It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.

Confucius

Winter Witch

We went ice skating on the lake next to my old school. What a blast. In an attack of insanity I had bought everyone skates for Xmas, the whole fam damily including Kristen, Lea’s doll.

Defying melting ice caps and rainy winters, I went ahead and invested in a whimsical idea that laid dormant in me for years: To be back on that lake where some of the happiest moments of my teen years were made and to sweep across the cold surface like a wild winter witch.

I am glad I did. We all had so much fun! The ice cracked and whistled under our feet, Jules squealed with joy, Lea got brave and pushed off with her left foot again and again, Zoë raced with me to the island and back, and even Matt managed to gain some speed despite frozen feet and achy chins.

The sun was low in the sky, barely grazing the barren treetops of the woods like an apple stuck on an unsuspecting hedgehog. The air was full of tiny knives, cold and thin. I sucked it all up, air, sun, woods and the cold shiny surface of the lake.

A moment to behold. I am so happy to be back.

MallAise

If something sounds too good to be true it most likely is. For instance, that ominous letter on a grey Monday afternoon announcing that you are the lucky winner of $1,000,000. Winning $1,000,000 takes about 1,000,000 desperate ah-why-not moments at the check-out counter that usually result in little more than a lifetime of disappointments, as we all know.

But there are about that many other little traps we tumble into hoping that this time, just this time, we made the right investment and came out ahead of what we put in. My MacBook is such a thing.

I was promised no bugs, no crashes, and in addition to that exhilarating user-friendliness and got what I have come to treat as a rather capricious hoe. Most of the time he is either “not in the mood,” or “doesn’t like that,” or “headachy.”

And mind you, all I am asking for is mild photo editing (“Too much input hon…I am blanking!”) or burning what I meticulously organized into folders (“Uh, no! – And FYI they are called a l b u m s!!!”). Ah, yes.

But there is more, igadgets are just one in a million marketing successes that end up being flops.

Most of the time when we hold magic between our sweaty paws it all vanishes into thin air, or rather into a filthy dump, before we have even read through the unintelligible instruction manual by Mr. Sushiyoto: digital this, inflatable that. It’s all built to sell not to work.

And quite often we find out later that what we first hailed as progress such as pre-cleaned lettuce, baby wipes, TV dinners and parboiled rice is, in reality, is little more than hazardous material.

Oh brave new world.

Get a Grip

So the Apple guy, Jobs, made well over US $600,000,000 this year. Or maybe I should say, the capitalist market economy awarded him $600,000,000 over the past twelve months and his tax attorneys and accountants made sure he could keep most of it.

There is nothing wrong with that from a strictly legal standpoint. But somehow it sounds wrong anyway. US$600,000,000 (and punching in the zeros makes me kind of giddy) is a rather exaggerated figure, even for a 70 hour work week.

Why would he want to keep all of it? What is he possibly going to need that much money for? Buy a space ship, or two?

Yet, even though US$600,000,000 may be a lot of money, in the hands of only one person it is wasted because it won’t get that person anything s/he doesn’t already have nor will it provide what s/he may so desperately want. It won’t, for instance, make Jobs’ family love him more nor will it improve his health or restore air quality in his town.

So why keep it all? Maybe it’s like a badge or a medal. Men seem to like those things and make their allure so appealing that even women now want them, too.

But the truth is that by keeping all that money he loses more esteem than he wins. At least for my part, I feel sorry for poor Jobs, and the likes of him, if it takes that much to feel worthy.

When we moved to Costa Rica, the first thing I did was hire a nanny. In the US, where we had lived before, I hadn’t been able to afford a full-time childcare. With the net wage increase from our move I did what I thought was a smart investment: I bought free time for myself, a decision probably most mothers can understand.

However, that free time didn’t make me any happier than I had been before.

Also, I realized that most children who spend a large amount of time in the care of a nanny turn into whiny brats with horrendous table manners. And it takes a lot of time to correct that!

I found out pretty quickly that you can’t buy your way out of raising your own children right.

At this point in my life, I am grateful to have more time than money.

Homeschooling the German Way

Since we are in Germany for a little I am living the life of a German housewife/mother. Admittedly, I am having some trouble coming to terms with that, even though I know it’s just for the interim.

The last three months the kids and I lived in the States. And while demoted from my former ex-pat status, I was very content. Homeschooling two children and looking out after a third while running a household and being virtually a single mom wasn’t easy but it was a challenge I enjoyed working through because it all made sense and everyone was happy and moving forward.

This, however, stinks. Since homeschooling, as we know it, is illegal in Germany (state officials will knock on your door and eventually take you away in shackles if you keep your kids at home!!) we enrolled the girls in school. A couple of weeks into this bizarre experience we are trying to understand what went wrong in German education.

After the German education system was evaluated in a comparative international study (PISA) some years ago and fared poorly, and way behind the US, state bureaucrats got together and decided that instead of looking toward countries that had come out on top in the study, like Finland, they were going to simply do more of the same – at least in grade school as far as I can tell.

They did not reduce class sizes or assign two teachers per classroom, as is done in Finland. They decided to simply put more pressure on teachers to make the old approach work. That pressure then got passed on from teachers to students in the form of massive amounts of homework. Sound familiar?

Yet, just like when I went to school in Germany thirty years ago, the time in class is spent for the most part on listening to the teacher pontificate on some more or less abstract concept. My kids’ notebooks are curiously blank even after two weeks in school. The workbooks, however, are getting filled at a breath-taking pace, though not in school.

As a matter of fact, homeschooling is alive and well in Germany, because any hands-on work that is being done is done at home. As it is, all that pressure on performance by increasing the amount of homework has fallen to parents, i.e., generally well-meaning mothers, who more than ever before have to hover over their kids in the afternoons, so teachers can make their check marks and assign grades for one of the many tests they now have to administer.

There are two big problems with this approach – apart from the obvious one that drafting once again women for unpaid jobs is unfair!

Problem number one is that this will all but increase the difference in academic performance between children of different socio-economic backgrounds, a problem that already was cited as the most dramatic in the PISA study for Germany.

Problem number two is that it is a grand waste of time. Instead of doing what education should do: entice, encourage, and engage the student, mornings are passed doing…uh, well surviving the classroom experience, I suppose.

As far as I can tell all the enticing, encouraging and engaging is done by me in the afternoons when we all could be doing something else! There no longer is time for music, except in the car, or projects other than filing work sheets in color-coded folders, or for that matter reading something else other than excerpts stitched together in some orange textbook.

It really is sad and if this wasn’t but a short term stint for our family I would probably prefer shackles to this nonsense.

Interestingly, a recent study done by a fellow at Universität Salzburg, Austria, found that excessive homework is ranked as the second highest factor (after low family income) in explaining stress related symptoms in German school-aged children.

But then, that study didn’t hit the international press for weeks on end. What’s on bureaucrats’ budget-obsessed and otherwise distorted minds these days is PISA – and how to fix it the cheap way.

School Night Special

It’s late. I am still up because I am trying to turn this day around, I am still trying to give it that little positive spin. It looks like I am running out of time though.

It wasn’t even that bad a day but it also wasn’t really good. I had to work hard to keep my thoughts from turning into molasses and clogging up my entire system.

As I am thinking about it, I am done living life on hold. I am done checking in and out of different settings, like changing in and out of costumes. I am tired of living life on top of suitcases. I want to settle down. And I am ready to deal with the consequences. And, in the end, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

It’s all about accepting the good with the bad and being ok with it. I suppose, up to now, I still thought that I could do better. And we did better for a while. Costa Rica was pretty cool and for a family of five a lot better than life was in downtown DC.

But neither Matt nor I felt ready to deal with the consequences of an ex-pat existence any longer. So now we are back in the first world: We are back to where life is fast and dinners are short. We are part of the regular crowd again. We are, once again, middle class Europeans.

It’s not easy but it’s going to be good.

There is one thing, however, that has to change fast lest I lose my mind: That’s school. Since Zoe has started, it’s dominating our entire family 7am to 8pm: if it’s not something that’s missing, or some heap of homework that needs to be done, it’s who said what or did what to whom.

With homework here taking the form of endless not-so-funny spelling riddles and math problems ad nauseum there isn’t really time anymore for Harry Potter (sorry pal). Also, Fiamma, Zoe’s violin, has acquired patina along with several cardboard boxes that I can’t help but keep just in case there is a fifteen minute break in her hurried schedule to erect one of her awesome fortresses with ramparts, gatehouse, turrets and all.

We all agree homeschooling is a lot more sane and fun and as soon as we can we’ll go back to it. The countdown is running…

Dog Days

I am back in Germany, at least for a couple of months, now. One wouldn’t think that in this day and age going back and forth between countries is such a big thing. But it can be pretty intense at times.

I haven’t lived in Germany for a while. All our kids were born abroad. But now, that I am back and the of them are with me, I have started to reconnect with my own childhood. I re-live my school days, getting up in the dark, taking in the wet cold of a November morning, the scent of decaying leaves in the air.

Zoe is enrolled in school until Xmas and so I am slipping back into the old familiar school routine of my school days: Getting up in the dark, taking in the wet cold of a November morning, the scent of decaying leaves in the air on the way to school, feelings of hope and exasperation, and ah…those slippery classroom floors.

I find myself step outside at night just to feel my lungs fill with that old November sensation again. It’s beautiful to be back and exhausting at the same time. To some degree it’s like chasing my own shadow.

Alas

We are on the move again...this one is big.
You'll hear from me.
a.

Now What

Zoë picks my brain all the time. She can get pretty deep when she is going after something, just like a couple of weeks ago when she was poking around for the meaning of life while I was checking her thick mane for lice. And just like that day, I often can’t help but fail her miserably by providing her with nothing but more questions. But I always give it my best shot or at least suggest to Google a couple of key words!

The other day, after another marathon of ‘why is that?’ her big eyes suddenly began to beam at me and her face broke out in a wide smile (I love it when I see her like that) and she says: “Mama, I really like this when small questions lead to big ones. I love talking to you.”

You’ve done it, kiddo, you kill me.

Mr. Right

When we give the ‘yes’ word, it means we are actually going to start it all over again. That thing that our parents did, that we were born into, and that surrounded us in the most impressionable years of our lives and of which, almost unnoticeably, we have become a complete reflection.

By this I don’t mean a carbon copy but rather a complementary version that made it possible for us to live comfortably in the environment that our parents had created.

We may not realize it, or we may not want to admit it, but when we start our lives as young adults we carry a lot of baggage. In some cases the baggage may be lighter than in others, however, it still is baggage and, mind you, ‘my parents never fought’ is pretty heavy baggage, if you ask me.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I am not headed in the direction of blame-it-on-the-old-folks. They did the best they could. Now it is up to us to give it a try. In fact, after years of working on my own glitches I have very little patience with finger pointers.



Most of that considerable investment in time and energy started within a few years of married-life.

Fourteen years ago, I married ‘Mr. Nice’ also known as ‘No. 1 for being stuck in a broom closet with.’ I married Matt. He was one of the cool kids: smart, good-looking, and… ‘nice.’

We met when we were both studying abroad at a sleepy European university and I was drawn towards him because he looked familiar and read familiar stuff. But the million dollar question is: Why did I end up marrying him?

And here lies the key to all the flee-bitten baggage that’s stored away in the basement of our psyche.



In a way, when we marry ‘Mr. Right’ we set ourselves up to re-live our childhood – only this time we have more of a say in it. The question is: Will we be brave enough to use that power effectively?

So, let’s say, we all go ahead and marry our moms’ and dads’ newer editions, often without realizing it, because it ‘feels right.’

The trouble then starts when we ourselves begin to act like our personal role models. But the real killer is when the kid in us is added into the equation: That whimpering, whining creature that quivered with existential fear every time mom frowned or dad didn’t want to share his fries.

That fear can become quite over-powering and make us say and do the most irrational things. I, for instance, throw full fledged tantrums and generously share my large stock of multilingual expletives. I am working on that. Matt, on the other hand, recedes into a catatonic all-is-good-state, when it really isn’t.

Admittedly, both are not very mature reactions but childhood trauma conditioning, as I call it (and there always is trauma – real or perceived), is a powerful factor in molding everyone’s response to fear.

And that auto-response is hard to control because it becomes second nature. It’s what we keep doing over and over again when we feel beleaguered whether it’s over-eating, over-spending, over-cleaning, or simply not-listening, complaining, finding fault and playing the martyr. It may feel ‘right’ for a moment (because we have done it forever) but it will ultimately end up getting us into trouble in that most intimate relationship of all.


What’s even harder to get a grip on, however, are the underlying fears themselves – most of which are as irrational as the responses we have come up with to counter them.

They are hard to pinpoint and some of them may go way back. But whatever it takes to face them, trust me, knowing where to start feels a lot better than being stuck in some auto-response mode and, therefore, re-living the same frustrating scenes over and over again.

Yet, many of us choose to just do that, anyway. Instead of pulling in their indexes and blaming whoever is available, or otherwise opening their eyes to face the challenge, they choose to remain stuck in an uncomfortable but familiar mess like a fly floating in a glass of warm coke.

Here is the simple truth: Marriage is a real bitch because it won’t be sound or good unless the demons that are snoring away in some convenient corner are woken up and kicked in the rear.

Buy Me

The amount of nonsense products out there amazes me. Not only are they being produced, they are being sold as well: disposable mops, micro fiber dust rags, individually wrapped bath soaps, snack size anything.

Why create a market for something that is either useless, or breaks easily, and generally uses up valuable human and natural resources – apart from adding to the mountains of garbage? Somebody must be getting rich (or trying to at least) because otherwise all that stuff wouldn’t exist.

Actually product ideas are born every minute. They usually don’t require a great deal of genius. All it takes is a ‘visionary,’ someone who thinks their idea is going to make it big.

Quite often these products are being launched, backed up by a simple business plan, and the requisite financing. The rest is relatively easy thanks to low-wage developing countries with non-existent environmental and/or labor regulations, eager sub-contractors, and a “whoopee” pro-business environment that seems to be the Mantra of the global economy.

After all, everyone benefits when something is produced, right? The great inventor, all the different raw material suppliers, designers, consultants, the transportation and wrapping industries, port workers, assembly line workers, wholesalers, retailers, store clerks, the investors, the CEOs and, ah yes, the consumer.

That’s me. The guileless consumer, forking through stores like a kid with an Easter basket. And along with me there are millions, all looking, searching, scrutinizing and, more often than not and for no apparent reason, acquiring these products: Ever bigger barbecue grills, lawn-mowers, and TV sets; whimsical lamp shades, picture frames, greeting cards, and sofa pillows; bright colored plastic toys, hand bags, and holiday galore all of which will need to be eventually, dusted, stored, fixed, and/or replaced. And almost all of which is completely superfluous and environmentally unfriendly.

Going into a store generally leaves me baffled. Instead of going in and coming out within fifteen minutes, I end up pushing an over-sized shopping cart through endless aisles, rows, and shelves of products in every variation of shape and color that I do not need.

Quite often I eventually exit the store with stuff I didn’t come buy but that was ‘on sale’ or ‘sort of neat’ in order to attenuate my growing feeling of frustration at not finding what I came for in the beginning: Nothing cute, nothing special, nothing neat, just a cloth rag.

But that's the idea isn't it...?

Monkey Menu

Ah yes, I forgot, monkeys eat lice and what else are we but mutant mokeys? (Thanks for the insightful comment on 'Deep'!)
Damn, all that good protein gone to waste thanks to tree tea oil, the Lice Meister comb, and my compulsive efficiency.
Imagine all the tasty treats we will never know: Lice and watercress sandwich, breaded lice sauteed and served with a cranberry reduction, or simply delicious lice rice. But then, never say never, right?

I Want My Friend

To tell me when I am wrong

To laugh at me when I am mad

And give me time when I am lost

I want my friend to dance with me

And find the stars at night

To rant and rave when time has come

And make up plans to save the world

I want my friend to stay with me

When times will make us part

For what is friendship of that kind

If it weren’t built to last

Lucky If You've Got it

For a long time it was just the five of us. When Matt and I married – two of the five – nothing really changed – even when we moved away to Washington, DC.

While we lived abroad, we made sure that we saw each other, no matter how much water or road was between us. We all went on trips together, and we had a great time just hanging out flying kites.

That stayed the same even after Zoë was born – and raised to love kites. Somehow along the road the five of us formed an amazing bond: Strong, loving, caring, forgiving.

Over the years, as Matt and I moved from country to country, I came to realize how lucky we are. Many people who know me and who have met one or the other of our friends readily agree: It is a really special thing we’ve got going.

When Zoë was little, our house was rarely empty. When she was just four months old and Matt and I were out cold with a raging fever of 104F, they took over. There was a feeding schedule up on the wall, the poop was under control, and someone stayed with us around the clock. Every time we or anyone else moved, Marc bought a ticket and a grabbed a hammer to help out.

And throughout the years, as we all hit one or the other rough spot, more kids were born, boy friends became husbands and sometimes exes, we always knew whom we could call upon – at any time.

It’s a great thing. I wish it were more common.

Driving the Kids

I no longer do that. And I sure hope I’ll never have to it again. What a waste of time.

However, if we choose to live in remote locations, far enough out so that we can afford to secure an acre of land, maybe we owe it to our kids: Driving them to where they really want to be.

But then, maybe we owe it to our kids not to chew up the countryside and instead live in cluster developments, also known as towns, that leave the surrounding fields and woods intact and not pocked with mailboxes and scared by dirt roads in every direction.

Come to think about it, towns are a really great idea, and so far they have done a fine job for humanity. What makes them so enjoyable in part is that everything in them is within walking distance, whether you have to mail a letter, need a quick make-over, or want to sink some money into ice cream

If I wanted to I could get a reasonably sophisticated henna tattoo, check out the latest Carl Hiaasen, and slurp a second-to-none mountain moose blizzard all within less then an hour.

And if I decided to make my way over to the railway station, I could still be on my way to the rest of the world that same afternoon...for a wider selection of ice cream.

But not only are towns a lot of fun they are also a lot healthier, at least for me, my children, their friends, the trees, and everyone who breathes.

Plus, with all that time one saves on NOT driving the kids around one can…let’s see…for instance give that blog a spiffy make-over, if nothing else comes to mind.

Deep

So while nit picking Zoë’s thick mane she asked me why there are lice in this world:

Are they food? No. Is anyone happy to have them move in? No. Do they contribute anything but pain and suffering to this world? And again, the answer is ‘no.’

Zoë then fell silent for a moment while I closed in on another two or three microscopic lice eggs. I thought the ponderings on lice and their likes were over when she looked up again and got real deep: “What are humans good for, Mom?”

Oh, and by the way...

be sure to set an alarm clock when sterilizing the combs at night.

Lice...

If you’ve got them take a deep breath. It happens just like bad coffee.

We realized we had them the day after my birthday which was lucky because on my birthday I was still running a fever from a virus I had caught earlier that week and was virtually holding on by only a thin broken nail.

But, alas, moms are known to have great rebounding ability. Within less than 24 hours I was ready to take on the next challenge: LICE ON MY ENTIRE FAMILY – INCLUDING MYSELF.

Whom am I trying to kid here? I was not ready. Not one bit.

Fred, my father-in-law, was the harbinger of bad luck and he did so renouncing all attempts at delicacy and opting instead for one hundred percent of humor. He chose well.

Within minutes the girls where up in the maple tree behind the island cabin where they always spend the month of September suspended, high and far above the earthly matters, discussing their favorite haircuts.

It was my ungrateful job then later to inform them that there wouldn’t be any haircuts (at least none involving a professional) before all lice would be gone (lame mom as usual).

My feverish headache was back full blast at night as I tried to figure out the next steps: To bag or not to bag, chemical bomb or oily balm, quarantine yes or no - and if so to what extent - and, also, whom had we been in contact with and had to be informed.

To avoid the list from reaching an absurd length, I decided to help myself to a night cap and laid my prickly head to rest.

We are on day 10 now. Still combing twice a day and keeping with a strict routine of washing all bedding and clothing daily. Zoë and I are looking pretty good and Lea is in the single digits on the nit count. We ended up opting for the natural oil treatment and decided not to bag and instead just store all blankets, comforters, clothes, cushions, stuffed animals (luckily we live on 900 square feet so the amount of stuff is limited). It’s still a shit load of work though.

To this day I have no idea how we got lice, being a homeschooling family on vacation. Maybe it was a good-bye present from Costa Rica. After all, there were an insane amount of warm embraces, slumbery sleep overs and trading of cuddly goods that took place in the last days preceding our departure.

But then, maybe we caught them on the plane ride over here. Why on earth would they have fabric on the passenger seats, anyway? Just imagine the chances of catching something – lice, fleas, bad breath…

Lice have been around for an awfully long time. People probably used to wear hats, hoods, and head scarves to protect themselves from infestation. The good old days.

How on earth, however, did they deal with lice once they got them? I can’t imagine doing it without a healthy supply of the one and only LiceMeister comb, a powerful washer/dryer, and a vacuum. How did they get rid of them – just shaking them off?

But then, they must not have done that great a job, because the critters are still around, traveling the friendly skies, hanging out on the metro, and enjoying the theater…


Anyway, if you’ve got them, this is what you do:

Take a day to get organized.

The lice have to be killed. Most pesticides that can be purchased at drug-stores are not only potentially harmful they also are common to fail (even the cdc webpage admits that). So, I suggest that you consider checking out non-toxic remedies. There are lots of websites. We went with aromacaring.co.uk. Anyway, what will get rid of lice and nits in the end is a steady routine of combing and handpicking.

Store comforters (that you don’t want to wash daily), pillows and items such as chair cushions, stuffed animals, and anything else covered in material for two weeks away from human contact.

Select clothes that can be easily washed and dried for the next ten days to wear and put away all other.

Buy the ingredients for the ‘magic potion’ you decide to go with and make sure you have enough shower caps for two treatments, i.e. two per person. Buy metal lice combs (one per person) and also order LiceMeister combs at headlice.org since they are the best. With a little luck they’ll be there within three to four days.

Wash and tumble dry hot every piece of clothing that may have come in contact with head lice in the past two days.

Instruct everyone in the house not to share towels, bedding, clothing and also limit close contact.

Mix the necessary amount of magic potion and start spreading and rubbing it into the hair. Cover hair with a shower cap keep it on over night.

Vacuum the entire house and any piece of cushion that cannot be stored away (including car seats).

Day ONE (after the treatment):

Strip beds that may have come in contact with lice. Wash and tumble dry hot for at least 30 minutes.

Wash hair and use conditioner.

Get a glass of water, mix in five tablespoons of vinegar and some drops of tea tree oil, grab the combs, and get ready. Start combing in small section from front to back (especially in the back and behind the ears) and rinse off the comb in the glass of water after each stroke. Have a paper towel handy as well. The harvest of (hopefully dead) lice and nits in the first days should be abundant.

Boil the combs for five minutes after each use.

Repeat combing at night.

Make beds and then proceed to wash and tumble dry hot all clothes that were worn that day.

Vacuum where lice may have dropped during the day.

Day TWO through SEVEN:

Strip bed(s) and comb twice a day. Hand-pick nits once the comb doesn’t pick up any anymore. There are always some eggs left – trust me. They all have got to go because otherwise sooner or later (i.e. within three weeks) the lice will be back. It only takes one egg to hatch…Also keep on washing all clothes at night and reinforce the no-chance-for-lice rules. Vacuum where necessary.

Day EIGHT:
At night repeat the oil treatment. Use a comb to make sure the oil gets everywhere. Use shower caps overnight. Wash and tumble dry etc.

Day NINE:
Strip bed(s) and wash hair using conditioner. Comb/hand-pick taking your time. You may find dead lice and nymphs (smaller lice-to-be). Hopefully, they all are dead by now.

Day TEN through FOURTEEN:
Comb daily checking for any nits. If none are found by day fourteen, the nightmare is over.

Day FIFTEEN
Move to paradise and lay off washing clothes for the rest of your life. That, or help yourself to a sufficient amount of Ben&Jerry’s and get the comforters out of storage. You deserve a good night’s sleep...!)

AUUGHHH !!

I am battling mice, lice, and a shitwit virus right now. Wish me luck, I need it.

I Can See Forty

Just had another birthday. It’s still one starting with a three (while not yet ending on a nine). But to be honest, I can’t wait for forty to arrive, pink ribbon and all. I am so ready to kick back—and that, my friends, is what I’ll do.

If we look at the decades of life we probably all had some sort of ok first decade – most likely we were actually unaware that it was only the beginning of things to come. We all went swimming, had too much ice cream, mediocre friends and, if lucky, one really good one (who moved away).

Then came the teens which I don’t think I have to dwell on much, right? What was that all about anyway? Emotional drowning thwarted only by the consumption of even more ice cream, an abundance of abysmal friends, bad clothes (nice try), bad complexion, bad music, and even worse first sex (mine was actually ok, though the guy, Mick P. ended up being gay) – all of this blamed on the broad subject of ‘coming of age’ which generally means only one thing: Really screwed up hormones.

Anyway, enter the twenties – decade of brazen strides and badly bruised egos. I don’t have much good to say about this one. I met Matt and had a great time traveling for some of those years but all together it was a rather stressful period in my life culminating in the birth of our first child.

And here we are, the thirties. I never thought that life was so much work!!! But then, when you look at life from a secure perch on grandpa’s apple tree, it doesn’t look that bad. Just lots of adults getting in and out of cars, checking the time, and raising their eyebrows.

Now I have become one of them: I write lists and I check items off, I have rushed phone conversations, I multi-task (poorly), and I chase my kids around 24/7. In between I check in with people I care about, update my blog, and wonder whether we should get a dog (I know, of course, what the answer to that one is: NO!).

I have become what I most dreaded all my life: a bore!

Anyway, it’s all about to get so much better soon. I will be fun, energetic, free (if not smashingly beautiful and brilliant), I will continue writing (just more and better stuff), my kids will take over homeschooling and (hopefully) house keeping, and Matt will beg me to go tango with him at night (which I will politely accept). And life will be just perfect.

We still won’t get a dog, however.

Barbie Babe and Rambo

I swear we girls all have it in us: The secret and often unacknowleged wish to be Barbie – and I don’t mean elongated, emanating plastic odor.

I am not kidding you when I say this. And you can find this highly offensive and yet I am telling you that almost every woman at some point (!!) in her life has wanted a slice of that vulnerable desirability that Barbie seems to promise: I am perfect, you want me, you want to throw me onto the floor, grab me by my exaggerated hair, and rip off my Velcro mini skirt.

That’s at least what I did with my elusive Barbie dolls. I tormented them. Their engraved smile at the same time attracted and annoyed me and left me in an uncomfortable state of ambivalence about womanhood that lasted for years.

I have come to grasps with that since then. I have more recently begun to wonder about men and their hidden desires.

Ken hardly seems to come close to who men really want to be – at least not between the ages of five and sixty-five. Quite contrary to the domesticated obsessively groomed Barbie playmate, the penis-extension wielding Rambo-type action figure seems to be much closer to the typical male ideal.

It’s the guy that will be on top of the food chain – forever. That’s who’s appealing. The guy that gets to order around Barbie until he is sick and tired of her and returns to shoot up some more hostile forces.

We all have lived through our respective Barbie and Rambo stages and some of us have done so with an unforgiving passion. It’s something inherent in our human condition. In fact, it’s what makes humanity procreate like rabbits. It’s a default setting that keeps us doing so despite obvious reasons not to.

Just Hanging Out

All of yesterday afternoon, I spent supine on a speed-boat with the ambiguous name High Raiser. Ambiguous only, of course, if you don’t know Fast Freddy – the 5’2” amicable owner.

Freddy had taken his friends on a cruise – frying up a whopping $176 in gas by the time he reached our beach. They were hanging out on their boat when Vanessa, mother of two, and my date for the afternoon, spotted them and began stalking them from the beach, waving her arms at them and hollering. After all, the guy on the boat was nobody less then her old flame from her wild days in this town of six hundred.

At first, it seemed they were taking off on her and in my mind I was running through a top ten list of impact-atenuating comments to help my new friend cope. But then they turned and shut off the engines again, and six-foot Vanessa began her laborious wade through the cool waters of this northern lake.

After a couple of hours, her kids followed. Then so did mine and eventually I did as well. Jules, riding on top of my shoulders, had been cheering me on all along ‘boat, boat, boat, boat, boat.’ So what was I supposed to do?

To say the least, it wasn’t a likely crowd for me. And with my plain dark blue Speedo suit and knotted beach hair I wasn’t a likely match for them either. But we all spent a surprisingly fun time on board of the High Raiser.

After initally pondering the effect of a couple of salacious comments to the owner, I decided to relax and dig into the bag of Lay’s circling around instead. The kids were taking turns diving off the side of the boat and 23-months old Jules was flirting with one of the female crew members. Time to chill.

The reason for my sojourn on the High Raiser, Fast Freddy, turned out to be quite a charmer. He also was turning a darker shade of crimson by the minute. His short, stout appearance seemed an unlikely match for Vanessa. But in her own words, he was and always will be: Fast Freddy-everything with him had to be fast…cars, boats, you name it.

I smiled and helped myself to another handful of chips.

Leaving that World

Now that I have left my world of magically made beds, automatic clean dishes and otherwise effortless domestic perfection it’s time for me to become imaginative lest it all comes to a screeching halt or better one gigantic unnerved scream. And I can tell, people around me are waiting for exactly that.

But so far I am actually doing better than should be expected. I serenely set tables, I frolick folding laundry and wash dishes, pick up toys, water plants, carry out garbage, wipe spilled milk (no crying) and still find time to keep abreast on what’s ailing Brad and Angelina.

The truth is that taking things back into my own hands has actually come as a relief. Since I didn’t grow up with help at home, I don’t really know how deal with it. I don’t know how to keep the gardener from knocking up the nanny, or maids from construing ever more fantastic fiction about what really happened to my butter dish, or the night guard from peeing in the pool.

I don’t have enough bitch in me to be an effective employer of the socio-economic less fortunate. And believe me, at times I wished I did. For instance, when within six weeks my nanny’s grandpa, great-grandma, and uncle died, her brother broke an arm, her mom was hospitalized, and the family dog had thirteen puppies. She never showed up once on Monday during that time.

The fact is, I am much happier in a space that I can easily manage myself in a community that is safe.

During my time in Costa Rica, I missed being able to walk around town without having to gage the risk of being either mugged, attacked by a dog, or run over by a truck. And the chances were pretty high – I went for short walks anyway.

Yet, hiking on the back roads is definitely not advisable – at least not for a woman, I was told – and so I didn’t. I signed up at the Country Club instead and stared at flawless teenage asses bobbing up and down on the stairmaster in front of me.

What would be paradise for some had become a tightrope for me.

Simply not my world.

Life

Life itself remains a very effective therapist.
Karen Horney (psychoanalyst)

Hear Me Whine

Lately, I have been wanting some broad shoulders to lean against. Someone bigger and wider than me. Someone who would not take offense at my runny nose and incoherent babble and who would maybe even gently stroke my hair and assure me that everything-will-be-all-right.

Matt’s shoulders are really nice but he is an inch shorter than I am and – worst of all – I don’t buy his lines…we are stuck in the same bubbling cauldron, so who is he to fool?

I used to know a really good guy who lived across the alley and would check in on me and my broken heaters, collapsed chimneys, absurd ATT bills, and crashed utility posts last summer. He died in August, before I even got here. I am still mad about that one.

And then there are a couple of potential candidates I really pissed off, so probably no shoulders to cry on there, even if they were available.

Anyway, one of the most beautiful set of shoulders that would actually be lent to me free of charge are attached to my dear friend who is geographically incapacitated to act on his generosity. Damn. I so deserve a pair of solid shoulders these days.

Thinking about it in some wistful sort of state, I realize, however, that my wonderful friend and soul mate back where home used to be is thirty-three times more deserving than I. And it doesn’t look like she will be getting a chance to drool blissfully any time soon, either.

So, I guess we’ll have to wait for the holidays to roll around. We might get lucky yet. If only Santa wasn’t such a freak. Yikes!

Just Shoot Me

One thing I do now when I am traveling by plane is hide water bottles in my carry-on luggage. Out of five bottles they usually find three or four. The inevitably bull-necked officer at security raises his eyebrows at me – the idiot who can’t follow directions— and gives me the ‘m’am-I’ll-need-to-open-your-bags’ address. As always, I smile woefully sorry...the kids, you know.

Usually I also carry empty water bottles with me so that I can fill them once I get through the checkpoint. Then, however, they tend to get me at the next one.

What can you do? With three kids and one of the worst years for delays in airline travel I am not going to deny us water. To hell with whatever bomb bull crap scare these little big boys came up with now. I am so tired of it.

All these years I have been trying to grow up and get over my issues. The world around me, however, seems to be getting crazier by the minute. And it’s fine if it was just your normal kind of craziness but the destructive force behind it makes me sad and, as it is, really thirsty.

I smile at the security guy: Life is tough, I know.

Watcha Gonna Get

I remember lying awake one night shortly after my 21st birthday thinking that the whole world was about to open itself to me, that I was on the threshold of something big and wonderful to come.

And life did look like that immense box of chocolates right then -- with all the dark ones daintily arranged in concentric circles around a middle of deliciously puffed white truffles. Every choice an exquisite surprise. Pick me, pick me and you shall have a life of fun and excitement: 'pick me and your life will take you to the top, pick me and life will take you places you never knew existed", they seemed to whisper.

As I am writing these lines, it’s the night before the early morning departure into the skies of airline travel. Fun is in the air and the excitement is rising as I am chasing my young ones around to get them dressed in stretch pants and T-shirts – the first layer of what they will be wearing on tomorrow’s trip. It’s my way of cutting down on early morning break-downs. Afterall, we are expected to line up at the check-in counter at 4:45 am for the post nine-eleven three hour pre-boarding marathon. Not an easy deed with three sleep-drunk kids.

All this started precisely 330 days ago, when I successfully wrung five mileage award tickets out of the gnarly claws of an airline sales rep. To save my family overnight stays in overprized inconspicuous airport hotels – and the baby from traveling by himself, I had to fight my way up to the top of customer servicelandia. It was a heroic battle, which I eventually emerged from successfully.

There are certain undertows of airline travel with small children that one must be keenly aware of or chaos is certain to ensue. So, I plan.

I sketch out a well-measured count-down schedule that extends over weeks. No last-minute frenzied rushes to the embassy over an expired passport. No heart attacks over forgotten life-saving baby items. I even have a ‘Last Things to Remember’ list which I ususally get to sometime after midnight.

Throughout my career as a mom I have acquired some surprising skills, one of which is master packer: I can fold, stack, bolster, and squeeze an amazing number of items into suitcases, bags, and carry-ons without ever exceeding either weight or size limitations. WOOHOO !!

I generally try to limit myself to two suitcases for all of us. The reason for that is that our belongings and we still have to fit into a mid-size sedan. An important detail not to be overlooked.

There are always, however, as few extra items. Some will find a place in one of the six small and medium size backpacks, shoulder bags, and pouches. But then there are also the ubiquitous umbrella stroller and inevitable infant car-seat and toddler booster.

I really should ask for a pay raise. After all, our framily's sanity depends entirely on my diligently honed ‘mother instincts .’ And, believe me, it took years of harsh and unforgiving training to get to where I am.

In no time I locate games, coloring books, crayons, DVD player and favorite movies, charger, chewing gum, snacks, half-empty water bottles, toys, baby jars, plastic spoons, disposable bibs, diapers, wipes – lots of wipes – books, and extra T-shirts for everyone in the almost certain event of spilled apple-juice. I even remember to grab a handfull of zip lock bags in several sizes for storage, garbage, and any kind of bodily refuse.

At last, I place all of this and and a supply of pain killers in the designated place. In my mind, I retain a mental map of everything that goes in so I can swiftly extricated any item anytime during the crowded flight. I am done.

As I am sitting here in this mess of what has become my life, my legs and feet in a tingly state of numbness, I suddenly crave chocolate. Lots of it – but these days I prefer chocolate bars to boxes of chocolate. At least you know what you gonna get.

for the better

from the start
what a farce
way too good to be true

so its all for the better
no tears no boohoo

you and i
what a lie
it wasn’t meant to be

it’s all for the better
just wait and see

i leave
though i grieve
and i heave a sigh

it’s all for the better
that we say good-bye

some day
i may say
i have lived in you

and though it was better
i left much too soon

What I'll Miss

A bunch of wonderful, brave, adventurous, fun, smart, amazing friends—a quaint tico community—my house—roosters at sunrise—the laid-back Caribbean pace—fresh guyabana juice—palm, almond, and guanacaste trees—our homeschool theater group—summer dresses year-round—colors to die for—a life of ease and open doors—parrots in the eucalyptus tree—balmy-warm down pours...

Bird Cage

Something is off in the Switzerland of Central America and it’s not for the lack of breath-taking scenery or affluent retirees. It’s the bird cage mentality: Life lived behind bars, some more golden than others.

On my stroll back from the mechanic this morning, I crossed our town dodging delivery trucks and male solicitations and I took a close look at these cages.

Most of them ‘contain’ women it seems, mostly older or with young children, busying themselves with their daily chores. An elderly lady was arranging her patio furniture, another one was dousing off the dust from passing by traffic, children were playing ball. A seemingly normal morning scene, yet, in a rather bizarre setting.

When did this all start? When did fear become so overwhelming that life behind bars seemed preferable to a life shared with passers-by, neighbors, the town, and an uncluttered view thereof?

Maybe I will ask my mechanic. He seems to be an insightful guy.

I’ll keep you posted.

/U/ as in Son

There are days, like today, when homeschooling has to happen without me. Since Lea is only five years old I usually spend a fair amount of time with her as she tackles her early reader’s books and counts blocks.

She is into big numbers right now and tends to raise her eyebrow at anything lower than eleven. Remarkably, she is taking considerable risks identifying numbers and often ends up with new creations such as four-and-forty sixty. There always is some logic behind it, I just can’t figure out which one.

In general, however, she likes to have time to do her own counting without my cheery presence towering over her. Reading, on the other hand, wouldn’t happen if I didn’t sit down with her.

But today, I simply couldn’t get around to it, not even for two minutes. Instead, I asked Zoë to help her sister. Together they sat down on the sofa and got the Bob Books out. However, less than a minute into it the two got into an immense and messy argument over the letter ‘o’ as in the word ‘son’.

It left Zoë devastated, her aspirations of ever joining the honorable corps of educators crushed. But who said teaching was easy? Even at this point in my career, my understanding of the proper pronunciation of /o/ continues to be slightly abstract.

Whether /o/ as in ‘ox’ or /u/ as in ‘umbrella’ I have to admit, as a German native, I find the argument for /u/ as in ‘ox’ no less compelling. But after hours of attentive listening to the Leap Frog series of short vowels and repetitive trance-like chants of hot-hut, got-gut, and not-nut I have acquired at least a basic, understanding of it.

My kids must think I am a genius!

This is a Good One

"True happiness involves the full use of one's powers and talents."

John Gardner

By the Old Mango Tree

Ask any Tico for directions and you will get a poem.
Check this one out:

Where the Post Office Is
By Fat Guy Wearing Stripes


When you reach the bottom of the hill
Take a left where the blue house used to be

Follow that road until you get to the old cemetery
Be careful because the road is tricky

Keep to your left until you see the old road to San Rafael
Then turn where the mango tree used to be

Continue straight after you cross the abandoned banana rail road tracks
On the side where Don Fabricio’s barber shop used to be

You will find it.

I ran out of gas that day but I was quite entertained for a while, seeing Costa Rica through the eyes of a local – like following a dream.

A Good Life

Everyone in my family maintains that my great-grandmother Johanna was an intelligent and insightful woman. There are, however, but a few statements that have been handed down from her. “You can tell a fool by his laughter,” is one of them.

My great-grandmother didn’t talk as much as she worked hard – all her life right up to the end when I got a chance to meet her briefly. It was a life just like the lives of most people she knew: A life defined by work consisting mostly of housework and subsistence farming. Just making a meal involved myriad steps starting with pulling up water from a well and splitting kindle wood.

Each day started early and ended only when the chores were done and another day of life had been successfully mastered. Survival, just sixty years ago, required skills that combined high levels of know-how, problem-solving, and ingenuity surpassed only by prevailence.

Not once did my great-grandmother wondered about her role in life, her personal strength and weaknesses, let alone her goals. She quietly smiled at the notion of friendships and probably would have looked stymied if asked whether she was happy.

Sure enough her life wasn’t easy and she may not have lived up to her full potential, but there was no doubt in her or anyone else’s mind that it was a purposeful life.

Green Shoes

It’s the rainy season. My shoes are shrouded in a delicate veil of green, my family videos have acquired a trendy pattern of white fuzzy spots, and my pillows are scented…hum, how shall I describe this extravagant fragrance. The only word that comes to my mind is MOLD. Yes, indeed, it’s mold season.

Little spores are floating through the air, settling here and sometimes there thus unsettling everyone everywhere.

I was warned about the video tapes so Susan copied them onto DVDs for me a while ago. Thanks, girl!! Still, it was not a happy moment when I dropped ‘Our Wedding Date’ into the black garbage bag to the likes of Shrek, Forest Gump, and The Usual Suspects. Ah, yes, life in the tropics! But at least we have electricity to waste again…

nothing but

soon I will feel

the scraping nails
of your desperation

the sour breath
of you fear

the darting presence
of you anger

as nothing but a memory

Connected

Have you checked your drawers lately? I used to have broken pens and dull scissors in mine. But lately I have worthless items of an entire new category – and value – piling up in there: several headsets, splitters, 32MB memory cards, 8mm film, two non-digital cameras, and…let’s see…a clunky portable DVD player. What to do with all that stuff? Toss it?

I used to feel bad about tossing out yet another highlighter gone raspy. But tossing a camera? The good news in my case is that I live in a country where people still know how to fix broken things. There is a whole underground economy of used electronical items that trade hands for moderate prices and help pay the rent for those who fix them.

That’s not the case in the so-called First World. There, products are bought, used, and trashed as soon as a newer model hits the market. And, of course, there always will be a newer model. Now it’s the iPhone, next might be the iFriend, followed by the iFriend Pro. Am I being just a tiny bit cynical? Let’s just face it: There is no way of staying out of the consumerism race. And believe me, I tried.

Years ago, I proudly refused to clutter my existence with an answering machine, and that sure didn’t earn me any brownie points. Then, I said ‘no’ to digital gadgetry. Well, that stance didn’t last long either.

So now I am Ms. iPod (I actually own two), with all the little itsy bitsy ever-notted cables that go along with them. I also own several digital voice recorders, a digital camera, and camcorder – and, of course, with all that an abundance of cables and chargers.

But that’s just for now. I am sure there will be more stuff out on the market soon to satiate my craving to stay connected – plugged into the lives of friends, family, and Oprah, my past, and the pulse of the things to come. Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Staying connected.

Fear Factor

Zoë is sitting across from me at the table: Arms folded over her chest, chin down – a serious frown announces her resistance to me and my attempts at bullying her through the last of five story problems. It’s one in which Timmy is supposed to figure out how many boxes of overly sweet raisin treats will be left over if he has thirty-four of them to give away to six of his miserable little friends. Honestly, I can’t blame her.

In a way, we are both stuck in this. I know I need a break. Yet, I feel I can’t let her off the hook. It’s just one last math problem and she is almost done. But she has had it. It’s 11:15am.

“You are making this pretty hard on both of us, wasting all this time and energy over nothing!!” I let her know. In the end, however, I do let her off the hook – both her and myself. Doing so doesn’t feel right, but it is the best I can manage right then. So, both of us are taking a break from math, Timmy, and each other.

Five minutes into the break, as I am hammering away on the keyboard in my study, Zoë comes into the room and sits down next to me heaving a sigh that seems to come from a long ways down in her belly, “I am sorry, Mom,” she whispers, “It’s just that I am not afraid of you.”

Go figure!

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Why is it that most people seem to confuse who they are with what they do? I am a teacher, I am a swim instructor, I am a tax attorney. Why is it that they choose to reduce their individuality to professional terminology? Maybe it feels safer than saying, I ‘work as’ a teacher, swim instructor, or tax attorney, which sounds more transient, as if you haven’t found your true vocation.

But what if you work as a garbage collector, INS officer, or as a prison ward? Maybe that would be a box one doesn’t even really want to fit in. I have actually heard people working in less desirable jobs paraphrase: Instead of saying ‘I am a garbage collector’ they will say, for instance, that they 'work in' waste management. After all, anything that includes the term ‘management’ tends to acquire some of the glitter attributed to the good old gray back occupation of ‘management’ – even if all that it amounts to is picking up people’s empty milk cartons and smelly leftovers.

Alternatively, one may hear someone saying that s/he is 'working for' the INS or for the state prison system thereby giving the profession a sheen of duty-fulfillment and obligation. The intention is to prompt a reaction along the lines of ‘Ah, yes, that’s a very important job for society.’ And again, identity is defined: We must be dealing with an upright citizen living up to a difficult job.

Sometimes, it fees like people are hiding behind job titles that consist of a sheer endless number of arbitrary nouns like Principal Assistant Director suggesting importance where there is none. Clearly, that’s not a safe thing to do. A big bluff calls for a big laugh.

Although almost anyone can probably empathize with the wish to be someone, most people like to debunk someone else’s bluff, or cut down whatever it is people do: Lawyers are sharks, doctors are in it for the money, teachers are know-it-alls, etc. What is it about identity – ours and that of others – that makes us so nervous?

I can tell you, personally, I don’t particularly enjoy having to write ‘mother’ as my profession on every form, be it at the doctor’s, immigration, or the Department of Motor Vehicles. My instinct tells me that puts me in a pretty small box somewhere between garbage collector and know-it-all. However, alternatively, ‘homemaker’ is just another bluff, ‘homeschooling parent’ reveals more than I want to, and leaving it blank slightly understates the fact that I am working my ass off 24/7.

So, where does that leave me? Maybe I should start calling myself ‘Lady Madonna.’ Now there is a case of mistaken identity.

The Homeschooling High Five

A lot of people who comment on my blog blurb write to me about the homeschooling. Quite a few of them are considering homeschooling but have some trepidations. So, I think I will write a little more on that subject from now on in the hope to provide a little insight.

This is what’s really great about homeschooling: Freedom. The freedom to pick (or not to pick) a curriculum, the freedom to make up classes as you go, mix and match, and borrow what you like and improve on it if you can. Then, there is the obvious freedom to pick the time and place for homeschooling: The ‘when,’ ‘where,’ and ‘for how long.’ And, of course, there is the freedom to do it on your own or to include family and friends, and, last but not least, there is the freedom to have the entire world as an educational platform.

Hum. Too much freedom maybe? Is all that freedom talk just a little bit overwhelming? After all how can one be sure to make the right choice? What about state laws, SATs, and everyone else’s opinion? What if your kid doesn’t like it or thinks you stink and, worse even, what if s/he is right?

True. In fact, homeschooling may turn out to be the worst choice you will have ever made just like going or not going to law school. But you will never know unless you try it. Just remember, you clicked on this posting, so maybe just maybe you ought to give it a try.

Here are five reasons why we really enjoy homeschooling:

1 – We get to spend a lot of quality time together;

2 – We know each other and feel comfortable being completely honest with each other;

3 – We learn how to problem-solve and how to be good team-players in daily life;

4 – We have time to explore answers to the mind-boggling questions of life;

5 – We can pack up and call it a field trip to the car repair shop or the Roman Forum if
if we want to!


Maybe soon you will have your own reasons…

War of Smiles

If you smile you’ll feel better. Maybe you have heard that one before. It actually works. We smile when we are happy and, likewise, we feel a light wave of happiness come over us when we smile.

If you follow that line of thought you are on your way to positive thinking and its many schools, advocates, and exorbitantly expensive workshops. All it does, however, is activate the hard-wiring and chemical potions already existent in our bodies. It’s a way to trick our brain in order to make it more responsive and, hence, amenable to perform tasks such as problem-solving. It’s a good technique to know and use when needed.

Smiles are also used to win friends and – virtually – win support: I smile, therefore, I am successful. Political figures cannot help but smile; some of them, as it seems, do so quite out of control.

Playgroup mothers are skilled smilers as well. After all, they dearly need support: Hi-I-am-Nancy-and-this-is-my-daughter-Kimberly. You may have met Nancy and Kimberly before, they are looking for friends and information on where to find hand-me-downs.

But then, there are all these other people who smile although they stand nothing to win, or so it seems. People who hold open doors, give directions, and stand next to you in the elevator. Most of them are Americans. Americans even smile when you bump into them, stare at them, or spill iced tea into their laps.

When I first came to the States, that fact amazed me. But it also put me, the glum German, under pressure. Somehow, I intuitively realized that smiling was not just a national pastime but an unspoken doctrine. So I practiced. I paid close attention to the way Americans smile: mouth open, tongue down, all teeth showing.

I also practiced the control smile (this one is with your mouth closed) – the one used for the spilled iced tea the one that signals superhuman self-control, like no-twit-is-going-to-ruin-my-day. It’s a passive-aggressive smile, no question, but as such extremely powerful.

If one wanted to summarize American culture it could be: The last one smiling wins.

Time to Pay the Piper - Again

It’s not only terrible, disturbing, and sad, it’s also really pathetic. Suicide missions like the one in Glasgow and the many other ones committed elsewhere around the world are a symptom of a problem we refuse to acknowledge: Whether it’s a suicide attack, a mass shooting, genocide, or some other form of violent destruction or otherwise blatant disrespect of life, 99% of it is committed by men.

To keep the hate mail, verbal abuses, and death threats to a manageable bit size, however, I will proffer some atonement by clarifying that, of course, not all men are murderers. That being said, however, it is amazing, don’t you think, how many men can become murderers given the ‘right’ circumstances. Just check out accounts of war crimes, torture, and death camp atrocities committed by ‘normal’ blokes.

If one has the courage and is willing to face the sad and disturbing reality of humanity there is one blatant fact screaming at us loudly: MEN CAN BE A THREAT TO LIFE.

But that fact is never stated. Maybe it’s a given but I wonder if it is such a well-known problem, why is it not being solved. After all we are tackling problems such as nuclear proliferation, climate change, and the odds of quantum theory. Why not devote some time to the oddities of the male psyche? It can’t be that difficult to figure out.

I’ll just give it shot: A male child is four times more likely to develop autism than a female child. Autistic children experience social interaction as confusing and as offering little reward. They are usually drawn towards the world of objects or abstract concepts and, generally, manifest an inability of feeling empathy. The symptoms of autism can be more or less severe and sometimes go undiagnosed.

Now let’s take this a step further: In day to day life men manifest low levels of autistic behavior more often than women and if under pressure are capable of extreme acts of anti-social behavior. Mild forms include electric train collectors, car fanatics, computer freaks. The tougher form includes all those daddies who after thinking it over for a while decide that having a family is not that sexy after all. And from here we can just follow the continuum to the guy who thinks that a mini skirt is an invitation for rape.

The potential to objectify human beings is a truly worrisome element of the male psyche that should call a lot more attention than it does. Why, in a world that loves to break with taboos, are we so reluctant about this one: The blank spots of the male psyche. Could it be because men are still the ones who control politics, markets, and public opinion? Just a thought.

However, by thus implicitly condoning male transgressions and putting off needed research, censoring public debate, and failing to propose viable solutions to address this problem, all men become implicated in the crimes committed by a minority of them. All men and those women who think that there is nothing they can do anyway.

We all pay, folks.

Driving Me Insane

I once read a book that was written by a Brazilian who claimed that people drive the way they are. And not only that, he held that entire nations reveal themselves in their driving habits. It was a fun book, jammed packed with stereotypes of course, but not completely unintelligent. Germans, of course, came across as overly rule-concerned: No need to slam on the breaks for a cross-walker. What is she doing there anyway? I can’t remember what it said about Latvian or Andorran driving habits, but I can tell you a few things about Costa Rican driving myself after having lived here for four years.

It’s insane. And it’s not even as much the way they drive but rather the way they conceive of motorized travel. The stereotypical Tico seems to think that a delivery truck is no different from the horse their grandpa used to ride. They all ride them much too fast on non-existing lanes.

Most roads here, if paved at all, have no median and none of them have shoulders. Not only that, the side of the roads remembers a half eaten cookie rather than a curb. What should be a sidewalk is often some makeshift ditch for storm water and since there are daily down-pours during the six-months rainy season, pedestrians really have no choice but to step into the road, baby carriage, grocery bags and all.

So just imagine a downhill road, twelve feet across, on a rainy evening, with heavy rush hour travel in both directions. Spice it up with a couple of kids balancing between the certainty of either instant death or extremely wet and mucky legs, a wind-blown biker with a black cape, and few foot-deep potholes where the median should be and there you go: Costa Rica.

But there is one redeeming quality and in my time here I have caught a few glimpses of it: Everyone seems to realize it’s pretty bad. That doesn’t change the fast and unforgiving driving behavior, but if a Tica/o sees that you are caught at one of the many no-chance left turns with no turning lane or light, you can be sure s/he is going to flash the lights at you signaling you to go ahead and cut in front of you.

Don’t try that in Germany.

Math Review

In a week I clip thirty nails (not counting my own), every other week it’s sixty. That’s because toenails grow slower than fingernails. In a month, that adds up to180 clipped nails – again not counting my own. So, multiply that by 12 and we are at 2,160 nails. Now if we assume an average of about seven years of toenail clipping per kid, I will have clipped no less than 15,120 nails that are not my own.

Car Thief

Speed, mobility, freedom – every car commercial toys with our fear of being stuck just like the now outlawed cigarette commercials used to. Buy this, and you will be who you really are, right? And, to some extent, it’s true. Every time we get into a car, the world of highways, bridges, and tunnels lies in front of us and it’s up to us to determine where and how far we choose to travel on them: the mall, San Francisco, or Patagonia.

But then again, most of the time we get into the car just to go to the store for bread, or to pick up junior from pre-school, or to make it to work in time just like everyone else. And just like everyone else we get stuck at the first left turn. No matter what horse we’re riding, whether purebred, mustang, or mule chances are we will spend the better part of our time in a hell of exhaust fumes, asphalt, and red lights. Lucky you if you downloaded your favorite podcast and can travel at least in your mind.

Truth is, besides mobility and individual choice, the car also gave us suburban sprawl, strip malls, car dealer ships, eight lane highways, gas stations, snaking highway intersections, spoiled coastal views, pollution, and, ah yes, economic growth. The giving if not forgiving nature of the car….

But there is one thing it took and it did so without most of us noticing it: Increasingly, the car has robbed our children of their mobility and freedom.

How many kids walk or ride their bikes to school or over to their friends nowadays? How many of them have schools or friends that live even close to them? How many children play outside – and I don’t mean in a fenced-off yard, or tennis court. How many of them meet other kids by just being out on the street for an afternoon?

Truth is children have lost out while ‘our’ mobility increased and the country moved into double digit growth.

News Flash

Nothing gets more consistent coverage in German media these days than: childcare. That’s new. And that alone makes it noteworthy.

Like anywhere else, childcare traditionally is a mother’s problem and, hence, generally overlooked. Who really cares about how the next generation makes it through the first years of their lives? It’s a dirty job some idiot has to do – preferably done quietly and with a smile, right?

In a country without school lunches, where children generally appear back on the doorstep at 1:00 pm, and toddlers toddle at home, the prospects are bleak for many mothers. Part time work often remains the only ungrateful option. Well, thanks but no, many of them say these days, “Why ruin my life so that this madness can continue?” But mind you, it’s not voiced that way because the radicals can lean back these days and enjoy.

With an average rate of 1.3 children per women, the tables have turned. The idiots are those who look the other way now. Ah and, voilà, suddenly childcare is one of the main topics in German politics and media.

It’s fun to watch as one front page after another pinpoints issues around formerly scorned topics such as family, parenting, education, and women. That’s new. The role of the state in childcare now is hotly debated by panels of educators, faces are turning red over the principles of quality childcare and voices of panelists reach falsetto level as family values are debated.

Of course, there are always those atavists who declare that everything was better before and the world would be such a better place if only women were to return to the ‘Three Ks’ of Kinder, Küche and Kirche (children, kitchen, and church). But their days are so obviously numbered it almost makes you want to hear them say it one last time for old times’ sake.

This turn of events is good not only because it refreshes and broadens public debate but also because it’s crucial. Locking women out of public life and limiting their choices is not the way to go. It’s still the way most societies are organized, mind you, but most of them share one facet: Low levels of development. Go check it out.

Sweet Home Indeed

Getting on the plane and flying fifteen hours across continents, oceans, and time zones is a mind-boggling experience – every single time. And I have done it many times. It takes my soul several days to catch up with me. This is my late grandma talking and she was referring to a road trip from Cologne in the center of Germany back to her home up in Northern Germany. But she was right.
Going home is more than a geographic transplantation – it’s a time travel back to our beginnings: The sounds, smells, sights, and tastes of our past and, with that, the feelings that are indelibly connected to them.

Getting off the plane in Frankfurt, I am enveloped by a dull silence like that at an on-campus library on a late winter afternoon. The air smells of cigarette smoke from one of the ubiquitous so-called “smokers’ corner” across the terminal and conjures up images of fat arm-chairs and a queasy feeling of not belonging.
The doors to the bathroom are heavy and it takes the thrust of my entire half-dead body to pry it 1/3 open, just enough to squeeze through before it slams shut again – just short of my shoulder. Everything is big and heavy and I – at 1,82m – am small, once again. I can’t help but smile. I am back.

But then again there is a lot to be said about what’s good about that Alice-like state. Because while I am small I am determined to clamp my teeth down on every bit of cake, pastry, and bread that I can find. No regrets. The big plus: I can have coffee and beer with it now. And I do. Three weeks of complete debauchery leaves me no bigger but a little rounder.
I had a wonderful time and my nephew is about the cutest little creature you can imagine. However I, being the overly excited aunt, I managed to have a stuffed monkey fall into his basinet and wake him up from his serene slumber. The parents were more than forgiving and so was he, thank God. Poo on me.

Now that I am back – I can’t say home really, not yet – I feel out of sorts. I am not good at this time travel business. My soul is still caught at customs without any chance of getting out of there any time soon, it seems.
It’s June and it’s raining in paradise. At least that’s a well-known sound, smell, and sight to behold. It always rained when I was a kid. And I admit, I am grateful.

Go SunStruck

Do I have news for you! Motherjungle.com author, Susan Carmichael, and I are about to finish producing our fifth podcast episode and are getting ready to launch our baby:

SUNSTRUCK RADIO

She is really, really funny, slightly fuzzy, wobbly, and only ever so mildly pungent. I swear, she’s gonna warm your soul. All we need is a hot logo to give this child a face. Let me know if you have any ideas.

I am off-line for a while checking out my new nephew back home – now there is a babe!
Talk to you soon!

Fish Chat

I was at the beach with the kids. Woman, it was great! Pure tropical paradise. When I say, Costa Rica was never on the map for me as far as home bases go, it’s a very fine choice for right now, I can tell you that much.

I also can tell you that I really like watching fish go about their fish business. It puts me in a serene state of mind and it’s really funny. Besides, whoever came up with those stunning designs? Florescent night-sky blue with light blue polka dots? Get outta here! And the curves, lines, and angles on those things, phew!

So before I had to jam everyone and their beach bucket into the car to drive the six hours back to San José yesterday, I left for an hour to go snorkeling. It was 7:30am and sunny, a light breeze was coming in from the Caribbean, the water was calm and blazing green.

Fred, my father-in-law, went with me and together we snorkeled around the reef just off Punta Uva. It’s a good way to spend a morning. It takes your mind off to-do lists, baby poop, and software trouble. And although I was staring at fish the whole time, I wasn’t even thinking about food – not once, I swear.

We saw the pug-nosed yellow fellow, the tiger troupes, the silver swishies, the dark blue flasher, and a fine selection of Nemo’s friends and foes. All of them said to say hello.

Pura Vida!

bee-oo-tee-fool

I had an epiphany at a check-out counter yesterday. My eyes stung and my jaw dropped about two feet as I absorbed her sight: Woman – her essence. There she was: Black hair sliding down butterfly shoulders, a classical profile with eyebrows like a sigh, a white dress and heels like Barbie. Her silhouette a sight to behold forever. It was like standing in a cave and gazing out into brutal sunshine. Ah, that’s it: Sublime, untouchable, perrrrfect.

Bodies and shapes have a way to capture me. I am easily taken in by slender muscles and curving lines. Male, female, feline, equine, you name it, I swoon when a certain delicate firmness catches my eye. I recreate the outline in my mind, I like to draw their gentle swerves in coal and etch their essence into the canvas. I caress their imitations with a sweeping glance and wonder: wherein lies physical beauty.

No one else was looking at her as she walked out of the store, sliding doors closing behind her in slow motion. She was just gone, leaving me behind paddling in her backwaters like a befuddled duck.

Good Morning Sunshine

It’s 5:30 am. I like this time of the day because the house is quiet. I open up the windows and breathe in the vanilla air of early dawn. And if I am not misinterpreting their hyped cackle the parrots on the eucalyptus tree outside my window like it too.

It’s a wonderful time of the day but it took me over thirty years to discover it and the last eight years to claim it for myself. Now that I have, I am a much better person and, I think, a much better mother. My thoughts are clear and my motor is tuned. The day can begin.

I wish for everyone to find the hour that belongs just to them. A time within the 24 hours of our overly scheduled lives where thoughts can roam and ideas flow. More than anyone, a mother with little children should have that time. It should be a constitutionally anchored right, if you ask me.

Since I moved to Costa Rica, my life quality as a mother has improved manifold. I have help at home for the chores that take time and still never get done like dishes, the wash, bathrooms, floors, and windows. And I also can afford a nanny to watch the kids when I have to run errands, want to meet my friend over lunch, or schedule a work meeting.

As it is, I am still with my children a lot, since we homeschool, but I rarely feel stuck with them. I am as free as a…hmmmm…man!!! And it feels great.

As a home base, Costa Rica was never really on the map for me. I am a hard-core European who will make a few exceptions when it comes to the US, my second home. So, life in the Third World – and believe me, Costa Rica is in almost every respect Third World – was never an option for me. Never before I had children. But, as many of you know, children tend to turn the world up-side-down.

Children make us move to the burbs, they make us buy mini-vans and dogs. They make us spend the holidays with our in-laws and vacations on the beach year after year after year. But they also influence our behavior in a much less obvious but no less life-altering way: they make us forget about who we were before we had them.

In a positive sense, they curb our ego-drive at least when we are around them. We are willing to do with less sleep, more noise, fewer pages read, and – most of all – less time to ourselves. But they also place a heavy toll on our ability to find some sort of equilibrium. Relationships with friends suffer, partnerships get taxed, and sex life, to say the least, tends to morph into something one might call a rushed close encounter.

It’s probably fair to say that quite literally we love our children to death. Our own mental and physical death that is. This is more true for women and monogamous men because the limited number of children they raise are it: They are their one and only chance to push their gene pool into the next generation. Hence, they flutter around their precious off-spring like nervous sparrows and provide for them with every last bit of their energy. Believe me, I know what I am talking about. With all the help I have had over the past three years, I all but invested every ounce of free time back into my kids: More activities, more play dates, more fun one-on-one time.

But I have come to realize that this is all just another form of ego fulfillment. The yearning to have it all, do it all, be it all – only this time vicariously through our kids. I see mothers do insane things all the time because they want to believe they are doing it for their kids: birthday parties with thirty hand-made matching dino hats, masks, and gift bags, one ballet performance after the other with pricey white, pink, red tutus, ice cream socials to meet parents and peers before the school year starts…but whom are we kidding? Kids can do with a lot less. The question is: can we?

Can we give up on being the super-mom? Let’s take a step back and look at the dads. They are loved just the same even if they don’t buy party favors, order layered cakes, and schmooze with the neurotic ballet teacher. The fact is, most likely our kids will grow up and survive us whoever we are and whatever we did. But being a balanced and content role-model for them to follow is the best we can do.

I wrote this in 41 minutes with my door locked while my youngest sat outside protesting loudly and then finally gave up. He now is happily playing with his blocks in the hallway and what’s more: I am happy I got to share these few thoughts. The day can move on and it’s gonna be a good one, I can feel it.

Max It!

What is it with that maximizing gene in us? It’s the one that drives us to extremes. It’s a tough one to beat and everyone seems to have it. You know what I mean: It’s what makes us super busy, super popular, super efficient, super lazy, super fat, super clean, super good. In short, it turns us all into freaks of one kind or another. And even though sometimes it doesn’t seem all that obvious, it usually comes to hit us in the face once we take a closer look at someone and think, “Ah, yes, that’s what’s going on…!”

The first time, I pinpointed the culprit, was with Michelle, a fellow mother in DC who was trying so hard to make a break-through in this town of hard asses. Every ounce of her small frame quivered with excitement when she talked, say, about the next house they were going to buy, each of them three feet closer to Georgetown and – in her mind – at least ever that much closer to the movers and shakers. She’d throw enormous birthday parties (and most likely still does) for her three and one year old, where she invited all those she believed were a step ahead of her. And since she was operating with a large margin off error (that’s how we got invited!), she had to rent a two storey Victorian just to host the party. By now she is probably renting the Lincoln Center. Clowns and fairies where hired, there was extensive catering besides the various cakes and cookies displayed on every corner of the downstairs parlor, not to mention the over-sized gender coined pink and green bags with the requisite party favors, and billowing balloons every inch of the wrap around porch. No fewer than sixty little dauphins and dauphines where ambling around dressed to the tee, looking slightly disoriented, I should add. Even they knew something was off.

But poor Michelle is just one example. You can actually see it all the time. The gym is a good place to start. I can’t say I like going there but I go anyway because it seems to be the only way to keep my ass within boundaries. When I first started going I got terribly bored on my Stairmaster trying to read the subtitles on Seinfeld ten feet away. I also got sick to my stomach and had to get off. The next time I brought a magazine but the print was too small and again I got bored and sick. So then, I checked among my many back issues for a mag with a bigger font – and found one: Der Spiegel. So, back I was, this time determined to make the bun cruncher the ultimate intellectual experience. For about one month I was happy with myself and the time I wasted on the various instruments of torture but then, oh well, then I made the mistake to look up and check out the others. Word to the wise: you should never look up and check out the others if you want to keep your peace of mind. Because what I saw was the iPod. Duh! you say? Well, excuse me. It hadn’t occurred to me that bringing my recently acquired iPod to this sweat palace could be of any benefit to either me or my iPod. But for some reason it suddenly seemed very appealing, the thing to do, especially if I could manage to load my favorite podcasts on there.

So now, the workout starts at home when I rush to grab my stuff, update my podcasts on my Mac to load only the most recent ones onto my iPod, then with my increasingly sweaty hands fiddle around with the itsy-bitsy wires to fit them where they belong for easy retrieval shortly before securing one of the coveted four Elypticas. A hint of perspiration manifests itself on my forehead as I run around looking for a hair band and my car keys, but I am determined to have the ultimate workout experience and so I keep going. Now is the time and I am going to get it all. It’s quite powerful until it hits and the realization sets in that that fool with the earphones panting away close to cardiac arrest, blood shot eyes darting back and forth between the TV screen, magazine, and all the other monkeys in the room, is actually I.