I actually feel lighter, less encumbered by the weight of my own expectation. I lay face down in the prime grape-drying area between the couch and the footstool, and dislocated my left shoulder in order to better sift through the quagmire of Things. The act of looking-for-things often throws up other unexpected chores, so on the way I cleared a path to make the stairs navigable again, did some recycling, unearthed a copy of Elmer and read it with Alpha Blondie, removed and washed the kids bed sheets, discovered an elusive corner of a Peppa Pig Jigsaw and completed the puzzle to check I had all the other pieces, and cut out about a hundred butterflies from the aforementioned wrapping paper. So that was awkward.
Oh, the voices, the voices. In fact, my experience not only provides empirical evidence that German-speakers can indulge in a spot of bullying, even if they are at a loss to talk about it afterwards, but also suggests that all the above-mentioned European languages require at least two new words: one to describe a child who is so self-assured that s/he is not in the least intimidated by or respectful of adults; and a second to express the discomfort of a mother who realises that she has no clue how to handle such a child when one is giving her a hard time in a playground. Chad, for example, where there are loads of insects (did I mention the insects?). And then something very alarming happens. tis the season for sharing. When the other kids are sitting on their Mums laps in a circle, Alpha Blondie is off hitting a snare drum with his forehead; when the other kids are dancing about with scarves, he is sweeping the floor with a dustpan and brush; when the other kids are curled up on a blanket being sleeping hedgehogs, he is shouting Me NOT, opening the door and buggering off down the corridor.
Is that IT? I need another paper! Today started at 5.50am when Curly Girlie decided she wanted to crawl into bed with Mummy and Daddy and go back to sleep.
Its dangerous - let him get up. I thought the Swiss were supposed to have a gun under every bed? Theres a lot of listening to the teacher make neep-neep-neep noises while she waggles a mouse on the end of her finger. And then I noticed that the top of the bin was covered with a piece of glass filthy and hard to see through, but glass nonetheless. The front door swings open and a bunch of roses appears. This is beyond inconvenience, this is panic stations.
that the opportunist would be shocked that someone could be so anti-social as to ignore a caller who rings twice. Then she spotted a cheese stall and raced off. No, it just didn't seem that bad because this shit happens to us ALL THE BLESSED TIME. My nightlife is a wheel of fire, my rest consumed by the flames.
Hairy students with Bristol accents will one day chip through the sediment. People dont un-develop. And secondly, because this is the Order of Things: once, I was small and scared and I jumped when an adult told me to, but now Im big and scary and I want kids to jump when I tell them to. Day One and the Husband rides off to work on the MRT, while I consult my To Do List, which only has two items: 1. find supermarket, 2. relaunch career. Check. Gahts nd, for those unaccustomed to Swiss German (Schwiizerttsch), means roughly we both of us know, this thing just aint working out.
Like Dr House walking through a waiting room, I diagnose its flawed symptoms all around me this darn malady is everywhere, its like a plague. turned to take stock: I have it, I have it! Disobedient or self-possessed?
What do I have to feel guilty about anyway?
But now the cat has joined the fray.
First, it was my neighbours six-year-old who refused to budge up to let another kid sit at the table: Her: *turning round to stare me right in the eye* THERE IS NO ROOM. I think I had in mind something a bit like Zumba, but with less booty and more biscuits. Bloody stupid old iPhone - itll be rolling in the deep part of this frickin river in a minute.
But as I lay there, jaws and eyes wide, I thought how I could enjoy life as a dental hygienist. The latter is clearly the devils work and I dont trust it.
Not to mention the pink drink.
Finally, at the bottom, in some cases actually embedded in the rug, lay the tiny Bits: gold stars, multi-coloured beads and ancient grapes that occupy a new category of food stuff (for 18-month-old Alpha Blondie strongly believes they are edible) that is halfway between fresh fruit and dried raisin. It may even be catching. I HATE running without music. All The Gear was purchased, labelled, found to be inadequate, either returned or sewed and otherwise altered, and eventually packed. *nothing*
But heres the thing they go once a week, from now until the Spring, whatever the weather. half prepared on the floor, Theres a lot of stopping to exchange maracas for a tub of hazelnuts and then scarves and then tiny sticker faces and then tambourines and then maracas again.
Such a funky nod to this shop's historic roots. Just let the kitten live.
She must have a drink in a non-breakable, re-sealable bottle.
And I noticed the light inside the bin.
After a quick calculation, I worked out that financial dependence = guilt. Ideas purloined from sci-fi and drama and mini-series about what it means to be here, living this life, on this place we call Earth. Now why can I hear a tiny tinny Marc Bolan?
Right.
I must get an App for that. This time last week, thinking I still had plenty of time, I printed out my list of instructions. What IS it all for? Just under an hour of sitting in a big circle, shaking our maracas along to such classics as Wer rttled und schttled?, Kasimir the sleepy hedgehog and Miin Drache (which confused me no end because I thought a drache was a dragon, but turns out its a kite all the stuff about it flying in the sky and having a long tail made perfect sense, it was only when it got stuck in a tree that I started to have my doubts). It got a spanked bottom and sent off to bed without its dinner, I can tell you. Does that make me an attention-deficit, undisciplined radical? Yes, I actually growled.
How did I get so dependent so quickly?
We have a strange relationship with Spain - it features prominently in our lives as my parents live there and are prone to sending evangelical emails about its delights.
We have our fair sure of drawing on the walls, tantrums and pyjama days.. I went to visit a dental hygienist today, which may have something to do with it.
Still, I hear that watch-makers are also in high demand. Panic subsided.
but a tiny gourmand
Like the once-unyielding stones of Angkor or Borobodur, the voracious tentacles of the Stuff have engulfed me, weakened my foundations of cleanliness, and pulled me down under their crushing weight. Unfortunately, her definition of sleep is not lie down, close eyes and drift off into silent unconsciousness. No, I want them to run, jump, climb, explore, sing loudly, paint messily, draw all over their faces with my best lipstick, blow raspberries, laugh at farts, sting their knees on nettles, rip and stain their clothes scrumping blackberries, tip cows, play with dogs, read illicitly after lights-out and remember just enough about kids TV shows to reminisce about them in pubs later. Then theres the whole dog thing - I have a 30kg slavering boxer dog who was making his presence known behind the door. Spending the morning with them is very much like being the designated driver at a drunken party: you have to segue between illogical conversations, hysterical laughter, bouts of weeping, fisticuffs and declarations of love, all the while stopping them slipping off the side of the chair onto the floor.
First run Ive managed to get in ages and I dont have any music.
Scraping away plaque must be deeply satisfying. Have the kids had it this morning? Second, it was a pair of tweenies sitting at the top of the slide in the playground so my son couldnt use it: Them: blah, blah, boys, shoes, homework, boys, blah, my stupid parents, blah, blah, boys. Then I was in Singapore, where I also stood out from the crowd, mostly by being a head taller than a lot of other women. If she means by the mum, then check. I hear a sound exactly like the front door being opened and a person walking in. If Im honest, I do feel, deep down in the boots of my psyche, in the bit I try to keep locked and sealed but which manages to break out in the pesty minutes before I fall asleep, that not being entirely perfect is some kind of affliction.
Its half the fun.
OK, the volume must be turned down. In fact, unless youre doing a Kate Bush turn at your local karaoke, (and if this is the case, then the more chiffon the merrier), I dont see any excuse for dancing around with scarves. Spending any time at all away from your children whether its a hospital stay or a day at a spa, its all the same, guilt-wise. It is truly amazing what parents can do with an iPhone, a set of moving walk-ways and a mostly-deserted Duty Free concession (come on kids, let's play hide 'n seek in the changing rooms in Desigual again - yaaaaaaaay!). Well, OK, Universe, God, Giant Cosmic Rabbit, Dr Who-ever the frick is in charge. The clock showed 04.30
What is it? Then will the Great Cosmic Sleep Fascist call off his dogs of war and let me lie in? Second, other people close friends, complete strangers and everyone in between - who appear to judge me can all bugger off. Then the dog started.
And there you go. Everyone I speak to, every book I read and every ounce of common sense that I own, tell me that you have to leave them sometime.
Sea! Look at our joy at adopting the German word schadenfreude, which describes the pleasure we take in someone elses misfortune.
Then he needs to scratch his claws down the wall to improve his position enough that he can fall into a deep slumber and have an energetic dream about god only knows what but it involves running, growling, whimpering and, apparently, laughing. Then, when the Husband asks for his nuts or Curly Girlie demands a wooden carrot or Alpha Blondie wails OOOoooOOOoooOOO! (which roughly translates as I need a shoooooe so I can go outside and fall over on the stones) I can just say: under the sofa, Darling! What a neat solution.
*fiddle* No, volume is on full. Motherhood isimpossible to get right. I read the blessed Annas incredibly perceptive passage about her non-perfect life with the kids (or is it actually perfect in its own unique way? But the sort of rain that makes you say, Bugger this for a game of soldiers, Im going in the warm for a cup of tea and bit of Homes Under the Hammer. And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the cat. I realised the Zen-ness of the Curly Girlie on Friday at the wonderful farmers market in Winterthur. Or States. So, what? So just the usual, really: kid screaming in public; frazzled mum taking deep ragged breaths; and members of said public looking irritated by all the noise. Except when we go, when the rain in Spain falls mostly on our pain-ed faces, which are pressed up against hail-lashed windows as we shiver in the lowest temperatures since records began (presumably they only began after our last visit, cos it was just as bleeding cold then) and listen to gnarled old Spanish men announce that they can now die happy after seeing snow for the first time in their long, olive-oil soaked, sun-drenched lives.
that I have felt this undefined sensation just recently. Then he needs to lick himself thoroughly. Ill change the habit of a lifetime and get up early enough to eat a proper breakfast and read the bloody paper. But first, lets go back a week. Anyway, I had to admit today that Muki Singen just gaht nd. But now we both stood, in the middle of a busy market, apparently peering into a bin. Me: Hey, ladies! Pause. Introductions were made, last-minute adjustments to backpacks were completed and shoes were admired (it is a Universal Truth that all children are inordinately proud of their shoes). This is what childhood is FOR. If so, what is my special test and how do I pass it?
I bet that ones frickin headphone socket doesnt disengage.
Anyway, after arriving at Alicante Airport at 11am, we took to the skies just before 10pm, landed back in Switzerland at midnight and finally rolled home after 2am.
But I had reason to think about tyrannischer Kerls today, when I went to the park and got roundly picked on by a gang of five-year-olds. Today the Curly Girlie went off for the first time to waldspielgruppe.
The whole incident strikes me as distinctly Swiss. Then The Husband took up snoring.
It started with firstborn Curly Girlie, actually a pretty good sleeper all things considered, but as much a sleep thief as any baby. Ive probably even thrown a couple of crisp packets and bus tickets in it. Well, my choice of language there belies what I think. No food for mice out there! he cried out of breath,
And when Ive got no music, I just think about how much my thighs hurt all the time.
But then I had kids and was forced to break my silence. Whatever Wittgenstein may have said about words being the limit of our world, Im not entirely sure you can logically conclude that having no concise word for a concept means that the behaviour doesnt exist. Naturally, I didnt remove any of these items from under the sofa because then I would have had to find homes for them all. I simply cannot stand to spend one more minute tidying up.
For reasons I have no patience to explain, I was scouring the house and garden for the following Lost Items: a packet of modelling clay, an item of clothing that may or may not exist, and a watering can rose.
Back in the day, before I turned all expat, I had an actual job.
The house is still far from the housewife clean standard expected of Swiss wives (Im not being ironic housewife clean is a perfectly acceptable standard of hygiene in Switzerland and is afforded the utmost respect by estate agents) but at least it doesnt unsettle the kids any more. Hm? Except that, for an English speaker in a Swiss German-speaking supermarket, its much worse because no-one has a clue what the angry, shrill woman is saying to the weeping, gulping child.
Good Night to All I really like this one too. Dont be such a miser. Presently, we were all in the car and on our way.
Just WORK you pieceofshitetotallyannoyingletmedownallthetimewasteoffrickingleccyoverhypedarsingApple-Crapplebollockypileofbollockedbollocks! Eleven hours with no pram, no playground and no (legal) tranquilizers. Curly Girlie and her new best friend, whose name I later learnt was boy, were barrelling down a wet slide at the sort of speed NASA scientists dream of reaching.
Not letting them do exactly what they want (watch TV). Oh - Iggy Pop!
There - have a handful of personal issues to stir into your culpability cauldron.
Them: blah, blah, *sigh expressing infinite disdain*, blah, boys, Twilight, hair, blah. Isnt it feasible that some short-sighted, paranoid old crone could be hunkered on the stairs with a shotgun or do they assume that people like that are unlikely to be on the receiving end of Interflora?
We don't even do activities and crafts for a large percentage of the day, maybe an hour or so squeezed in between play groups, mums meet ups, outings to the park, watching Peppa Pig on repeat and of course the obligatory Sainsbury's shop.
Maybe this random scattering of Things had a ceremonial purpose? they will ask.
Adele. Goodness, dont I sound like a tyrannische Kerl? Then, bright and early, the Curly Girlie was fed, hosed-down, de-flea-ed, tick-sprayed and dressed in the first layer of weather-resistant clothing. All those little tools and nozzles and attachments look so neat and shiny in their special little drawer. I was well chuffed with the deal.