Remember when they came storming in?

The day the first one came storming in.  January 13, 1998

Mother’s Day means flowers, precious homemade cards, and feigning surprise with a sugar-filled breakfast in bed.   On especially good years, you might get a coupon for a spa day.  On the lean years, you’d be lucky to get a hurried coupon with a promise that your child will (attempt to) make your bed for a week.  My Mom regularly got the latter, along with a second coupon favored among eldest children that promised no fighting with their brother and sister for an unreasonably short amount of time. Although today, the value of those coupons would be reversed.   I imagine my Mom would pass on the best spa in the world to have me show up at her house every morning to make her bed.  No, I don’t imagine.  I know. 

So far this weekend, all indications were pointing to it being a lean year.   One of my kids is 7,000 miles away, the second kid is a country away at a basketball tournament, and my “baby” is sick.  There are no cinnamon rolls hiding in the pantry.  The school-made Mother’s Day Cards were eagerly presented, via the rear view mirror on the car ride home from school, days ago.  I’m nursing an eye infection, so even if brunch or posed photos with Mom were in the cards, I’d probably make up some lame excuse for staying home sans camera.

Except, as it turns out, it’s been a banner Mother’s Day Weekend. 

My baby is running a fever.   As I lay with him in bed last night desperately waiting for him to wake up so I could pump his body with more Tylenol, I ran through the gamut of possible causes.   As is the mind of a Mother of a 3am, that list got more and more troublesome with each rise in his body temperature.   When did he have that diarrhea? Was it 3 days ago? Why is he breathing like that?  It doesn’t sound right.  Maybe it was the plant he touched on the hike that caused him to break out??  I told him to stop whining about it. I’m a terrible Mother. His temperature is over 103.  He can’t breathe. I should wake him …  Do I really have 15 years of experience at this job?

(And that’s just the cliff notes version.  The unedited version has things like “waiting for the shoe to drop” and “what if this thermometer is broken and his temp is really 105?”)

However, we all know you aren’t supposed to wake a sick child who has managed to fall asleep.   Add in WWMHD (What Would My Husband Do?), so I didn’t.  Instead I looked into his rosy face and willed not to take his temperature for at least fifteen minutes.  It was then, when I stopped fixating on the one thing that I could control (the next dosage of medicine), that I was able to see that his breathing wasn’t labored.  It was the deep breathing of a feverish child.  That realization then led into a reminiscing about my tortured relationship with my family’s medical histories.  I allowed history to remind me that for all the hours I’ve spent in agony over my children’s well-being, the net result has been three healthy children.  And only one of them appears to have followed in my alarmist footsteps.   

It’s 4am, and I have a child with a fever, not malaria.  Happy Mother’s Day. 

But the gift did not stop there.  As I lay there basking in my return to level-headed thinking, my thoughts turned outward.  To the Moms I know with kids who are really sick, to Moms who are fighting their own battle with cancer, to Moms who can’t ask WWMHD, to Moms who are waiting for kids, for kids who are waiting for parents.  The list was long.  It’s 4am, and there are people who need my redirected alarmist energy.  Happy Mother’s Day.  And with that, my son’s fever broke.

The party continues today in a quiet house with just me and the feverish baby, who has reminded me more than once, that he’s a big boy.  A big boy whose fever has given me a coupon to cuddle as much as I want today and who’s well enough to pepper me with questions that would warm any Mother’s heart: “What are belly buttons for?”  “Do braces hurt?”  “What was the Pantheon again?” Followed by ones that can only be asked in the space of time and a quiet house: “Who built people?” “Why is cooking interesting to you?” “Why did you think I was going to be a girl?” “Was I a good baby?  Which leads to looking at old pictures and being reminded again that your baby is growing in vocabulary.  “Was I mischievous?”

The baby who's not a baby anymore

And growing in other more important ways too.  “You know how on the hike yesterday how I waited to ask you that question … it’s because you don’t focus when you’re on your phone.  You say yes, but then when I ask again, you say no.  You normally don’t get it right when you’re not focusing.”

No, I don’t get it right when I’m not focusing.  Or hyperfocusing.  And then he asks, “Do you remember when there was nothing in this apartment and we stormed in?”   Yes, I tell him, I do remember that.  Stormed in.  That’s what kids do.  They storm in to our lives and fill it with so many wonderful things, along with the things we need to learn and hear.

So here’s to wishing you a Mother’s Day of coupons filled with weeks of unloaded dishwashers, made beds, and promises to walk the dog.  And if you’re smart, you’ll file a couple and save them for later – when you need a little more life storming through your door.

(Footnote: The big boy is currently asleep on a chair, with a luke-warm cup of tea  and uneaten piece of toast beside him.  He is certain he cannot eat anything due to his very sore throat, and I am *pretty* certain that he won't starve to death.  Please check back later.)

May Day

Yesterday was May Day – a national holiday here for schools and employers – to celebrate the arrival of spring.  Spring has been VERY late to arrive in Luxembourg as we have been told it’s the coldest, longest winter on record.  It therefore seemed appropriate to mark the day with a hike.  Brett recently picked up a book called “Rambling Routes: 201 Selected Walks in Luxembourg.”  The walking/biking/running routes in this small country continue to amaze.  Our first hike was a 15 minute drive to the trail head. 

In addition to enjoying the hike, I enjoyed looking at the world through my camera lens.

LEFT: Don’t be afraid to come out of your shell.

RIGHT: Tattered and frayed.  But alive.

​LEFT: Stop and see the beetles.

RIGHT: Raining down blessings.  Just try to count them all.

​LEFT: I love you to the moon and back.

RIGHT: Pregnant pause.​

LEFT: Nature's Welcome Mat.​

RIGHT: Breaking with the pack.

​LEFT:  Lean on me.

RIGHT:  Designer stubble.​

LEFT:  I see you.​

RIGHT: Give us this day our daily bread.​

LEFT: New growth.​

RIGHT: Just roll with it. ​

LEFT: Church.​

RIGHT: 50 shades of green.​

​LEFT: Twisted in knots.

RIGHT: Come, sit and rest awhile.​

​LEFT:  I'm mad at you.

RIGHT: Meeting in the middle.​

LEFT: ​We are but dust.

RIGHT: Breaking through.​

LEFT: We all have our hang ups.​

RIGHT: ​Ouch.  Black and Green.

LEFT: ​ Going in too many directions.

RIGHT: I still can't take my eyes of you.​

​LEFT: Blowing kisses.

RIGHT:  Take the one less traveled.

Hug the ones you love.​

The Long View of Marriage

You can always tell when someone is newly in love on Facebook because they use words like Soul Mate and TLoML (“The Love of My Life” for those not in the know) in every reference to their significant other.  With those references come an abundance of couple photos with both people looking better and brighter than they ever have.  Naturally the first like and comment on all these photos if the other half of the Soul Mate – the virtual equivalent of hanging on every word.  I love every Facebook minute of it.

I do confess however that I sometimes want to say to those newly in love and especially those newly married, “That’s awesome but don’t forget The Long View.”  We all know that love ebbs and flows, and from time to time The Love of Your Life will become The Pain in Your Side.    And those occasions at least double once he has provided The Loins of Your Children.  One day your significant other may stop referring to you as Soul Mate or stop being the first to like your Facebook posts, or stop liking them all together because he figures you already know.  Don’t even be surprised if when you gently suggest that he post a picture of the two of you on a big event like an anniversary, he might say: “Nah, that’s not really my brand.”  The thing is:  You’ll already know that, and it will make you laugh.

Brand loyalty isn’t as much in vogue as it used to be.  We change brands all the time and dispose of relationships as soon as there’s a tear in the paper plate or the lease is up.  In order to be brand loyal, you have to have a high relative attitude toward the brand (marriage and commitment) and you must exhibit repurchase behavior (you must do the things that work, and do them repeatedly.)  Thank goodness there are lots of brands to choose from, because we all have different tastes -- but there are some good brand principles. Here then are some of my observations from a limited sample set on how to make it work. 

The great thing about the long view is that only shared history really helps you understand your significant other’s brand.  There’s no short cut to understanding how to correctly share a bed with someone when your nine months pregnant, or when you have a killer sunburn or the swine flu or when a futon is your only option.   We all come with different touch points – physically and emotionally – and there is no substitute for having someone know your good ones, the ones to stay clear of, and the ones you have trouble feeling.  Longevity also allows you to say, “Like you mean it” when the other person is giving you a back rub because you know when they can do better and when their heart’s not in it.  But you also accept that not every back rub is going to be sensational.  After all, if you were still keeping score, you’d be in the deficit column when it comes to giving back rubs.

It’s hard to keep score after a long time, and that’s a relief.  Once you have jobs and kids and a house, your brain is already overloaded with more than it can handle.  Keeping a tally on who last unloaded the dishwasher only adds to the chaos.  Tally sheets are especially dangerous when one person is working and one is at home raising the children you brought into the world together.  So having a spouse that comes home from work to see the children playing extra iPad time while TLoHL is busy writing means that it’s his turn to make dinner.  He’ll be even more appreciated if he doesn’t interrupt with dinner-related questions and if he pours her a glass of wine.  And while we won’t be keeping score, she may even choose to shave her legs later that evening.  Out of love, not obligation.

You’ve seen each other through bad haircuts, pudgy winters and fashion changes.  When he downsized from XL to L not because of weight change but because he finally believed you when you said that clothes that actually fit do look better.  When he agreed to retire a couple of ratty old college tee-shirts for the sake of the marriage and you agreed to let him keep the special one.  When you went through your suits phase, your unsuccessful bohemian phase, your scarf phase, you tights phase (still in), and he pretended to believe you when you demanded it wasn’t a phase.  When he traded in a baseball cap for a beret (not yet, not ever – it’s off brand.)  You’ve watched them expand their wardrobe to include crazy patterned shirts while you’ve added running gear.  They’ve watched you make 29 different purchases of a black dress -- none of which fit exactly right -- while you’ve watched them save their 19th pair of shoes for working outside.  It’s just not fashion hits and misses, it’s about making the boxes you came into the relationship with a little bit bigger.  It’s about a woman who used to be sure that she would die running a mile choosing to run a marathon.  It’s about a man who hates stuff but loves to buy his wife her 77th pair of earrings.

Even when you are past the point of hanging on each other’s every word, over time you start to feel like it’s hard to have a social interaction without them.  One person is the details, the other the color commentary -- the stories always better when jointly told.  Actually some stories stop making sense unless told together but there are key details you count on the other person knowing.  It feels like a limb missing when there isn’t the person across the room to make eye contact with to say “come here”, “let’s go”, “get me an adult beverage”, “you’re cute” and a million other things you learn to read with only your eyes. 

You learn how to prop each other up when falling asleep during a boring lecture, or how not to wake each other up for any reason even if you think it’s the “best movie you’ve ever seen.”  You learn how to shut up in Home Depot and assume he has it under control, but you also know the exact moment when it’s gone over his head and it’s time to bring in the help.  He knows to help in the kitchen, and you know to not move his piles on the desk.  You know to compliment him on his yard, he knows to compliment you any time you get dressed up and when you are dressing casually adorable.

She can even say, “I look old.” And he can say “Me too.”  At some point, truth telling is just easier.   Besides that, he was there twenty years ago telling her to apply the sun screen.  She didn’t listen then, she’s listening now.  And though he doesn’t look as old as she, she will let that slide because it feels better to be in it together.   He can even say when everyone else can’t, “YOU are good, but you’re screenplay isn’t good enough.  Yet.”   It’s about telling the truth, but doing it gently and adding in the “yet” at the end.  Long term couples also know where to layer in the benign white lies, like when after 20 years she is finally doing laundry because of abnormally long European wash cycles, they will still claim publicly “He does all the laundry.”  Not only it is part of their couple brand, it's also his short hand for saying, “You must know.  This woman is not just a housewife. We are IN IT together.”  The secret is not just being in it together, but both believing you got the better end of the deal.

TLoML will not be sending me flowers anytime soon.  He probably won’t even “like” this post, but he will be buying me a train ticket to Paris today.  Yesterday he sent me his schedule and asked me what day to block on his very full calendar for my May trip to Paris.   It feels extravagant (and it is) -- this going to Paris every month plan – there is stuff to do around here – he has a very busy calendar -- but he wants me to go.  Every month.  Knowing what feeds your Soul Mate’s soul and then pushing them towards it, that my friends is The Long View.   

What would it take to not be completely annoyed by discovering a soaking wet bath towel on the bathroom floor?

The easiest solution would be an overly sentimental declaration of love accompanied by the hug of a sweet-smelling, soft-skinned, cherub faced human at the exact moment of the towel discovery.   Knowing however that this conversion of events is unlikely to happen, one must find other means of coping with this annoyance “in the moment.”

It’s a real question.   Yesterday I found said soaking towel.  My “in the moment” was not filled with grace or peace or happiness.  More like grumble, argh the cherub!, grumble.

I didn’t swear, or really say anything out loud.  But it totally got under my skin.   Mindful of the disproportionate share Mothers do in picking up other people’s messes, I wondered if the responsible children I was charged with raising were learning anything at all.  Perhaps I was enabling.  Perhaps I was raising entitled little brats.  Without even meaning to, my imagination wandered off to sad daughter-in-laws picking up trails of my sons’ clothes. 

No doubt we had covered Towel Etiquette 101.  Wash before you use the towel.  Hang it up when you’re done.  Try not to use Mommy’s towel.  We may have skipped:  Don’t shower with your towel, but I thought this was implied with: Don’t shower with your clothes on.   Apparently not.

I considered pretending I didn’t see it.   I could have chosen not to pick it up, but my blood pressure had already been elevated.  Plus the thought of a stinky towel only upped the ante.  So I did would most of us would do (when the offender was out of the house.)  I picked it up.  I also wrung it out.

As I squeezed (too) hard making puddles in the tub, I asked myself the question I started with.  While not to excuse or fail to correct the towel behavior, I wondered what it would take for me to not react in the same way next time.  I really don’t want to get mad about towels.  I want to save it for the big stuff.

My first thought was very basic.  Show gratitude.  Be grateful that you have a towel and a warm shower.  The shower part's not hard for me to think about having been to Africa.  It’s probably not hard for those of you who overnight camp to think about (not so much me on this one.)  This approach actually works with just about anything that is seeking to annoy you, but it does require practice. Gratitude for sunshine is easy.  Gratitude for towels takes a little more association, but it too is possible.  What if bath towels never existed and a hand towel was as big as it got.

My second thought took it a bit further.  Celebrate the action taken.  I had failed to appreciate that my son had done the thing that was asked of him – take a shower.   Stopping to take a shower when you are 6 years old is hard.  It would be like someone asking you or me to put down our finds at an incredible one-day-only sample sale because it was time to go.  He’d done it willingly, albeit incompletely.  After all it was only two years ago when he screamed having to put his head under the shower head.   It made me think of how easy it is to catch people on what they missed instead of catching the fact that there were trying to do the right thing.  Not to mention the distance these people, especially the annoying ones we love, have come. 

The third thought came later.  After the 6 year old was back in the house and the issue of the towel was raised, I learned something.  The boy-who-took-the-towel into the shower with him wasn’t actually trying to pull my chain (I intellectually knew that part, but it did come back up for brief consideration.)  He was trying to find a wash cloth, but couldn’t.  He didn’t want to call for help, so he did the next best thing he could think of – he used his towel as a washcloth.    Which leads me to that third thought:  Don’t rush to judgment.  We don’t always know what problems people are trying to solve for.  People do dumb things, and not only are those dumb things usually not malicious or personally directed, but they often make more sense when the person is given the opportunity to explain.  There are excuses, but then there are thoughtful misfires.  The latter category is big for 6 year olds, and perhaps ... men.  Did I just throw the entire gender under the bus?  Yes, I think I did.  Misfire ... but thoughtfully done.

The last thought was one that I often have to come back around to as a parent.  Assume a smiggin of personal responsibility.   Had I really ever explained what’s so bad about wet towels? Probably not.   Yes, we all need to follow basic house rules, but it wouldn’t hurt to explain why those rules are there in the first place.   Until you’ve paid for and then encountered a stinky towel, you don’t know what the big fuss is all about.  He too was dealing with incomplete information.  Could I have waited a few hours and let the towel sit there and let natural consequences -- smelly mold, little stocking feet in puddles – take their course?  Sure, but I confess it’s often easier to make problems go away more than it is to clean it up with another person.  That whole "working it out together" takes time and patience.  This is big for  .... okay, for all of us. 

Of course, no test is complete without a re-test.   Right now the 6 year old is eating potato chips without a bowl.  He is being followed by a trail of crumbs.   And so --- I am grateful for potato chips (especially these mustard potato chips) and vacuums.  And guess what – I’m eating them too – without a bowl.

The cook (by guest blogger Colin)

Today’s post is from a guest blogger.  Ten year old Colin wrote this a week or so ago while on a trip to Switzerland.   He temporarily traded in his basketball for woodworking and writing.  A second wind to complete the story never came, and no edits have been made.  “Mediterranean” was spelled correctly, for which I am most impressed. I can't do that consistently.  He was not paid for content. 

I am rummaging around for inspiration for tonight’s dinner, but am being assaulted by the smell of the Med. Sea every time I open the refrigerator.  Unable to make that fish thaw any faster, I must turn towards a cut of meat/veal/pork(?) with a label I cannot read.   

I share this because 1) Colin wanted me to, 2) I love his writing, and 3) having your kid recognize something their parent is good at or passionate about is truly food for the soul.

The cook

Me and my six year old brother have a mom who knows the skill of cooking like no one else. Her name is Kate Ballbach. When I have some of her amazing food it makes me feel so happy and joyful because I want to be a food critic when I grow up and I love food. She is skilled because she makes different meals every night, for example she makes Italian pasta one night and the next night she makes some Mediterranean meal. Every meal is so good because she takes so much pride in her work. My dad always says ‘’ when will you learn how good of a cook your mom is” but I have already learned that, [ not sure if my brother has learned].

​It's 6:25pm and I am now ready to attack that mysterious meat.  I plan to wok it into submission with an over abundance of garlic, ginger, and red chili peppers.   After all, I have some discerning food critics waiting.

Game of Thrones (a confession)

While you've been playing/watching Game of Thrones, I've been busy learning new pool rules.

I have no idea what “Game of Thrones” is.   Literally no idea.  I don’t know if it’s a game, a TV show, a movie or all three.   I see and hear it referenced everywhere, but I simply haven’t engaged at any level.   I refuse to even Google it to see if I’m spelling it correctly.   I’m totally sitting this one out.

I hope it’s the right call.  I made a similar decision with “Homeland” for a while, and when I finally decided to watch Season 1 I was like “What? Why didn’t someone tell me loudly this was so good?”  But by that time, everyone except my friend Patti was done talking about it.   The Homeland Season 2 DVD is now available for pre-order on Amazon, but it will likely be Christmas before I can watch it online over here.   I might as well skip it because I haven’t had the same restraint in Googling spoilers for Season 2 and hearing the overwhelming chorus of meh.   On the bright side, I suppose I’ve saved a little time.

I’m of the age when I open up a “People” magazine and only have about 50% celebrity recognition.  This move to Europe is only going to set me further behind.   I can’t even count on hair salons here to have “People” magazine for my every two month pop culture trivia catch up.  They’re still playing Celine Dion music in hair salons as near as I can tell.  I do however know that Halle Barry is pregnant.   This caught my attention because I know who she is, and that she is in her forties.   You go girl – glad you kicked that sex addict second husband of yours and then that gorgeous but no-good model Gabriel (see I was doing good in earlyish 2000s) – but pregnant at 46?  Hearing that makes me tired, and so happy my husband has taken care of business.  I do know about the band “The Airborne Toxic Event.”  That’s only because I know a couple of really cool high school kids who I stalk for music and have some fortish friends like Jennifer who go and listen to live music and rightly report it on Facebook.

In the advent of unlimited access to so much news, you have to learn to sift.   When I was back home, if I’m being honest, I used to sift out most International News.  Now that I’m in Europe, I find I’m reading more International News and sifting out most US Entertainment News and US News of People Behaving Badly (ie “Ex-Partner at KPMG Under Scrutiny in Insider Trading.) Of course, people still behave badly, really badly, internationally - take Kim Jong-un or Bashar al-Assad for instance – but those stories are getting more of my mind share.    It seems to matter what those guys are up to a little bit more than who was on Letterman last night.  It’s not as if this kind of news wasn’t available before, I’m just choosing a little better. It’s easier for me to recognize how globally interdependent our world is becoming with a border only 50 kilometers away.  Not that I’m doing anything specific with that knowledge,  but it’s nice to fill my mind with other things or nothing at all, and to not feel caught off guard by not knowing about who is Throning who. 

Ok, Lindsay Lohan was on Letterman last night. 

I’m only slightly more disciplined.

Riveting Luxembourg News

If you are wondering why you rarely hear news out of Luxembourg, read on.

I get a daily email from the English edition of the Luxembourg newspaper (wort.lu).  From it I find out about many things going on in Luxembourg.  It's a great resource and it always amuses.  Mostly it's a nice diversion away from the heavier news of our world.  It's like a breath of fresh air - news that isn't contaminated with so much unsavoryness.  It's the kind of paper where it's news if someone brings a pet python into a restaurant.

The paper covers International and local news, like yesterday’s top International headline was “North Korea preparing for fourth nuclear test, says South.”  The what-makes-tops-news-algorithm is correct there.  It was then followed by the top Luxembourg headline of the day:

“147km through Cents Tunnel & drunk - goodbye licence!”  It was at 7am on Sunday morning when police caught a driver speeding through Cents Tunnel at 147km per hour instead of the permitted 90km.

Not to diminish the seriousness of drunk driving, but the fact that someone was fined and his license confiscated for fast (not reckless) driving was the biggest news coming out of Luxembourg.  We also learned yesterday that in Luxembourg, you can receive fines and penalty points on your driver’s license as a drunk cyclist (okay) AND as a drunk pedestrian (?).   That’s right, walking while drunk is an actual offense that goes on your driving record.

Yesterday’s second top Luxembourg headline:

“Bar fight leaves one injured.”  The victim of the bar fight received a bite wound to the arm and a bloody nose. An investigation is ongoing.

Both incidents – I mean top stories -- happened on a Sunday night.   No weapons, just a bloody nose and on ongoing investigation.  I want to know if the aggressor was a woman.  The article was curiously silent as to the use of pronouns.   If it was a dude biting another dude, then maybe that is news.  Whatever the cause, it’s understandable that someone might get testy about having to drink one of two uninspiring Luxembourgish beers (Diekirch and Bofferding) when hundreds of better Belgian beers are a mere few kilometers away.  Just don’t drink and cycle there.

But before we get too down on Luxembourg drinking, the two top headlines were followed by a community headline.  It was a feature on one of Luxembourg's world class sommeliers.  “While Luxembourg's wines may be little known beyond the country's borders, its sommeliers rank among the world's finest boasting among others the world's third top sommelier.”   Alright, not the top – but the THIRD top in a super small country is definitely worth celebrating.   I didn’t plan on splitting hairs, but the story then went on to say that the sommelier was actually a Belgian national.  That factoid was below the fold.  Because as we know, it’s all EU Love until you bring wine into it.  Regardless, the Luxembourg wines ARE good and cheap, and if they were exported – they’d find a broad audience.

Moral of the story: don’t drink on Sundays, or you could be a top headline.  But if you do choose to drink, don’t you dare think about drinking French wine.

A Prayer

My heart has been heavy these last days reading the newspaper and Facebook.  And so, a prayer I wrote: ​

Jesus, we ask you to draw close to those in need, but you are already there.  You were there first, and you’ll be the last to leave.  Help us to hear the hum of your presence.  Give us the courage to reach for you in our struggles, and the struggles of those we love.  Then give us the courage to reach again when we fail or doubt.  Stop us in our tracks when we lunge into people and things in hopes of finding worthiness.  May we believe in our bones that we have been made worthy.  And, that our neighbor is worthy too.  And not just that we are worthy, but that we are a one-of-a kind.   Rally around us as we try to live into our uniqueness.   Obstruct us from trying to water down the person you made us to be.   Awaken our souls to the beauty around us.  And then show us beauty around the edges of the things in the world and our lives that are hard.  Bring those edges into main focus.  Help us leap with joy over the small things.  Quicken us to pass on kindness.   Tune out the things that don’t matter so that as days pass -- and one day our own lives --- we can hear your presence as a roar.