Families, Powerful Lives,

an ezine for the empowered parent

© 2005 Christine Louise Hohlbaum

“What are you looking at?” I could hear my husband brushing his teeth right behind me. I jumped, tossing the drool that had formed on my chin over my shoulder as I looked in his direction.

“Excuse me?” I tried to sound nonchalant.

“You were looking really hard at something. What was it?”

I offered him a blank look. I didn’t know what to say.

In the early years of motherhood, I wrote about Mommy Brain. It is something you can read up on, if you wish, in earlier archives of this ezine.

http://www.ymlp.com/pubarchive_show_message.php?DiaryofaMother+12

The late-stages of Mommy Brain are accompanied by a second symptom. Along with brain atrophy, you get to look forward to long periods of black-out where you begin staring into space intently. You can no longer locate your keys, your shoes, your children’s athletic competitions or even …oh, I can’t remember.

It is a subtle beginning. The Mother Daze shows up in little ways at first.

“Now where did I park the car?” You start a round-robin in the mall parking garage, swallowing your panic that your Honda-Renault-Ford isn’t where you left it.

Key misplacement is a common theme for people with busy lives. But Mother Daze extends well beyond simple forgetfulness. You spend long periods of time staring off into space, trying to remember what you were just thinking.

Pretty soon, you stop thinking altogether.

Descartes, that nifty French philosopher of the 17^th century, once wrote: “I think, therefore I am.”

Does that mean we Mother Daze sufferers no longer exist? And if so, who will pick the kids up from soccer practice…or were they at ballet class today?

Designing Women

Lapping up the life of luxury. Now there's a thought. Some days I dream of sailing away on my yacht, sporting one of those designer watches and blinking into the Caribbean sunlight. I often wonder if I were to partake in some type of debt consolidation I might be able to swing one of the littler sailing vessels at least. I don't really have any debt to speak of, but my guess is I would if I bought a large boat on which people from Beverly Hills, whispering malpractice lawyers and celebrities you recognize from supermarket tabloids would come to greet me in their shimmering gowns and charcoal gray tuxedos.

Why am I dreaming about these things, you ask? It might be because I recently learned my ancestors used to own 20,000 acres of what is now called the Hamptons; or that I am attending a keynote speech at a nifty hotel southeast of Munich in a resort town in Austria. I'll be working there, but only briefly. I'm attending a really cool motivational speech given by Dr. Michael Spitzbart, one of Europe's leading motivational speakers. His topic? How to de-stress and de-light in life while still being productive. His milieu is busy managers with heart palpitations. I'll be reviewing his speech in German and translating it into English for him. Yes, he'll be giving that same talk in Barcelona, two days after Al Gore gives his...

Wish me luck. I'll be the one scampering after my kids (who are coming with me) in between respites in the sauna. I'm going to need a little luck. Oh, and toss in a yacht, if you want to, as well!

Why Are You Crying, Mommy?

This post comes from my ezine, Powerful Families, Powerful Lives. If you like what you see, please subscribe and be inspired:

"Why Are You Crying, Mommy?"

© 2005 Christine Louise Hohlbaum

Last week we had our own personal film festival: three movies in 48 hours.

Each one had a vastly different setting and cast of characters. And yet, each

film carried the same message. "187" about a teacher portrayed by Samuel

Jackson who worked in the Latino "ghetto" of LA; "Die weisse Massai"

("The White Massai") a true-story about a Swiss woman who marries, then

leaves, her increasingly abusive Massai warrior husband in the Kenyan bush;

and "Der Pianist", a 2002 Cannes Film Festival award winner about the true

life of Jewish pianist Wladyslaw Spzilman during the Nazi occupation of Poland.

America. Africa. Europe.

The underlying theme of each film was what happens when violence

and misunderstandings rule. It usually ends in death – of a teacher,

a relationship, or an entire race of people.

I was humbled in the face of these difficult films and the subject matter

they handled so beautifully. How do we raise our children to respect

one another, despite our differing opinions, social status or physical

appearance? How do we discuss these issues with our kids so they

do not repeat our mistakes?

When thinking about this overwhelming task recently, I cried.

My daughter caught me in the act, then softly touched my shoulder.

"Why are you crying, Mommy?"

I raised my eyes to her, speechless.

What could I say?

Children's Literacy

Learning to read opens worlds for kids. This show on PBS has helped millions. Please sign the petition by clicking on the link. It only takes a minute to save another mind.

Save the Reading Rainbow!

Finding my way out of a shoebox

John Gray suggested there may be a difference between men and women. One speaks the language of love; the other Martian-speak. I've written on this topic to some extent. Nonetheless, there is one thing I've noticed which might not be too unique to me and my husband. I can't find my way out of a shoebox, much less glean the correct way to here or there on a map. He, on the other hand, knows where he is at all times.

I think I know why.

Intuition is my guiding light, my Northstar, the beat to which my drum vibrates. It serves me well as long as I've had enough coffee, and I'm not experiencing any significant level of road rage.

My husband is a boy scout. I'm not saying he still wears the yellow scarf around his neck or lifts his two fingers into a "v" form to indicate his honor. No no. But once a boy scout, always a boy scout, if you know what I mean.

It has its benefits. He never asks for directions. That's a man thing. The good news is he doesn't usually have to.

He can, for instance, read the amusement park map and find all the cheerful rides my kids are begging to get on.

He can take us new places effortlessly (as long as I drive and he barks out "Left!" "Right at the stop sign!" "Slowdownthere'sacarinfrontofyou!").

He can even navigate foreign countries with ease. He is no polyglot (though that German man speaks a mean English!). He is a man who can break out of a shoebox.

"But, there's MapQuest," you argue. Indeed, this is true, and it works fine as long as I am not alone in the car. But, when I am, how can I read the directions while travelling 100 miles an hour on the autobahn?

Maybe I'll give my intuition a break this year and ask for a portable gps handheld device for Christmas. Now that would take the guesswork out of following directions. It would solve my navigational challenges. More than likely, my husband would wrap it in a yellow scarf, too.

Let's Play

Playmobil. Germany's most profitable toy manufacturer. Starting out at 8 a.m. this morning, we went to Playmobil's FunPark. After two hours, the kids were bored of chasing make-believe pirates and knights, and we were bushed from chasing them around.

They had been six months prior on a day similar to today -- warm with blue skies. The temps were much higher in May, but it wasn't as crowded today. We told them to choose ONE toy under 5 euros, but when Sophia couldn't decide, things got confusing. Jackson suddenly wanted a second box because his sister's box was bigger. Oh Lord. We spent more than we wanted, but we got out alive. Sigh.

TGIF

Ring. Ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, hon, it's me, Andreas."

"You're not coming home on time, are you?"

"[clears throat] I've got this grant application..."

"But honey, it's Friday at 5:45 p.m. You said you'd be home in fifteen minutes. I've made tortellini with...hang on... [shouts while barely covering the mouthpiece] I'll wipe your butt in a minute. I'm on the phoooooooooooooooone! I'll put your dinner in the oven."

"Thanks, hon."

Click.

You've got to be kidding, right!?

It has been one of those days. One of those "You've gotta be kidding me" days. Like when your child shows incredible interest in helping you organize clothing for a flea market, then takes off with your pen. Or just as you want to back out of your driveway, you see the oil man parked across your entire exit, thus blocking your way. Or you deal with a six-year-old having an hour-long tantrum because she doesn't want to eat her chicken. You wonder if the sun will ever set, if nighttime will ever come, if you can withstand yet another power struggle within your four walls.

That's when your best friend calls, invites your kids over, and sends you out for a walk.

"You've got to be kidding, right?" I stared at her in disbelief.

"Go" was all she said. And you know what? I did.