Temptation and Sabotage

Well, we survived a week of detox, kind of.  And when I mean "we" I mean "me and the kids." Sweet Papa was not about to play along with my silly ideas. That's probably why he's been able to keep up his sweet personality after being married for over 12 years to a tyrant.
Fifi: Hey mom, is today the last day of the thing?
Sweet Papa: Oh, you mean the Torture?
I must say that the one thing that became increasingly clear to me was that Sweet Papa shows every sign of being addicted to sugar. The first day of the "Cleanse" Sweet P starts the day off with his usual cup of coffee and 2-3 cubes of sugar. As soon as he was out of the kitchen I proceeded to hide all the refined sugar, candy, cookies, and other foods with processed sugars or high fructose corn syrup - you know, by putting them BEHIND other things in the cabinet. I can't believe he couldn't find them for a week.
The first day was pretty smooth. The kids and I rode our bikes down to a local farmer who sells produce on Saturday mornings. It was so awesome. Never knew cauliflower was sweet before. Finally had some decent sweet corn in the country. One thing I realized was that I spent the entire day cooking or doing some kind of physical exercise with the kids, because they don't move unless you move with them. It was exhausting.
The second day we had to defrost our freezer. Which meant we had to end up eating whatever was inside, including shrimp, ground beef, and the frozen cheesecake that I thought I could hide for another week.  Luckily it had apples in it, so when S.P. starts to dish it out, Fifi says she doesn't want any. S.P. can't believe this, and insists she tries it. I'm like, hello, this is sabotage, don't MAKE her eat the cake. It's bad enough he slipped Kiki an extra slice when I went to the bathroom, and who knows how many Bugsy got. 
Thursday was rough. I was exhausted. I'd been baking bread (which is so easy and really fun if you have all the time in the world and no deadlines to face) and trying to find things too cook beside spaghetti and meat sauce, and trying to keep Bugsy active. But I came down with a cold, and everyone was on my nerves. So Sweet Papa did the sweet thing, and took the girls to the hardware store with him to get them out of my hair. But first they had to stop to get ice cream to sabotage things even further.
We'd been pretty good about not going overboard. I substituted banana milkshakes for ice cream shakes (one banana, a cup of milk, and if you want, any assortment of other fruits - the frozen kind work really well, and I added a teaspoon of malted milk because I love strawberry malts). Used Agave instead of sugar, and made their chocolate milk with cocoa powder and agave juice. Bugsy was not about to try to substitute anything for his beloved strawberry flavored milk, so he drank it plain. We really don't eat a lot of crappy foods, so it really wasn't that big of a change.
But for some reason it was just too much for Sweet Papa. Here's the proof: he sent me this link yesterday: 

Where does he find this stuff? Oh, and the remix video is pretty funny too:

Watch out! Mama's taking over!

Nothin' like a good ole body cleanse to get your summer vacation going. 

For the first time in a long time, I will have total control of everything my family eats and every physical activity they do for 2 full weeks (2 1/2 for the kids). So I'm taking charge. We are cutting out white sugar and all processed foods and synthetic ingredients, and whatever else I feel like cutting out (including my morning Latte Machiatto) for as long as we can take it. We're going substitute things like (gasp!) running around outside, and playing games that involve more than just your retinas and fingertips to move, for the TV and computer. I'm drinking my last beer as I write this, I may need another.

Sound outrageous? Sound inhumane? I have 2 obese people in my immediate family (not me) and coming from a long line of people teased for their skinniness, I refuse to allow this behavior to continue under my watch. Besides, they spent their first week off of school with Sweet Papa and Oma, so you know a detox is in order.

our Saviour?

First stop: grocery store to get a healthier replacement for white cane sugar Picked up an extra large bottle of Agave: Bio (hell) Agaven Dicksaft. Roughly translated: you will be going through hell on this diet and this juice (saft) will make you fat (dick).  I don't know if this is really a better alternative than sugar, but I'm not going the artificial sweetener route, and the other alternative  - sepia? stevia? stevejobsia? is banned in some countries, and well, when I went to the local store, this was staring me in the face like a gift from God.  Bugsy, of course wanted to get 2 bottles, just to make sure we had enough.


So far the kids have been fine with the idea, even curious, asking questions like "Can we watch TV? It doesn't have sugar in it." And "Can we have our last Nutella bread?" (on their last day without sugar), but since there was no bread, they settled for a Nutella banana, which turned into raiding the Nutella jar with their fingers and eventually spreading it all over my dining table. At least that'll hopefully keep anyone else from wanting to eat the rest.

Sweet Papa's reaction was a bit different. His last week long cleanse lasted until he got home from work the first day.  His first reaction was total shock that I would even consider doing something like this. Since he's generally too lazy to prepare meals or get groceries, he knows he's dependent on me for food. His second thought - I'm going on vacation! Third thought - two weeks is just too long. We'll see. We may not make it through the first day. But at least the kids are going to realize that maybe going to day care and letting mommy go to work, may not just be such a bad thing after all.

Of Mice und mein Mann

We have cats. 3 of them. Well, 2 ½, since one prefers our neighbor over us and just comes over occasionally for lunch and to poop in our bike shed. We got the first one 10 years ago. My husband warned me back then not to take it in. I knew he was an animal lover, but I didn't know to what extent. I should have listened.

A couple of neighbor's kids found a kitten and were holding it in a cardboard box. She was all black, with a tuft of white fur under her chin, and big eyes. Soooo cute.

- Hey, Sweet Papa, they caught a kitten! Come see!

- If I look at it, I'm going to have to keep it.

- Oh, come on, take a look!

Famous last words. 

We kept her. And her fleas. And her death threats on my newborn son. 

Then we kept her friends. And their fleas. And we paid for their shots, collars, flea medication, de-worming medication, operations, kennel charges, car carriers, airplane pet carriers (the large ones meant for dobermans, so they'd be more comfortable on the transatlantic flight), and airfare. Don't even bring up the fact that while the other two were able to go as carry-ons, Cocoa (and yes, I'm using her real name, no need to protect her identity), Cocoa hid under the jacuzzi tub and we couldn't get her out in time for the flight. We ended up buying her a separate ticket and having her fly on her own – don't even ask what it cost me, the wound is still raw.

Well, this story isn't about Cocoa (she deserves a blog all to herself), it's about Baby Meow Meow (BMM for short). Or rather what she dragged in.

One afternoon, not too long ago, she came in with a mouse in her mouth. Generally she only brings in half a mouse, or dead mice, but this time it was whole, and it was still moving, well, twitching. So I managed to separate the two and got the cat away, and locked the dying mouse in the bathroom to die in peace.

I made the mistake of writing Sweet Papa an e-mail letting him know what happened. He suggested I call my friend the vet. Well, she's only technically a vet, she's really a biologist specializing in infectious diseases, but she could work as a vet if she wanted to. Like I could work as a mechanical engineer if I wanted to, but just don't ask me to fix your car. I couldn't reach her, but she told me later I should have let the cat finish the mouse off, because it's just  part of the world's order or something like that.

So when Sweet Papa arrives home from work, he rushes to the bathroom to assess the damage. 4 or 5 hours after I got it away from BMM and it's still alive! Still twitching! Sweet P. immediately gets on the phone. The local vet doesn't take in field mice, but they suggest he try the animal hospital in Dachau! So he calls there, turns out it closes in about 10 minutes, but if he hurries they'll wait for him.

Am I the only sane one here?

I had to go to a meeting, and Fifi wasn't feeling well. So the older two stayed at home while Sweet Papa took Kiki and the twitching mouse to the animal hospital.

Seriously? 

Well, the doctors couldn't save the mouse. But they did give it a shot to put it to sleep. They didn't charge us for it, but they talked Sweet Papa into buying flea collars for the cats to the tune of almost 100 euros. He said he was in an emotionally charged state after holding the twitching mouse in his hands, and would have agreed to anything.

And apparently he hasn't been able to catch Cocoa yet to put the flea collar on her either. Hope he's not trying to save any fleas from an untimely death.

Mommy Travel Blog???

     Last night the topic of travel blogging came up, apparently it's the hottest thing in blogging at the moment. Of course the first thing that came to mind, was cha-ching! I can make millions writing a travel blog based on traveling with children and uncooperative husbands! The second thought, of course, was, who's going to want to read about how much I hate traveling with children and uncooperative husbands?

     But seriously, what's the point of a having a family vacation without a bunch of arguments, lousy choice of hotels (that seemed like such a bargain on-line), and sleep deprived children? Here are things I remember from traveling with my family as a child:

• The crowd in front of the Mona Lisa was REALLY big.
• The food at the Louvre cafeteria was awesome!
• My mom bought a bunch of crap from street hawkers all over Paris (which we still have) - the fake ivory vase with carved naked women that she bought from some African dude on the street still freaks me out.
• There is a lot of dog poop in Paris, and my mother was constantly yelling at us not to step in it.
• There is a restaurant somewhere in the mid-west that advertised Chinese-American Cuisine, where the food was just nasty.
• The pizza place where my mom complained that there weren't enough pepperoni's on our pizza and the waitress who answered back with "Pepperoni is expensive!"
• The juke box, also somewhere in the Midwest, that had a note saying "Don't Work" on it instead of "Out of Order." As a seven year old, to see this sort of honesty and non-conformity was just so liberating!
• Driving to San Francisco (from Maryland) and NOT driving over the Golden Gate Bridge, because my dad said, "when you travel someplace, you shouldn't see everything there is to see, save something to for next time!" I finally did make it back to San Francisco over 20 years later, and I made a point of driving across that bridge. Unfortunately we got lost and drove across it about 5 times, and probably paid a toll each way.
• Going to Paris and NOT going up the Eiffel Tower because my mom thought it was too expensive. Also, waking up early and driving four hours to Kings Dominion and NOT going in because it was too expensive. Although I must say that riding the Rebel Yell backwards has got to be the best roller coaster rides EVER!
• My disappointment at finding out that Piccadilly Circus isn't a circus. And what was up with all that neon clothing in 1980's London?

So here are my tips when traveling with small children:

• If you only pack 2 diapers for a one hour flight, your kid will have explosive diarrhea at least three times before touchdown.
• If you pack 10 diapers and a couple of change of clothes for both yourself and your child(ren), you won't need any of it and you"ll be carrying all of your tired children and some very heavy carry-ons off the flight.
• 99% of the time, your kids will not fall asleep at take off.
• 99% of the time, your kids will all fall asleep during landing after torturing you the entire flight.
• If you have a book and your kid has a drink, the two will become close friends.
• If you have a child who has just learned how to walk, wear running shoes. You'll be chasing them up and down the aisle the entire flight. And yes, they can wriggle out of those seat belts, crawl under your feet and be down at the other end of the plane before the flight attendant can say "Chicken or Pasta."
• When picking a travel destination, I suggest going to visit any close friend or relative who will take care of your children, cook for you, and has a comfortable, sound and light proof bedroom for you to sleep in ALONE. 

My Cast of Characters

For those of you who don't know us or haven't seen us in a while, I thought I'd (re)introduce you to the 'personalities' I've been dealing with for the past 11 years.

Sweet Papa - my "better" half. Given his name by my then 2 year old son who said he loved his papa because "he's so sweet!" I would have slapped him when he said it, but I was driving and he was securely fastened in his car seat at the time. After 11 1/2 years of marriage, I'm still wondering, "What was I thinking?" Don't worry he's not going to read this because it's not a technical manual or a photoshop tutorial on how to alter your wife's face (see below).

Bugsy - my oldest child, and my only son. Takes after his dad in so many ways, I have dedicated my life to stopping the cycle of imbecilic male behavior. Unfortunately, I have been completely unsuccessful up until this point. The only thing I have so far succeeded in is being the "meany mommy," and the one to run to in times of crisis, or hunger.

Fifi - given the name by big brother Bugsy while still in the womb, is anything but an obedient Poodle as the name would suggest. Is the one person in the family who is up for anything at any time, and is generally the least whiniest of the three. When I grow up, I want to be more like her.

Kiki - given her name by big brother, because well, Kiki rhymes with Fifi. I could also call her the Instigator, although she'll be the first to point out when someone else has gotten into trouble, that she (and I quote) "hasn't done anything wrong, right, Mama?"

And then there's me, the Fascist Dictator, who hates television, high fructose corn syrup, any palm sized piece of technology, fast foods, toy stores, 1980's German techno music (especially when blasted at bed time on a speaker system that involves a sub woofer), and stagnant children who sit on the couch staring at an unplugged tv screen wondering what to do on a warm, sunny day. But seriously, who has time to photoshop when all around you are wreaking havoc and calamity?

Porn on My Dining Table!

     Well, MIL is still here. Two weeks turned into four (with two weeks in the hospital) and now we're in the middle of our sixth week. About halfway through week five she decided it was time to go home, of course during my busiest weekend of the year, so I just said no! you're staying another week. Shot myself in the leg with that one, but I figured I could put up with another few days for a free babysitter.

     So after a few discussions with Sweet Papa as to who gets to drive her home and who has to stay at home with the kiddos without a car in sub zero temperature, 40 minutes walking from the nearest subway station (unless you need to stop and pee 3 times), we decided I'd drive her home with the kids since it was their vacation and we had nothing better to do anyway. Of course nothing turns out as planned in my household. We got a call from the clinic, Oma needs to go back into the hospital for another procedure.

     That solves that problem of who has to do the 3-hour drive, listening to complaints about the rest of the family. But that also means Oma is here for EVEN longer. I really don't mind her, really. She's actually helpful around the house, and I'm sure Sweet Papa is happy that someone in the house is listening to his work problems and putting up with all his crap. But she's got all these weird, non-Grandma like habits.

     Every morning, she needs to read her newspaper. It's not really a newspaper, in that I don't think that there is any actual news in there, unless it's completely sensationalized. It's like the German version of the National Enquirer with out the alien stories. And it's pornographic! On the front page of every weekday issue there is a picture of some topless woman posing in some kind of erotic pose along with some interesting tidbits about this woman's life. Her age, her hopes and dreams, and her profession (usually something like cashier, secretary, student, or mom (eeewwww!)). I grew up in a household where it wasn't clear if you were to actually bathed naked or not.

     She doesn't seem to even notice the porn though. There was an article on the page right above it that she was trying to point out to me and I couldn't help but instinctively shield my eyes from it! She's always leaving the paper on my dining table, always opened up to the nudity. It apparently never occurs to her that we have a prepubescent child in the house, and well besides that, who wants a picture of a stranger's bare ass on their dining table???!!!!!

     But wait, it gets worse. She even watches porn on tv! Well, soft porn. Well, R-rated soap opera style shows in the living room with my then 3 and 5 year olds watching! I supposed Europe is supposed to be a little more progressive than the US in certain things, but watching porn with Grandma is not my idea of a wholesome family activity! 

Feeling a little stressed?

     One of my favorite german words is 'überfordert'. I can't really pronounce because the 'ü' is more like a 'eeewwww' and 'r' isn't like the English 'r' and I can't really describe it 'cause if I could, I would probably be able to say it, wouldn't I? The means something like 'overextended' or 'swamped.' It's stem word 'fordern' means to demand, ask, require, claim. I thought the stem word was 'fördern' which means something completely different (support, encourage, foster, promote) because you know, putting two dots on top of anything, especially a letter, can make someone's life a living hell.
     I just survived my daughter's 7th birthday party, complete with extra kids showing up unannounced, total meltdown of the birthday girl, total anarchy halfway through the games, too much candy, screams of "you're not my friend anymore!!!", and of course the former best friend picking a fight with my son (but that was to be expected).
    A lot of this I could have predicted before hand. We invited too many kids to begin with, but that was more out of guilt than anything else. I was out of town for a week, the week before, which always upsets Fifi. Her grandma, who was visiting us at the time, got admitted to the hospital on the morning of her actual birthday. Not to mention the fact that I had to bake the cake for her real birthday in between shopping for ingredients and dropping and picking up kids for different activities that day, and so only the top half actually got cooked (the toothpick came out clean THREE freaking times, how was I supposed to know?), although the top half was pretty tasty, and Kiki didn't seem to mind the bottom half!
     And then no one RSPV'ed. Well, one did the first day, the current "best friend" (who can keep up, when they are too young for Facebook?). Then another, although I wasn't thrilled to hear it since the kids, although close friends, were a few years younger and needed more of my attention. Then one more trickled in, and then nothing. Then I hear another girl in the same class is having a party on the same day. Then another girl can't make it because her best friend is celebrating on the same day as well. Crap. I can't have just 4 kids (including two who are more like family than friends) show up at my kid's party. My kid is more popular than that, right??? Panic sets in.
     But by the Thursday before the party, we had a decent amount of kids, and I was happy to hear some couldn't make it. Now to tackle mess that was the house. No point in cleaning too early, it'll just get messy again. Can't give Bugsy too much notice to clean his room, apparently, anything more than 24 hours and he just doesn't take it seriously.  Threatening to take away your next birthday party (still 6 months away) when said the 3rd time, didn't seem to sway him either. Yelling and screaming and throwing his gym bag under his desk got his attention, but just barely.
     But of course nothing is that easy. Wednesday, my MIL, starts getting a swollen foot and is having trouble walking on it. During the week I've got a series of doctors appointments, and find out that in addition to recovering from pneumonia, the reason my side is still hurting is because I have a cracked rib that never showed up in the 10 x-rays I took over Christmas vacation. A CRACKED freaking rib, do you hear that Sweet Papa? I think that trumps your head cold, any day! Not to mention stress from my renters in Florida, daily visits to see my MIL at the hospital, a 'sick' husband who gets 3 days off of work from his doctor, and the stress that is my weekly grind. So of course on the Friday before the party, when I really need to start pulling things together, I collapse out of exhaustion on my bed for a few hours.
     So that left Saturday morning to prepare. Made the cake (and made sure it was cooked all the way through, this time), made the pizzas (that no one really liked, but was oh, so thankful for after everyone left), left to go shopping for an hour but almost had a panic attack that Sweet Papa would start mopping the floors (and not let anyone walk across them until they dried - which could take up to an hour). Luckily, or not, no one seemed to have moved while I was gone, although the mop and bucket were in position, ready for attack. I swear I was ready to leave that man if he started mopping the house an hour before the party (when there were a million other things to be done). Moved the furniture around, decorated the table, put up the streamers, laid out the snacks, all with 5 minutes to spare before the first doorbell rang.
     Only one thing I forgot - feed my kids lunch. Kiki grabbed some pizza during the party. Bugsy, he has enough meat on him to last him 3 days. But Fifi, the birthday girl, was in no way going to survive on the mornings oatmeal. No way to get her to eat real food with all that chocolate and candy floating in the air. No way to get her to think about food with all her friends in the house. 
     The meltdown started right after she opened her presents, conveniently enough for her. She ended up having a private party in her room with a few kids she allowed to enter. Kiki got a group together for herself and played with them in another room. One group got excited about the swing in Bugsy's room and played in there. Bugsy got some earphones and plugged into his PSP. Sweet Papa gave up and escaped to the computer. And after playing a few games with some of the other kids, I ended up on the couch hanging out with a mom that stayed.
     Überlebt. One of the first words I learned after holding my first kid's birthday party. It means "survived." Just barely.

Mothers and Sons

     My mother-in-law is visiting, and well, I just couldn't help but blog about it. I want to start off by saying that my MIL is just a really sweet, funny, loving person, who would do anything in the world for you as long as you, your parents, and possibly your grandparents have never done anything to get on her bad side. OR that possibly any random series of events made it look to her that you, your parents, or your grandparents have ever done her wrong, ever.
     Luckily, for some reason, she seems to like me. I think it helped living on a different continent and not really speaking her language for the first 8 years of my marriage. Smiling and eating large amounts of anything she cooks, and providing cute grandchildren have gotten me far. Luckily for you, she neither understands English nor owns a computer let alone know how to surf the internet, so I feel I can speak freely.
     Every so often, when I see my husband with his mom, I realize what a mama's boy he is. I feel really bad for his sister, because their mom definitely favors him over her. That's a chain I'm trying to break. My mom definitely favored my brother over my sister and me, but I thought that was just an Indian thing. As I understand it, sons are favored because daughters are considered part of their husband's family as soon as they get married, so if you don't have a son, you have no one to take care of you in your old age. Kind of like India's version of Social Security. Although my mom once said to put her in a nursing home before making her live with her son!
     In the fight against favoring "my son! my son!" over my daughters, I've probably gone one step too far. That boy of mine loves his Sweet Papa more than anything. My husband had to go out of town one night for work and Bugsy was like, "Mom, did you ever miss anyone soooooo much?" I thought I was going to puke. And he's trying to be like his dad in so many ways. That's where I try and nip things in the bud. You know, get at the source of the problem before it gets out of hand.
     In some ways though, I'm missing out. I see how Sweet Papa is with his mom, and I'm like, my son doesn't like me THAT much. My mother-in-law, was on the couch the other day with a swollen, aching foot and Sweet Papa was on it. At her beck and call, offering to massage it, even using some kind of healing mud mask on it (Luvos Heilerde for those that know it, used for everything from acne to irritable bowel syndrome) to get the swelling down. He never took care of me like that. Most likely because I've never been THAT sick, according to him. So even when I was 10 months pregnant with his kid, and not able to stand back up again after squatting down to tie his other kid's shoe, didn't warrant a helping hand, because technically, you know, I was healthy. And well, he probably didn't notice we needed help because he was already out in the car waiting for us to bring down the luggage.
     Being Sweet Papa's mom isn't without it's drawbacks though. It never occurred to him to come home early or even on time that day when she couldn't walk on her own and I said even I couldn't support her weight to help her get around. She eventually had to go to the hospital for treatment, and she was complaining about how terrible the food was. So his suggestion? Should I bring you some toast? The woman slaves for days making pot roast and stuffed cabbage for you, and the best you can offer is TOAST??? I'm thinking that kind of love I can do without.