Just call me Marguerite Kelly

While I read lots of parenting books while I was pregnant, the actual reality of having Bee, becoming a mother, and having a tiny human being for whose welfare I was responsible was a real shock.

I remember when we left the hospital after Bee was born. David and I were so overwhelmed by the concept of having to dress our daughter that the nurse stepped in and did it for us. I remember driving home with David felt like a prison break, and not in a good way, but rather worrying, "Do you think we're going to get caught, pretending to be parents?" Every time David drove faster than 25 miles per hour I started to panic.

Despite the initial challenges, parents we became, parents we were and parents we are. My daughter's every milestone has been a source of wonder. First word, first tooth, first steps--all minor miracles. So, it is no wonder that Bee continues to amaze me on a daily basis.

Here's the secret that I want to share, the one thing that new parents might not even be able to fathom or dream about: 2 year olds can do chores. And they like it!

I don't just mean pretending to sweep and mop; Bee does plenty of that. But she also thinks that setting the table, feeding the dog, helping me make the bed, and fetching and carrying is fun. She even puts the forks and knives in the right place.

I'm sure there will come an age where Bee will become an unwilling participant in household chores, when every request will be a battle. For for now, I am relishing my sunny child who fills Maxwell's bowl and folds napkins with such joy.

Shed a little light

I have noticed that most of the Orthodox churches in the city have a large, covered hutch in the church courtyard. These hutches are a place where the faithful can stop and light a candle. Each candle represents a person's prayer--for someone, for something.

I like to watch the people as they light their candles. Old wizened grannies place their intentions alongside miniskirted cellphone wielding teenagers. One assumes God hears their prayers equally.

Tonight, as I was hurrying to my language class, I slowed my pace alongside the church gates and peered in. The hutch was empty. On my way home, I checked again, and saw a handful of candles had been lit. Viewed in the darkness and misty rain, the appeared to burn even brighter.

It is very moving to walk by at night and see the yellow flames flickering against the darkness. They evoke far deeper traditions, when fire was more than a fireplace accessory but a means of survival. While fireplaces have changed to radiators and central heat, the humble candle has never lost its significance.

Things I never thought I'd hear myself say:

"Bee (actually I used her full name), If you try to put your finger in my nose again, you're going to have a time out."

Enough said!

Book # 7 "Playing the Moldovans at Tennis" by Tony Hawks

This book was laugh out loud, wipe the tears from your eyes funny. The title pretty much says it all: Englishman Tony Hawks makes a bet with a friend that he can beat all of the members of the Moldovan soccer team at tennis. Off he goes to Moldova to find said players and convince them to play. Many hilarious cultural mishaps ensue.

Tasmania

We went to the the market this weekend (I sometimes feel like this opening line is my own personal version of "once upon a time"). Bee and I perused the weekly selection together, shopping list in hand. The stand that we frequent is owned by a pair of sisters-in-law: one young and bubbly, the other older, and a bit more to the point.

Both of them are besotted with Bee and give her oranges, strawberries, or some other small treat each week. This week, Bee was outfitted with her own small shopping bag, and the older sister took it upon herself to fill Bee's bag with almost one of everything. These extreme generosity would make me feel guilty except that I think we are their best customers.

David and I spend an exorbitant amount of money, by Eastern European standards anyway, on fresh fruits and vegetables. We usually buy apples, bananas, pears, strawberries, and a surfeit of clementines. The vegetables vary week by week; since we mostly eat vegetarian they are inevitably the main course.

When our saleslady rang up the total, she was so aghast at the price that she insisted there must be a mistake and re-weighed everything again. The first price was correct, and she was even more horrified when we happily paid it. She continued to add more freebies to Bee's shopping bag until we were able to make our escape.

Among the treats she gave Bee was a small handful of cherries. I noticed the cherries because they were so expensive, forty dollars a kilogram. Fragile, out of season fruit costs a premium. These cherries however, were beautiful. So red they were almost black, as big as my thumb, and (I know since I stole one from Bee) perfectly sweet. The delicate cargo was still in its shipping crate and the label indicated that they came from Tasmania--sweet southern hemisphere cherries all the way from the bottom of the world. I cannot imagine how they got here, most likely by air. Perhaps carried by angels. I almost bought some, but even I have my limits when it comes to buying fruit.

Bee's winter bookshelf

One in 22 million

While out running this evening, pushing Bee in the jogging stroller with one hand and dragging Max with the other, I comforted myself with the thought that I was completely certain that I was the only person in this entire country who was out jogging with a dog and her baby tonight. One person out of a population of 22 million. Those are lottery odds.

Running is not much of a sport here, beyond the bounds of track and field and training for the Olympics. It's understandable, because not much of the city is exactly jogger friendly. That whole stray dogs chasing you game gets real old, real fast.

On the rare occasion that I take both Max and Bee out at the same time, I am the recipient of unabashed stares, giggles, looks of astonishment and mild reproval, as well as honking horns. It's actually rather humiliating.

I persist, because once you are a runner, no matter how slow, no matter how few miles you actually manage on any given day, no matter how much you hate tying your running shoes and contemplating having to go out in the cold, you go. It's insanity, pure and simple.

Therefore, as my gift to all you uninspired runners out there, I give you, the ultimate eastern european jogging workout:

First, you need the assistance of another person to find the dog's leash, dress your child for the weather, find her mittens, and her blanket, carry the jogging stroller down the stairs and outside. Then, coerce your child to climb into the jogging stroller. She doesn't like the reclining position? Assure her that she will be able to better view the moon and the stars that way.

Start running. Push in front of you a 10 pound jogging stroller containing a 25 pound child for a combined weight of 35 pounds. Use as your counterweight a labrador retriever who is glorying in his middle years and is starting to take on the general shape of a tootsie roll. He probably weighs about 90 pounds. So he's pulling back while you push forward, but, we're running people!

We're running, we're running, we're stopping:

Max has to use the bathroom.

We're running! We're stopping. Bee has a question:

"Mommy? Where are the stars? Mommy? Where are the stars?"

I stop and explain why she can't see the stars. (I should not have promised the moon and the stars on a cloudy night.)

Okay. We're running!

Nope, we're stopping because of: old people walking slowly in front of us/traffic lights/"Mommy, put on my mittens"/ankle deep puddles/Max tries to drag us over to greet another dog/"Mommy? Where are the stars? Mommy? Where are the stars?"

The good thing about this start and stop is that it really gets your heartrate going. You speed up, only to stop dead in your tracks 100 meters later. It's great cardio!

It starts raining. Fortunately, Bee is wearing so many layers she doesn't really notice.

We're nearing the apartment. We're having french fried sweet potatoes with dinner and David is making them right now. I am going to eat more calories than I burned. It's Friday night.

My heart is beating in my mouth. We're almost, almost done.

"Mommy? I don't want to wear my mittens anymore."

You get the picture.

Language class

"Twice per week for two hours for advanced speakers." It sounded like the perfect opportunity to boost my language skills and meet more people in the expat community.

The class regulars: a disgruntled British computer programmer, two Germans who cannot pronounce the letter "v", and me. The one girl I met at orientation who seemed like she could be a friend is in the intermediate group--which might as well be Siberia.

The professor is good, if a bit exasperated by my taciturn classmates. They aren't such a fan of speaking the language--yet. The teacher might have been aiming a bit too high last class when she tried to start a debate about whether love can exist without jealousy. Tonight we just had to state our opinions regarding fast food.

Miss Bee, on the other hand, is less than pleased about the change in her evening routine. I try to leave for class; much guilt-inducing drama ensues. She wants her mama, then I want my baby. . .it's a good thing this class is only two months long.

Book # 6 "The Geography of Bliss" by Eric Weiner

I actually finished this book a few days ago, but have been so enraptured with the John Adams HBO miniseries that David and I have been watching I haven't found time to post. I heartily recommend them both: John Adams and "The Geography of Bliss."

The author, Mr. Weiner, helpfully clarifies the pronunciation of his last name as "whiner", but I wonder whether Whiner really sounds better than Weiner? Anyway . . . Mr. Whatever-his-name-is goes on a trip around the world to find out who is happy and what happiness entails for different nations. He also goes to Moldova to find out why the citizens there are so unhappy. (That was my favorite part.)

More than his search for happiness, I enjoyed the the observations Mr. Weiner made about living and traveling overseas. In the introduction, the author writes, "Culture is the sea we swim in--so pervasive, so all-consuming, that we fail to notice its existence until we step out of it. It matters more than we think (3)." Anyone who has ever traveled to a foreign country has had that "duck out of water" moment--everything feels strange and different. Some people embrace the experience and immerse themselves in the foreign culture, while other people find themselves yearning for something that seems "like home."

Traveling or living abroad requires a delicate balance of trying to be accepted, yet holding on to one's own identity. Everyone has seen the foreigner decked out in native dress, attempting to fit in, but only managing to look more ridiculous. Likewise, the boorish tourist trying to order a hamburger and fries at an ethnic restaurant is equally embarassing. The middle place between the two extremes is often very lonely. Weiner explains:

The term "gone native" is almost always used disparagingly by those who have not. Yes, we diplomats and journalists are supposed to learn the local language, eat the local food, know the lay of the land. But only up to a point. We're expected to maintain a certain professional distance. The gone-natives are seen as weak souls, traitors of a sort, who should have known better. (178)

Fortunately, the author doesn't put much stock in introspection and continues merrily on his journey, through such disparate places as Iceland and Bhutan. It's a good read.

Igloo Cake

The cake came out of the pan in one piece! Happy winter, indeed.

Fade to gray

The sky is the color of dishwater. The communist era apartment buildings are the color of wet newsprint. Dirty snow covers the ground.

This morning while driving to the Ikea (big blue store with yellow trim=color!) I was silently contemplating the nuances of the color gray when David turned to me and blurted out, "Do you remember when we were eating ice cream on Castaway Cay?"


Turns out, we were both thinking the exact same thing. January is not the time to visit my wild, Eastern European city. It's just too depressing.

When we lived in Guatemala, every day was 70 degrees and sunny (except during the rainy season when it would rain every day, around 3 pm, for about 45 minutes). Back then, I remember thinking to myself that the same weather, day after day, no matter how pleasant, was irritating and monotonous. Clearly, I was insane.



Just look at that sky and those colorful houses.

A monotonous sunrise seen from my apartment window.


Lake Atitlan. The water changed colors five times per day. (How irritating!) This teal was my favorite.

Even the ruined 17th century buildings look clean . . .

I'm off to eat clementines, sit by the heater, and listen to marimba music.

Bee's Animal Farm

David named one of Bee's second tier stuffed animals Graham. He's a nondescript stuffed dog that is exactly the color of a graham cracker.

Now that Graham has a name, he has moved up into the first tier, and by that I mean the 15 assorted dolls, bears, dogs and cats that sleep with Bee at night. It's getting a little crowded in there.

The only problem is that when Bee tries to say "Graham" it comes out as "Damn."

I don't know how to pronounce it

but I have a new love:

Stracciatella ice.

It's mostly ice cream, yet somehow similar to gelato, filled with soft little bits of chocolate and if you put chocolate sprinkles on top, well, you can hear accordians playing and envision the picturesque canals of Venice. It's heavenly.

I really cannot buy it again. I have singlehandedly eaten the entire carton.

Book #5: "Red Horizons" by Ion Mihai Pacepa

This book is an inside view of the extreme corruption in Nicolae Ceausescu's megalomaniac communist dictatorship. It's a must read for anyone traveling to my little corner of the world. For everyone else, it's probably too depressing.

What was more upsetting to me than the obscene wealth and ostentation enjoyed by Nicolae Ceausescu was his utter disregard for the welfare of the Romanian people. He could have cared less whether they all lived or died, so obsessed was he with clumsily attempting to influence foreign affairs, much in the same way that an unpopular schoolboy mucks about on the playground.

I'm ready to move on to something more cheerful.

Lost

It seems that a part of my brain, namely a large portion of my memory, has been diverted to more urgent tasks involving the care and feeding of Miss Bee.

I used be responsible.

It started when I left my digital camera on a plane. Thanksgiving, 2007. David, Bee, and I were flying back from Texas. On the camera were photographs of my daughter taking her first steps. She has taken many steps since, but the loss of those precious photographs still stings.

I have lost all kinds of other things:

When moving from temporary housing to our permanent apartment, we lost all of Bee's short sleeve shirts, but only for a few months. A new tenant found them in a drawer at the end of September and a fat lot of good they did Bee then.

I lost the stone from my engagement ring; it fell out of the setting. Somewhere in this dusty city a tiny, imperfect garnet, signifying all the hopes of my future, is resting.

At Disney World, I left my sunglasses in a restaurant at Epcot center. Disney's Lost and Found thought that they found them, but they mailed me a pair belonging to someone else.

I left my camera charger in the outlet in a hotel. You would not believe how expensive that little piece of plastic to replace.

I forgot Bee's sweater on board a cruise ship.

My favorite pair of yoga pants are lost in my house. I have no idea how this is possible but I know I didn't lose them while out jogging.

Then, last week, I lost my identity card. Oh! the bureaucracy involved get that replaced. I shudder at the thought. --It was found! There are some small miracles. 01-14-09 --

In her poem, "One Art" Elizabeth Bishop writes the "art of losing isn't hard to master." I have never felt the meaning of her words so keenly. Losing is one art I need to unlearn this year.

Book #4: "So Many Enemies, So Little Time," by Elinor Burkett

The subtitle of this book, "An American Woman in all the Wrong Places" is really what caught my eye.

This book is essentially a travelogue about Kyrgyzstan, with gleeful forays into Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan. The author seems to enjoy sneaking into countries that are notoriously anti-American in order to see for herself just how friendly or unfriendly they really are.

Burkett discovers that most people want the US to help, but not interfere, and usually have some very strange misconceptions about what America has done or plans to do in the future.

Other than that, the book was just okay. I read a lot of travel books and I have been spoiled by authors like Billy Bryson and Rigel Crockett. Haven't heard of the latter? I enjoyed his book, "Fair Wind and Plenty of It" so much that I rationed chapters.

In the meantime, for additional literary inspiration you might check out A Postcard From. . . . The author is also planning to read 50 books in 2009 and, as an added bonus, writes about her adventures in glorious Western Europe.

Portrait of the artist as a young toddler

The only thing she likes more than drawing with chalk is washing the chalkboard afterward.

Books #2 and #3:

"Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day," by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois

"The Great Scandinavian Baking Book," by Beatrice Ojakangas

Cookbooks count.  I read them from cover to cover.  

I cannot post much of a review for either of them at the moment--my head is still swimming with the sheer number of combinations of yeast, flour, water, and salt. . . but both look like they're going to be a welcome (and utilized) addition to my ever growing library of cookbooks.

I'm excited about "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day" as another New Year's resolution of mine is to bake homemade bread, but have been struggling with finding time during the week. Generally, it takes about 15 minutes to whip up the dough, the two hours for it to rise, then about an hour for the dough to proof, and then an hour to bake.  That would mean pulling loaves out of the oven around 11 pm.

With the Hertzberg method, you use an extra large batch of refrigerated dough that has already completed its initial rise. He claims that the loaves have to proof for about 40 minutes and then bake for a mere half hour.  I am going to try it this weekend.

As for "The Great Scandinavian Baking Book,"  I have about 15 recipes that I want to try, but the first one will be Aebleskiver filled doughnuts.  I finally broke down and ordered the special pan needed to make them.  

Next book: a travelogue, as I continue to leap from genre to genre.

Wonderland

It's snowing in the city.  Everything is soft and white.  Even the traffic seems muted.  

Tonight, I came home to Bee telling me excitedly how she went to the park and made snowballs--and threw them at her babysitter.  All in good fun, I hope.  

After dinner, I baked oatmeal cranberry bars because a warm oven is the perfect foil to winter weather.  

It's a shame my office doesn't give snow days.  

Book #1: "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak

It's rare to come across a work of fiction that has written on the front cover, "It's the kind of book that can be LIFE CHANGING."  And the quotation is attributed to the New York Times no less. 

Similarly, the back cover claims that the author, Markus Zusak, "has given us one of the most enduring stories of our time."  

I was skeptical, to say the least.  

However, by the end of the introduction, once Death has introduced himself and his protagonist, Liesl Meminger, and says:

If you feel like it, come with me.  I will tell you a story.

I'll show you something. (15)

I was hooked.  

This book is narrated by Death, as he goes about his work in World War II Germany.  He is taking the souls of the dead, and there are many in those years.  It is never clear where the souls go, whether they find peace, if they go to a Christian or Jewish God.  They are simply taken. 

There is no sadness in Zusak's Death, only tiredness and angry disbelief at the horrible ways that humans choose to kill each other.  After the city of Koln is strafed with bombs, Death goes among the dead, describing:

Five hundred souls.

I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the children I carried in my arms. (336)

The voice of Death appears and disappears as Liesel Meminger comes to life and tells her own story.  She is foster child, trying to reestablish her own life after the loss of her mother and brother, all the while coming to terms with the Nazis and treatment of the Jews.

The story takes place in a suburb of Munich.  In the 1940s, Munich was a hotbed of Nazism. Today it is a beautiful European city, so perfect, that sometimes I feel like it secretly may be a movie set.  Whenever I visit, I inevitably will see a number of white haired old men, nattily dressed, out for a walk-- often with a little dog, elderly wife, or silver capped cane.  They were there while Hitler and his supporters slaughtered 6 million people.  I want to ask, "What did you do, Sir, when the Nazis came to power? What was your part? What is your story?"  

But one could never ask these things of a stranger.  "The Book Thief" manages to answer these questions.  It shows the lives of ordinary Germans during the war, and the life of one extraordinary little girl who steals books.  Some of the characters are brave and stand against Nazism.  Most do not. Liesel's foster parents seem the most unlikely people to shelter a Jew, yet they do.  Zusak explores this paradox so eloquently that his characters become real.  He makes them real.  

"The Book Thief" was a heck of a way to start my reading project.  I fear for my future choices.  They are going to fall short.

The Year of the Book

One resolution of mine for 2009 is to read more.  

I love reading, but must admit that I too often succumb to trashy lifestyle magazines and the lure of mindless internet browsing.  However, cooking blogs and celebrity fashions are not enough. They do not feed the soul like literature--deftly researched non fiction--or even a rollicking romance novel.  Pages. Chapters. Plots. Being surprised. Savoring every page.

I initially resolved that I would try to read 100 books this year, but after calculating that meant an average of two books per week, I have since halved that number.  100 books might have been possible before having Bee but it is doubly impossible now that I am a parent and don't have regular access to an English language library.  

So 50 books it is.  That still seems like a lot.   

Care to join me?

I'll stay with 2008, thank you very much . . .

4:50 pm:  Babysitter calls David at work to say that Max got sick all over the dining room rug.  What should she do?  (It's a good thing she didn't call me with this particular question; that's all I'm gonna say about that.)

5:15 pm: David heads to the corner grocery store to buy rug cleaner.  He stands in line for 30 minutes.  Bee and I enjoy a few minutes together. We read lots of books. Eat brie on crackers.

6:15 pm: Minor kitchen fire. (The oil was too hot and the tomatoes too wet.  Kerblam! Splatter! Giant orange flames shooting out of the pan.  Me yelling, "Cover the pan! Cover the pan!"  Bee yelling, "Daddy, fire!"  It was very dramatic.)

6:20 pm: David pours himself a big glass of red wine. . .

7:20 pm:  We finally eat dinner for a grand total of five minutes before it's time to whisk Bee off to bed.

Now Bee is sleeping and there are chores to do and an oily floor to mop.  Right now, I am really wishing it was still last weekend and I am curled up on the couch with my sister, reading a magazine.  Reality has interceded at last.  Party's over folks.  Back to work.

On board the SS Coffee Table

Gone country

As today was my sister's last full day in Romania, we took the opportunity to do a little bit of traveling, to the foothills of the Carpathian mountains, to a royal town called Court of Arges. 

Our plan was to visit the famous, supposedly fantastically beautiful, 14th century church in the center of town.  Everything went as planned: traffic was light, this morning's snow gave way to sunny skies, and David's new GPS navigated us without any detours.  We found the church and deemed it to be, well, quite ordinary.

To make matters worse, it was locked.  We all took turns peering through the keyhole.  It did look beautiful inside.

Afterward, we went across the street to the town museum.  Bee found it fascinating, especially the religious icon with the "grumpy Virgin Mary."  Mary did look grumpy and I remarked on it--but I really do have to learn to be more careful about what I say. Bee's like a sponge and she spent the rest of the day telling me about Grumpy Mary and Grumpy Jesus.  My wonderful baby daughter seems to have a slightly sacrilegious bent to her personality.  

We were finished visiting the otherwise unremarkable museum in less than 20 minutes. After walking down the town's main street for about as long as it took for my fingers to become numb, we settled on a restaurant ironically named "No Comment."  As in, "How was your meal?"

Fortunately for all of us, the pizzas were actually pretty good.  

Fortunately, after lunch, my sister saved the day.  While consulting our guidebook, she discovered that the town actually is home to two 14th century churches.  The second one, situated in an ancient orthodox monastery, is fantastical indeed.

This church is home to one of the country's most famous legends, that of Manole the builder. He aspired to build the most beautiful church in the entire world. While building the church's foundation, Manole decided that a woman must be bricked up inside the walls in order to ensure that the edifice would be everlasting.  Manole told his laborers that the first woman to come to the work site the next day would be the victim.  All the laborers went home that evening and, wisely, told their wives to stay at home.  The next day, the only woman who came to the church was Manole's wife.  Forced to keep his word, he put her into the wall and sealed her in, as a living sacrifice.  

Manole's luck only continued to deteriorate.  The prideful owner of the church decided to make sure that no other church would ever be as beautiful as his own.  While Manole was finishing the roof, the owner ordered the scaffolding taken down, stranding Manole on the highest spire.

  

In an attempt to escape, Manole fashioned himself a pair of wings and flew from the top of the church.  He crashed to earth.  On the spot where he landed, a natural spring of water appeared. To this day, Manole's fountain still burbles, a short distance from the church.

There is something about the countryside, despite the many trappings of burgeoning modernity and communist era industry, that belies the 21st century and continually looks backward. Whenever I leave the capital I feel that I travel back in time.  Horses pulling carts still ply the country's biggest highway. Conical haystacks dot the landscape, formed in the style of centuries past.  And everyone slows down for sheep crossings.

After the sheep, shepherds, sheepdogs, and donkeys had cleared the road, we headed another 15 miles north, into the mountains to visit Vlad Tepes's (better known as Dracula) mountaintop citadel.  It was haunting.  I read that there are over 1,000 steps to reach the fortress.  The few flights that we could see were covered in ice.  That combined with the thought of carrying Bee, well, this is as close as we got:

Every time I leave the city I tell myself that I have to do it more often.  Despite the bad roads and frustrating traffic--we have to get out more.  There is so much to see.

Mama's girl

I love those chubby little ankles.  The neighbors downstairs, on the other hand, probably do not love the clackity-clack of high heels on the tile floors.

The couch is my castle

Oh, glorious laziness!

David and I took turns sleeping in this morning. He got up with Bee at 7 am and they went and had breakfast and made their usual mess in the living room.  David woke me up around 9:30. With our bed still warm, he jumped back in and slept until almost noon.  

We played with Bee, ate some lunch and now Bee and my sister are both napping. David is happily playing video games, with Max asleep at his side. I have been ensconced on the couch with my fuzzy cashmere blanket reading a stack of magazines, eating caramel popcorn and mulling over which kind of tea I will brew in a bit. 

We have nothing planned for the rest of today, save more of the same and making pizza.  Tomorrow is a holiday, the quite literally named "day after New Years" holiday.   

It is going to be a real shock when, next week, I have to go back to actually working. For now though, I am relishing my four day weekend.