Almighty Mothers

When your move to another country, your main concerns center on your children and their adjustment, followed closely by trying to make everything as seamless as possible in the household so that your children continue to think you are the Almighty Mother.  The second thing can be harder than expected when they need a swimming cap by tomorrow or when the movie you promised to let them watch is being blocked with the “this content in only available in the US” message.  You will gladly spend the day driving around in search of a swimming cap, and saying yes to other (perhaps inappropriate or completely inane) movies that the firewall could care less about.

With those concerns at the forefront, one of the unexpected gems of living in Luxembourg has been my Thursday morning running group.  One: because it doesn’t involve my children.  Two: because it doesn’t involve my household (or require my household to be tidy.)  And three:  because I’m in the company of other Almighty Mothers who are doing the exact same work I am.  And we get to talk about it while running up an Almighty Hill that kicks our cute Lulelemon butts. 

There have been few things that I consistently do week to week when I’m in town, but this running group is one of them.  It’s something I look forward to every week and miss when I’m gone.  It didn’t start as an organized group; it just kind of morphed into this regular routine.  There are five of us regulars.  We all have children at the International School, all but one of our husbands work for Amazon and all of us have willingly chosen to leave something behind to have this adventure.  None of us came here kicking and screaming.   In fact, more than that, we all came here ready to endure a few headaches for the sake of something new.  That’s perhaps why the group has “stuck.”  Though we have different interests, kids of different ages, we have a shared attitude that says: “I’m ok with finding the swimming cap, and can I pick one up for you too?”

Angela and Alessandra are the Lux veterans.  Angela was my lifeline as I was moving here.  She also has two high school boys and has been a source of great encouragement as we navigate the challenges of moving a teenager.  Angela is an artist, fluent in French (a nice friend to have here!), and finding all sorts of treasures here in Europe to reinvigorate her Seattle-based Window Darlings business.  She’s also usually the first one up the hill.  Alessandra is a professional photographer, originally from Peru and one of those people whose company you seek out in all situations because they are such a pleasure to be around.  Most days she’s got a toddler on her hip, and she always has a kind word and easy laugh.  Ale sees the good in everyone, which must have something to do with her being an amazing photographer.

Jessica and Heidi are the newbies like me.  They both moved here from Russia, so nothing here is hard by comparison. In addition to being genuinely optimistic people, they are also wickedly smart and fun.  Heidi has her Ph.D. in Social/Personality Psychology and left behind a college professor’s job to follow her husband to Moscow and now Lux as he sells John Deere tractors. (Tip: he's the non Amazon husband.  I don't *think* Amazon is selling tractors yet.)  Bubbly Heidi has already hosted a Friday Happy Hour involving a prize for best set of heels.  I wore sensible flats due to long walk and being from Seattle.  (There was no judgment.)  Heidi was also some crazy competitive triathlete,  but she has a broken toe right now which allows us to keep up.  Jessica left behind a job in Tax, and if she was secretly a Rhodes Scholar or discovered something really important – I wouldn’t be surprised.  She’s one of those smart AND humble ones.  Holly, the recently sabbatical-ed Marine Biologist from Seattle, will be joining us in July …

It wasn’t a topic of conversation today, but I know that today two of our husbands were in Moscow, one was in NYC, and one was in Oslo.  That might be a big deal back home, but here for this crew of Almighty Mothers – it’s just another day.

Beautiful Spain

Almost everything in Europe is accessible by plane in less than 3 hours.   With a Monday holiday and a missed holiday day from the previous week, we jumped on the chance to spend a long weekend in Southern Spain.  We flew into Malaga direct from Luxembourg, rented a car, and drove 45 minutes to the small town of Guaro.  Wanting a driving not beach vacation, we decided to stay inland and explore Southern Spain in a number of day trips.  Situated in the province of Malaga just a short 30 minutes from the coastal resort town of Marbella, Guaro is a small (2,500 people) “white village" in the Sierra Nieves Mountains.  There are orange, almond, and olive trees everywhere the eye can see in the part lush/part arid landscape of tightly compacted hills. The landscape mixed with the abundance of delicious (and cheap) food is my idea of heaven.

Andalucía was everything we hoped it would be -  except warm.    I will refrain from complaining, but suffice it to say that the boys went to a water park one of the days where the max capacity reached twelve.  Upside: no line for the Labyrinth of Slides.  Downside: unheated pools of water to greet you on a mid 50s kind of day.  Teeth chattering aside, the boys loved it.

That was the day I stayed back at the villa.  This villa.  Now you can see why I opted out of the Kamikaze Slide.  I re-read “Driving over Lemons” by Chris Stewart, went for a walk, and picked up a two liter bottle of olive oil from the Guaro village co-op.  If ever you are thinking of a trip to Southern Spain and want a village experience, I would highly recommend staying here.   It's perfectly located, wonderfully comfortable and the owner Andrew is a well-published travel writer and writes a blog about Andalucia.  It’s an AMAZING blog and full of great information about the area.  Read with caution as you will be dying to come for a visit -- we only scratched the surface.

Thinking back on our wonderful five days, three special images come to mind:

1) Being in GAURO on a Saturday morning for a May festival that involved carrying a statue of Jesus (or a patron saint?) through the village streets and to the river.  Andrew told us about it, and it was one of the trip's highlights.  We were the only people in the whole village who didn't understand what was happening, but we gladly joined in the celebratory walk through town.  There's something about witnessing a tradition that goes back generations and seeing an entire village coming together that makes you wish you lived in a town where everybody knows your name.

2) Having lunch in the hilltop town of CASARABONELA (thanks to Andrew's recommendation) -- devouring some nearby chicken, iberico pork chop, and lamb cooked in a simple wood oven and watching your children do a dance with the local kids.  A game of tag which leads to a game of soccer which leads to a conversation of hand gestures and lots of smiles.   

3.  Stopping in EL BURGO on the way to RONDA in search of a special wood bowl and meeting Vincenzo -- a man who shares the same name and hometown of Sicily as my maternal grandfather!  Vincenzo walked me all over town in search of Jose -- the town's finest bowl maker. First to Jose's sister in law's shop, who sent us on foot to Jose's brothers house, who then escorted us to Jose's house where Jose wasn't home but his wife was. Still in her robe. No mind, after a quick change , she took me down to Jose's shop where where I found a beautiful bowl still fresh with oil. The kind of hand made bowl and the walk to find it that money simply can't buy.  Vincenzo gave me his number in hopes that I'll come back for a visit.

And we will.  I already have booked tickets back to Guaro for a week in July.  This time just me and the three boys while Brett says home to work.  I know Quinn is going to love this place as much as we all did.​

Here are all the photos of the trip.​

A Foodie Day in Paris

Paris, May 16 2013

I’m sitting in the Parisian café, Les Deux Magots, where Ernest Hemingway and other notable writers and philosophers famously wrote.  It’s 8:45am.  The time stamp is meaningful in that I woke this morning in my own bed in Luxembourg.   Negotiating the smooth two hour fifteen minute fast train from Lux to Paris and then the jammed packed subway from Gare de Est to here, I feel a rush of early riser triumph that dwarfs my need for caffeine.  I also feel the need to text my husband with my subway success story.  While I am looking forward to this day by myself,  I also want to share in the miracle that is European public transportation.

The café, located in the bustling neighborhood of St Germain de Pres and whose present clientele are the city’s literary and publishing elite, is comfortably full with people reading the newspaper, working on laptops, and carrying on in hushed conversations.   Adorned with red leather couches, red velvet curtains, shellacked wood tables, gilded candelabras, and waiters in black jackets, bow ties, and long white aprons, it feels like a place of long ago. The median age looks to be 55, and naturally there is a 75 year old impeccably dressed woman with a small dog in her purse.   It is however eerily quiet.  Must be some serious philosophizing going on in here, me thinks. 

I pull out my notebook to wait for inspiration to hit in this writer’s paradise (I am dressed for it in a black turtleneck, boots, and bracelets), but then am distracted as I realize it is quiet because they are filming a movie in the far corner of the café.   The possibility for inspiration has decreased to nil because I’m now obsessed on who the movie star is and if the older woman with the petit dog is a paid extra.  At this point, I just focus my efforts on getting a self-portrait of me with the Magot statues on the wall. 

Fueled by an espresso I had hoped was a drip coffee, I headed next door to the St Germain de Pres cathedral.  I walked all the stations of the twenty some odd chapels of the cathedral, stopping longest at an open armed statue of Jesus.   For me, there’s something about setting foot in a church that has been there for centuries thinking about all the cumulative prayers that have risen from those pews.

After my stop with Jesus (who I’ve invited on the journey with me for safety, navigation help, and patience – always patience), I pull out my piece of paper with six food related destinations.  The food stops have come courtesy of David Lebovitz, the food blogger and author of “My Sweet Life in Paris.”  All the stops are in the St Germain de Pres neighborhood – the neighborhood I’ve chosen to “get to know” on this visit.  The visit I’ve declared “My Foodie Trip to Paris.” (Minus the Bistro dinner due to time constraints as my return train is at 7:40pm.)

The first stop is for some specialist nut oils.  I clumsily but successfully make it to the address, only to discover that the shop is no longer there.  Remembering the prayer for patience, I am not discouraged (though confused) and head to the second destination for some special Italian olive oil.  This shop is there (and my route to it circuitous), but they don’t carry that particular olive oil any more.  Okay.  At this point, I need to pray for David because he is lying to me and the rest of the world.  Perhaps he doesn’t even live in Paris. 

David however redeems himself with the next several stops, and my bag grows heavy with beautiful jams, mustards, chocolates and breads.  I even find the special nut oils at one of the other stops.  I mistakenly jettison myself clear out to the edge of the Luxembourg Quarter in search of the last stop (some infused butter), proving that my goal of “getting to know” the St Germain des Pres has not exactly come to fruition.  Once I’m back in the right geography, I duck into a sunglasses shop.  Though it’s raining, there’s been eighteen minutes of sunshine and I’ve forgotten my sunglasses.   I’ve come prepared with an umbrella and a sharpened lip pencil but not the possibility of sun.  Darling Benjamin helps me find the perfect inexpensive pair of shades.

Hoping to stop for lunch (a seeming requirement for “My Foodie Day in Paris”), but noticing the time suck that my navigational hiccups have caused – I instead pick up a panini and make my way towards the Musee d’Orsay.   With my pre-purchased ticket from Quinn’s previous visit in hand (turns out Quinn didn’t need a paid ticket so we had an extra), I buzz past the long line and check my food bag.   Because this is my second visit, I give myself permission to not crisscross the entire museum but to relax in the company of great artists.  I decide to head straight for the 5th floor to the Impressionism Gallery.  I linger over Renoir’s plump nudes, Matisse’s landscapes and especially Cezanne’s still lifes that remind me of my own Nanna’s painting.   In the sea of tourists with sensible shoes and loud voices, my heart warms seeing the local elderly being pushed in wheelchairs by young museum staff and groups of local school children listening with rapt attention to the dossiers. 

From there, the day unravels a bit as I search for a restaurant and then wine bar I can’t find.  I get off at an unsavory subway stop and finally settle on a delicious but undercooked Turkish chicken pita wrap at a hole in the wall restaurant.  Slightly irked by my lack of direction, I decide to play it (really) safe and head towards the train station two hours before my departure.  I soon find a cafe near the train station – no longer looking for charm but facilities.  It’s your basic tourist trap with salted peanuts, mini pretzels, and alcohol prices that increase after 10pm.  Of course there are also pictures of the food on the menu which even my children understand means “quietly head for the door.”  But in my state, I’m just looking for toilet paper.  I’m greeted by an eager French-speaking Asian waiter who quickly takes my order for a glass of white wine (any will do), and who’s thankfully at the ready with a token for the facilities.   Once I settle in, he sweetly helps me charge my phone and moves me to a window seat so I can watch the world go by.

As I sit and watch the stream of people go by (because I have some time), I realize that the find of the day was not my bag of goodies (which look amazing.)  Clearly the day was an overall gastronomical bust in terms of eating experiences.  The find of the day was the 11 hours of solitude to go at my own pace with no one to disappoint but myself.  And the thing is -- I wasn’t disappointed.  I had fun – with me.   We need solitude to remind us that we can be our own best company.  It helps the process when you can sit in front of a beautiful piece of art or in a café that Hemingway once graced, but maybe it’s even more effective when you can do it sitting on your own front porch with a stolen ten minutes or in a Double Tree Hotel café with self-service coffee.   All I know is that salted peanuts never tasted so good.

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.