The big question

This evening Bee was eating a snack of goldfish crackers and periodically dropping one on the floor for Max.  She likes for him to come running and gobble up whatever stray bit of food she has cast his way.

Once I realized she was doing this, I told her, "'Please do not drop any more crackers on the floor."  

Her response was to turn and look at me with her guileless blue eyes and ask, "Why?"

Why, indeed?

I suspect that 2009 will be the year of the Why.

Happy New Year!

On my radar

Over the past two years I have come to believe that there is a special frequency that allows mothers to hear their children's voices anywhere, regardless of the level of surrounding noise. The Mommy frequency causes me to snap my attention to Bee like a needle on a compass.

Imagine my surprise this evening when I was walking home from work and heard Bee's voice saying, "Mom-mee!" clear across a four lane road. 

In an instant, I asked myself, "Where is my daughter's voice coming from and how could she possibly be so loud?" 

My head whipped around so quickly that my eyes struggled to catch up. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw David, Max, and Bee (ensconced in her stroller and many layers as it is freezing here) standing at the entrance to the peasant museum.  They had walked over in the hopes of catching my sister on her way back to our apartment.  The earlier plan was for the three of them to go together but evidently Bee threw a tantrum about wearing snow pants, which are really not an option when it is 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside.   They found me instead.  

I don't know where Bee's powers of elocution come from. But she certainly caught my attention. 

Imagination

Watching Bee's imagination unfold was one of the biggest gifts I received this past holiday season. Her games have become more and more elaborate. Her sense of timing and humor has developed.  Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that he is only two years old, not a miniature person with whom I can reason:

One of her favorite games, at present, is setting up a church in her play area. She lines up all her stuffed animals on chairs, admonishes them to be quiet, and says a few prayers.  I almost cried the first time I realized what she was doing.  It makes the stress of going to Romanian mass with the shushing grannies worthwhile.

She also loves to iron, a trait not inherited from either of her parents.  If only she were old enough the wield the real thing, David would always have a fresh shirt.

Auto repair comes naturally.

One of the saddest, and at the same time more joyful, parts of this year has been watching Bee's babyhood and toddlerhood come to an end.  My little squidgy baby, who for the first year of life was permanently attached to either David or I, can now initiate negotiations about why she ought to have a second glass of juice or a cookie after dinner.  

Bee's transformation into a sparkling, wonderful preschooler makes me indescribably proud, yet at the same time, a bit sad.  The thread connecting Bee and I grows longer as she grows into her own self.  Hopefully, it grows stronger with the passing years as well. 

Wishing you

a warm holiday season!

Peace on Earth

good will to all.

Happiness is

--Watching David teach my father to play Lego Star Wars, heads bent together over the remote control.  Their running commentary is hilarious, but in a "you gotta be there" kind of way.  

--Bee's impromptu concert of the two Christmas carols she knows, We Three Kings and Silent Night, performed with myriad interpretation, and punctuated by excessive twirling and arm waving. (Is that how I dance? Who exactly is she imitating?)

--Baking Toll House chocolate chip cookies with my Mom, and decorated them by putting one Christmas M&M in the center of each one.

--Knowing my little sister arrives tomorrow night.

At last!

It has been a long day, but I will sleep well and happy tonight knowing that both my Mom and Dad are here.

I am lucky to have such wonderful parents whose company I enjoy so much.  I am even luckier that they are willing to fly across the Atlantic ocean to the wilds of Eastern Europe to come visit me (well, really Bee, but me too) and bring me all the baking supplies I have been missing (light brown sugar, crisco, mace).  

With my sister's arrival on the 23rd, it really will be home for the holidays.  

Home is where the people you love are all together.  

Skim chai with a side of goat

So my colleague was right, as Christmas approaches, baby goats are turning up everywhere.

As we were enjoying our respective chai latte, espresso, and juice at Starbucks this morning, a Roma woman walked in carrying a very young goat.  She definitely wasn't there to buy coffee; she was going to carry the goat from table to table and exchange petting the goat for a little extra cash.

One of the Starbucks employees sprung into action, hustling the lady and her goat back outside.  I quite agree with his decision. But you know, as she went out through the door, I saw him slip her a little cash.  He didn't want to lose his job, but neither did he want to be cursed for the coming year!

Four Strangers

Just a little while ago, while I was washing dishes, the doorbell rang.

I answered it, assuming it was my downstairs neighbor come to borrow the next book in the Robert Jordan series.  Instead, it was four clean cut young men, standing in a row.

"Mormons!" I immediately thought to myself.  However, these boys were sans name tags and their usual little black book.  

"Burglers!" was my next thought, but I quickly dismissed it.  Burglers do not usually ring the doorbell and wear dorky matching windbreakers.

Seeing my obvious confusion, they explained.  We are carolers and have come to sing for you.

Carolers!  Caroling and carol singing is an important Christmas tradition in this country, centuries old. 

My neighbors had told me that they usually didn't have carolers in our apartment building as the front door is usually locked.  These ones must have slipped in somehow.

I went and found Bee and David so they could enjoy the music.  Max stood completely still, very unlike his usual boisterous self. (He was so confused about the "singing people", you could positively see the wheels turning in his Labrador brain, struggling to understand the why in this new strange example of human behavior.)

The young men sang three songs, each beautiful and very well harmonized. Their voices echoed in the stairwell, lending an ethereal air to the performance.  

In return, we gave them a package of homemade gingerbread men, and a small sum of money, as is the tradition here.  

It will be a Merry Christmas indeed.

Stuck

I am supposed to make chocolate cupcakes for tomorrow's Christmas party.

I need 2/3 cup cocoa powder.

I have 1/3 cup.

David is out.

Bee is asleep.  

Max is not a good shopper.

My next door neighbor is not the type of person I can borrow from.

The internet is not helping.

I am stuck.

Silver Bells

It's Christmas time in the city.

The city built an ice skating rink in the park! I passed by on my way home and saw a whole group of adorable children learning to skate.  They were all wearing reindeer antlers for good measure. I think they were standard issue, along with the skates.

The park itself is bedecked with twinkling Christmas lights: long icicles sparkling from the trees and snowflakes and gold stars shining on lampposts. 

At the entrance to the park there is lighted display including trees, santa, a large family of polar bears, with some penguins strewn about for good measure. (Perhaps it's a predator versus prey set-up.  Or maybe Santa is enforcing peace on earth.) In short, it's several thousand watts of tackiness--but endearingly so. 

The locals love photographing the display. I might just take my camera over tomorrow. I know a certain two year old who would go wild with excitement over a glowing Santa.

Good to be

home.  

After a long and difficult day at work, David and I were so happy to come home to our smiling daughter, who greeted us by proudly singing Christmas carols to us in a wild Eastern European language.

"Come on, Mommy, sing!" she ordered.

I mumbled along with her.  There is nothing more confusing than a toddler singing a foreign song in a foreign language. 

Fortunately, after a minute or so of pretending to know the words, I was able to switch her over to a lively rendition of We Three Kings.  That's a carol with oomph.  It's Bee's favorite, mainly because she can act out the verses with her wooden creche.  

I can't remember ever enjoying the Christmas season more, at least not since I was a little child myself.  Seeing the brilliance in Bee's eyes as she reads a nativity story or describes how Santa will bring her presents Christmas morning is precious indeed.

Leftovers

Some meals are always better the next day.  

Last night David made lasagna with bechamel sauce, spinach, and mushrooms.  It was delicious, but even better tonight--hardly any dishes!

We bought genuine Italian lasagna noodles; the proof is in the instructions on the box.  I have transcribed them exactly, for full effect:

"COOKING INSTRUCTION: First time will be prepared the bechamel and bolognese sauces.  Spread some gravy and bechamel on the buttered bottom of baking-tin.  Put dry lasagne one by one putting between them gravy, bechamel and parmesan inside the buttered baking-tin, carrefully covering the last one with a good quantity of parmesan and few pieces of butter.  Then cover the baking-tin with an aluminum foil.  Bake at 180 C for about 20 minutes, remove the foil and bake it for another 10 minutes."

I loved the alliteration of "bechamel" and "buttered bottom".  True poetry, indeed.

Home

This has turned into a very quiet, atypical Saturday for me.  Usually all three of us are hustling around the city, with only a short break at home for Bee's nap.  

We are supposed to be attending a children's Christmas party this afternoon, but had to break off our plans due to Bee suddenly coming down with an eye infection.  I'm relieved, actually.  Not about Bee's eye (she seems to be feeling okay but has a violent aversion to the antibiotic eye drops)--I'm relieved that we finally have been forced to spend the day at home. 

David made sweet potato bread for breakfast.  It was supposed to be pumpkin, but we had frozen sweet potato puree in our freezer. It turned out very light and flavorful.  Afterward, I baked bread for tonight's sandwiches. (There was fresh spinach at the market on Friday, a real find, and I am going to make veggie melts tonight and spinach lasagna tomorrow.)  

Now Bee is napping and I mixed up a batch of gingerbread cookie dough.  David bought me a giant gingerbread man cookie cutter at the Munich Christmas market that I can't wait to try out.  Bee goes a little crazy around rolling pins and cookie dough, so I might wait to cut them out tonight after she has gone to bed. 

Re-reading this post, it seems nothing more than a list of what I did today, but really, what I have been thinking about is how much I like the season of Advent.  More than Lent and even a tiny bit more that Christmas itself.  It's a time for preparation--in a physical and spiritual sense: 

I've been cleaning out closets and organizing my cabinets; preparing for the arrivals of my parents, sister and her boyfriend; buying extra groceries in the anticipation of a full house for Christmas; decorating my house for the holidays; and wrapping a few presents each night.  

At the same time, we have been teaching Bee about the meaning of Christmas; reading stories about a baby born in a cold manger; lighting the candles on our Advent wreath; and savoring the end of a wonderful year.  

 Although Advent may be a time of expectation--He is already here.

Lucky me

I was walking to the fruit and vegetable market during my lunch hour and was surprised to turn a corner and see a Roma family with a baby goat.  

I haven't ever encountered a baby goat before, especially not on a busy city sidewalk, and I was surprised at how cute they are.  He, or she, was small, white, and clever looking, with delicate features and wearing a seasonal red bow around its neck.  The family was feeding it milk from a bottle, and the kid was drinking with the enthusiasm of the newly born.  

As I continued on, I started wondering why it was there and decided that goat meat stew must be a traditional Eastern European Christmas dish.  That poor little guy was on his way to be roasted in some granny's oven, with carrots and onions on the side.  

Upon returning to the office, I mentioned the goat to my colleague and my concern for its imminent demise.  He was confused at first, but then laughed saying, "It is our Christmas tradition.  If you touch a young, white goat it brings you good luck for the coming year.  In just a week or so, you'll see them everywhere."

I envisioned herds of kids trotting down the main streets of the capital and suppressed a laugh.

My colleague added, "Here in the city, though, if you pet the goat, you have to give the owner some money." 

"Capitalism abounds!" I thought cynically to myself.  (But next time, I might just pay to pet one.)

To top it all off

The temperature has finally dropped, and the icy air complements the thousands of Christmas lights the city has put up on every main boulevard. It's hat, scarf, and gloves cold--but fortunately not thermal underwear cold.  Just right for the Christmas season. 

With the arrival of cold weather, it seems like fur hats have sprung up on the heads of every third resident. They are alternately towering, moth-eaten, and glorious.  

I saw one lady today wearing a fur hat that looked like an attacking raccoon.  I didn't know whether I should have attempted to wrench it away before it ate her alive or steered clear, lest it leap onto my head.  Either way, I'm glad I've had my rabies vaccinations. 

Flying toward Bethlehem to be born

David and I are trying to talk a lot about Baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph around Bee so she learns about the true significance of Christmas.  However, if you ask her, she'll tell you that a Christmas means a "Miss-miss tree with presents." (And for a child, I suppose that is inevitably the main event.  I know it was for me.)  

Our saving grace is that Bee loves  playing with her nativity set.  She lines up all the wooden figures and then carries them off to:

her toy airplane.  Yep, that's Joseph doing aerobatics on the wing.  No need for the donkey this year.  

I think I will overlook the possibly sacrilegious connotations and see it as an act of love on Bee's part.  After all, her Christmas storybooks all describe Mary and Joseph traveling very far and feeling very tired, I think she decided to intervene with some newer, faster technology.

If you love dogs

and you don't want to bawl your eyes out, 

don't read "The Art of Racing in the Rain."  

Ever.

Don't even read the dust jacket.  

You don't want to know how much your dog loved you.

You'll miss them that much more.

Tooth and claw

Unfortunately, a large gang of wild dogs has moved into our neighborhood.  Our temporary apartment, where we stayed for the first three months, had a similar problem, with packs of aggressive neighborhood dogs chasing after us and trying to bite Max.  However, up until about a week ago, the parks next to our apartment had remained blissfully dog-free.  

This was unusual, because the city where I live has a major wild dog problem. They are called "vagabond dogs" or "community dogs." By some estimates, there are several hundred thousand wild dogs in the city.  I believe it.  The problem stems from several decades ago when the communist dictator at the time tore down vast portions of the city, replacing houses with apartment blocs.  Dogs were not allowed in the new apartments. Not knowing what else to do, their owners released them into the streets.  The problem has grown exponentially since.  

The city does not allow for euthanasia for stray dogs. Any that are picked up are possibly spayed or neutered, tagged in the ear, and released into the area where they were found. Seriously.  The public sentiment is that it would be cruel to kill them.  In my opinion, a brutal life of three or so years, scavenging trash cans for food only to be hit by a car and die is even crueler.  There are no adequate shelter facilities.  

Alone in an urban environment, the dogs band together and form packs.  They are territorial and become very agitated when Max and I encroach upon their perceived territory.  I can deal with three or four stray dogs (shouting or threatening to kick them is usually enough to scare them off, if need be.)  But ten or so is dangerous.  

This morning I went out jogging with Max. I knew where the group has been generally sleeping, so I took a wide berth around the park. It wasn't wide enough.  The sentry dog (one dog stands watch while the others sleep) raised the alarm. They all began to wake up, barking angrily. I ran across the road, and fortunately they didn't follow.  It's really hard to predict where they will be.

Max was pretty unconcerned and set about doing his morning business. I was picking up after him, thinking how I was probably the only person in the whole city who bothers to do so.  Max bounds ahead and lunges at something on the ground.  Max is not known for his discerning palate, but I was worried he was going to choke on a bone or something, so I reached into his mouth.  Bad choice.  I will not go into any additional detail, only to add that my theory about people picking up after their dogs was proved 100% correct.  It was also raining.  

Some days it's hard to live here.  

6 years

5 trips to Munich

4 different countries lived in

4 pairs of sunglasses (majority of them lost)

3 vacations in the Outer Banks

2 cars

2 new languages

1 cliff jumping experience 

1 labrador retriever 

1 beautiful daughter 

1, as they say here, "house of stone"

(Things too numerous to count: international flights, diapers, pizzas, and kisses.)

Happy Anniversary, honey.

Caught in the act

She takes after her mama.

"Honey, I hope you don't mind

but I invited an office contact to our house for dinner tonight."

"Tonight? As in right after work, when I was planning to use up the leftovers in the fridge and wear my pajamas and lie like a slug on the couch after Bee goes to bed?"

"Yes, tonight."

Sigh.  The actual conversation with David wasn't quite along these lines. 

I had a surprise dinner guest tonight.  He seemed to enjoy himself because he stayed until 11pm.  I don't think he has quite as strict a bedtime as we do.  It was a bit stressful planning at the very last minute, but, David was right, he was really nice, and I enjoyed talking with another American expat (albeit one who is living in fabulous London.)

Here's what you make for a last minute dinner party:

Menu--

Appetizers: Cheese and crackers, olives, sun dried tomatoes, and pickled red peppers.  (The guys had martinis.)

Dinner: Penne a la vodka (vodka, cream, canned crushed tomatoes, boil noodles, boil!), salad (greens in a bag, chopped tomato, pine nuts, go!), peas (microwave with butter, quick!), and garlic bread (no exhortations needed, garlic bread is always easy.)

Dessert: Betty Crocker's snack cake, served warm with vanilla ice cream (it's the only cake you can whip up in less than ten minute's time.)

Result--good food, interesting conversation, a very messy kitchen.  I am surprised there was not pasta stuck to the ceiling.

Now it is time for bed.

Peace is

a quiet flock of crows overhead, commuting home to their evening roost.  Technically, the correct term for a flock of crows is a murder of crows, but I have always felt that it is an unfair designation.  

I have noticed that when crows fly together in a large group, they do not caw loudly, as one might expect.  Instead, they emit a sort of raspy chirp, which I suppose serves as chit chat among bird friends.  Other than those few quiet sounds, they glide silently, black wings stark against the winter sky.  

The crow has been my favorite animal for a long time.  It is not the fastest or most beautiful of birds. However, its perseverance and ingenuity sets it part from most other species.  Where a more delicate animal might die, scrappy crows thrive in the face of adversity.  They are stubborn, like me.

Cliche

As David and I were walking home through the park tonight a thick mist rose up from the ground and swirled around us.  It was as thick as a veil, and blurred everything in the distance.  

The setting sun in the west turned the trees into eerie black silhouettes. 

It looked . . . like a place where vampires might lurk. 

Cultural (mis)communication

I am very proud of myself for not shrieking at Bee's babysitter today when she apologized for eating so many (only three so not so many, really) chocolates from the box I had brought from Germany.  

She was very confused when I explained that the chocolates she had been eating were from my Advent calendar and you're (I'm) only supposed to only eat one per day.  "One per day?" she asked.

"Yes, one per day. You open one per day and count down to Christmas."

In my head I screeched silently, "And it's MINE!"  

Keeping in the Christmas spirit, I smiled and said it was absolutely no problem, but to please not eat any more.  

However, as soon as she left I hid it the calendar in my room, lest she be tempted tomorrow to eat all the way to Christmas eve.  

I'm an unrepentant chocolate Grinch.

Landed

Oh I should really go to bed right now because work is going to be brutal tomorrow after a weekend of vacationing and a day of travel.  

Flying alone is occasionally boring, but usually relaxing--despite the cramped quarters in economy class, you can usually read a stack of mindless magazines and catch the in-flight movie. 

Traveling with a toddler is maniacal.  Plus, toddlers have so much more luggage than adults--the extra changes of clothes, the diapers, the snacks, the toys, the extra toys for when the first set gets boring and you're mid-flight, the storybooks, the medicines for every possible ailment (because do you really want to be finding tylenol in a foreign country at 1 am?), the stroller. . . so you are entertaining your child while dragging the equivalent of an ox cart behind you. 

Tonight was Bee's 10th international flight within a two month time period and we are done, done, done, with flying for the foreseeable future.  Tonight our plane didn't turn around mid-flight and head back (good) but it did land in some of the thickest fog I have ever seen in my entire life (questionable judgement on the part of the airport authorities, but hey, this is Eastern Europe after all).  

But now we're home, David and I. The luggage is piled up in the hall and I think it is going to stay that way until tomorrow night.  I want to go get in bed with a magazine and have a bit of a pout--it's always hard to leave Munich.  

I am starting to think that Munich is more like Disney World than an actual city.  The buildings are so perfect they could be made from gingerbread.  They are iced with Christmas garlands and twinkling lights.  Christmas displays brighten every shop window.  One block from my sister's apartment is a chocolate shop that rivals Willie Wonka.  The city is so sweet I want to eat it up.  But there's no need, because every neighborhood has its own bakery with pastries the size of pie plates and fresh pretzels.  Sigh.