It's ending so fast. I thought I'd have more time than this...
Tonight is my final night on the computer. As soon as I write this, I'll be restoring it and closing it down forever. I won't be writing again until after our arrival in Chicago on the 25th. I'd hoped to respond to everyone's comments and return everyone's visits, but it just can't happen until the move is over.
I wish everyone happy, light and peaceful thoughts until after I get back. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you soon!
Wish us luck!
Friday, July 14, 2006
It's ending so fast. I thought I'd have more time than this...
Tonight is my final night on the computer. As soon as I write this, I'll be restoring it and closing it down forever. I won't be writing again until after our arrival in Chicago on the 25th.
I wish everyone happy, light and peaceful thoughts until after I get back.
Thanks for reading, and I'll see you soon!
Wish us luck!
I wish everyone happy, light and peaceful thoughts until after I get back.
Thanks for reading, and I'll see you soon!
Wish us luck!
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
A Welcome Change of Pace
I have the whole day to myself. What a gift! My visiting mother-in-law took the car and my son into Stuttgart today to attend to some personal business, leaving me all alone, without a care in the world (almost), without having to disrupt my musings to pick up son from kindergarten or make lunch, except to bring up the laundry every hour or so to dry in the sun in the backyard... It's a day of peace much craved for.
We have these birds that soar the sky around our house. I've wondered all this time what they are. They aren't hawks, of that I was certain. Could they be eagles? I couldn't find anything to compare them to on the Internet, except for a few mp3s of eagles' cries. These birds sound pretty similar to what I heard, so I decided they must be a type of eagle indigenous to the area, which delighted me. We don't have eagles in the Illinois flatlands, where I come from.
My husband thought they were small for eagles. And a recent close-up view of a circling bird showed that the tail was not straight across, as an eagle's tail feathers should be, but scooped in the middle. I finally had to admit that the birds were not eagles.
Last week, I ran into a neighbor who was cutting his lawn with a scythe. He doesn't really have a lawn, per se, if you define a lawn as having an expanse of smooth green grass soft enough to walk barefoot on. Neither do we, for that matter. Instead, his yard is typically hip-deep in weeds of varying types. Our co-neighbors, an old couple in their 80s who keep a very large vegetable garden and chicken coop to sustain themselves, had recently complained to him about his weeds infesting their garden with baby weeds. So he was out in his yard the next day with a scythe, the only tool that not only would cut it all down, but that would fit through the opening to his yard and could be carried up the hill to do the work.
My next-door neighbor, coincidently, is American who hails from Maine. He's been in Germany for 20 years or so. Came here while he was in the Navy, and stayed to work. We don't run into each other often, but our chats sometimes run long when we do. I remembered, during the course of this one, to ask him what those eagle-like birds are.
"I don't know," he said in his distinctive Maine accent. "I only know the German word for them, which someone told me when I asked a few years back. They're called, Milan."
And that was exactly the information I needed to find out what name I might know them by. A quick reverse-search on the Internet--I googled Milan on the german google.de to find out the latin name then English-googled the latin name to find out the common name in English--revealed that these birds are Red Kites.
And to my gratification, they are related to Hawks and Eagles. So I wasn't so far off the mark as I might have been!
We have these birds that soar the sky around our house. I've wondered all this time what they are. They aren't hawks, of that I was certain. Could they be eagles? I couldn't find anything to compare them to on the Internet, except for a few mp3s of eagles' cries. These birds sound pretty similar to what I heard, so I decided they must be a type of eagle indigenous to the area, which delighted me. We don't have eagles in the Illinois flatlands, where I come from.
My husband thought they were small for eagles. And a recent close-up view of a circling bird showed that the tail was not straight across, as an eagle's tail feathers should be, but scooped in the middle. I finally had to admit that the birds were not eagles.
Last week, I ran into a neighbor who was cutting his lawn with a scythe. He doesn't really have a lawn, per se, if you define a lawn as having an expanse of smooth green grass soft enough to walk barefoot on. Neither do we, for that matter. Instead, his yard is typically hip-deep in weeds of varying types. Our co-neighbors, an old couple in their 80s who keep a very large vegetable garden and chicken coop to sustain themselves, had recently complained to him about his weeds infesting their garden with baby weeds. So he was out in his yard the next day with a scythe, the only tool that not only would cut it all down, but that would fit through the opening to his yard and could be carried up the hill to do the work.
My next-door neighbor, coincidently, is American who hails from Maine. He's been in Germany for 20 years or so. Came here while he was in the Navy, and stayed to work. We don't run into each other often, but our chats sometimes run long when we do. I remembered, during the course of this one, to ask him what those eagle-like birds are.
"I don't know," he said in his distinctive Maine accent. "I only know the German word for them, which someone told me when I asked a few years back. They're called, Milan."
And that was exactly the information I needed to find out what name I might know them by. A quick reverse-search on the Internet--I googled Milan on the german google.de to find out the latin name then English-googled the latin name to find out the common name in English--revealed that these birds are Red Kites.
And to my gratification, they are related to Hawks and Eagles. So I wasn't so far off the mark as I might have been!
Monday, July 10, 2006
We've Settled on a Date!
After a year of quiet, white-knuckled uncertainty, it's finally official. On July 25, just two days before my 36th birthday, my son and I will return to the Chicago area once and for all, with my husband following behind shortly after.
It'll be good to be home again.
In the meantime, I received a giant e-mail from my best friend in Chicago, who recently returned from a trip with her hubby to Central Mexico, where they experienced an intense religious ceremony conducted by a local sha-woman, involving a specific type of mushroom. My friend told me what knowledge she had walked away with, comparing it to a similar South American rite they'd participated in last year. Reading her letter made me experience an intense gush of love for this woman, reminding me how important she's been during the decade (lifetimes) of friendship we've shared. How much I'm looking forward to being closer proximity to her again, I can't convey.
Things have gotten dramatic in the house since last I wrote. Hubby tried to throw MiL out last Thursday, but none of the other brothers would take her in (isn't that sad and scary and pathetic all at once?), so here she's staying for the next two weeks, with no relief in site. After that big scare she's been on super-good behavior, but the tension in the air is thick, and it's only a matter of time before there's another blow-out.
I'm trying not to feel put-upon that during my final two weeks in this house I'll have to pack up and say goodbye to the house and the scenery around her constant presence, struggling to take my peace where I can and to ease the obvious strain on my son.
But then, my family and I will soon be descending upon my parents in much the same way, won't we? I like to think we're nicer and easier to get along with than MiL, but it'll still be a strain, and probably most significantly on my mom and husband, for reasons of their own.
Must be tolerant. Must learn from this experience...
But at least we're going to Chicago... I thought I'd reached Nirvana when my husband had given me a digital camera for my birthday. But this return to my stomping grounds is the present of a lifetime. I only hope my husband's emigration proves to be as rewarding to him, as this move means to me.
It'll be good to be home again.
In the meantime, I received a giant e-mail from my best friend in Chicago, who recently returned from a trip with her hubby to Central Mexico, where they experienced an intense religious ceremony conducted by a local sha-woman, involving a specific type of mushroom. My friend told me what knowledge she had walked away with, comparing it to a similar South American rite they'd participated in last year. Reading her letter made me experience an intense gush of love for this woman, reminding me how important she's been during the decade (lifetimes) of friendship we've shared. How much I'm looking forward to being closer proximity to her again, I can't convey.
Things have gotten dramatic in the house since last I wrote. Hubby tried to throw MiL out last Thursday, but none of the other brothers would take her in (isn't that sad and scary and pathetic all at once?), so here she's staying for the next two weeks, with no relief in site. After that big scare she's been on super-good behavior, but the tension in the air is thick, and it's only a matter of time before there's another blow-out.
I'm trying not to feel put-upon that during my final two weeks in this house I'll have to pack up and say goodbye to the house and the scenery around her constant presence, struggling to take my peace where I can and to ease the obvious strain on my son.
But then, my family and I will soon be descending upon my parents in much the same way, won't we? I like to think we're nicer and easier to get along with than MiL, but it'll still be a strain, and probably most significantly on my mom and husband, for reasons of their own.
Must be tolerant. Must learn from this experience...
But at least we're going to Chicago... I thought I'd reached Nirvana when my husband had given me a digital camera for my birthday. But this return to my stomping grounds is the present of a lifetime. I only hope my husband's emigration proves to be as rewarding to him, as this move means to me.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
The calm before the storm?
The July 4 cookout went quite well. I did explain to MoL that we were having an authentic American meal: Hamburgers and hotdogs that each builds him/herself with onions, tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, or whatever captures you imagination (my son topped his hamburger with potato chips!), chips, corn on the cob... MoL made tzaziki, which is a garlic dip made with sour cream, several garlic cloves, and cucumbers. Europeans seems to eat what we consider dip with a spoon or fork, often without the benefit of bread, crackers or chips. And then I told her why I made so much, so there was some pleasant conversation on that topic, and she informed me that Greece also has a couple of similar national holidays that are celebrated. Our meal was big, and my dangerously crabby husband lightened up considerably after weighting down his belly with huge helpings of everything.
In last night's World Cup game, Germany lost against Italy when Italy scored twice in quick succession during the second-half of the overtime of a 0:0 game. It was a blow to Germany, and we're now out of the finals. It's now down to France against Portugal (who beat England in the quarterfinals and sent the Tommys back home, alas. I had been holding out for England, anglophile that I am) tonight. The winner of that game, I guess, will play Italy, determining the winner of the World Cup. We're feeling a little sour about Italy right now, so we're rooting for France.
I had an interesting conversation with MoL during breakfast this morning. I had told her that I was accustomed to eating our big meals at lunchtime (a German custom), so when I hadn't had lunch yesterday and then ate my hamburger at 7 pm, it was way too much for me. My belly hurt. I couldn't finish my corn on the cob or drink my wine. I was uncomfortable for hours afterward. That opened it up for her to say that she's surprised that I have such a difficult time losing weight. I eat less than she, and yet... She asked if I had ever gone to the doctor to have something-or-other tested. I didn't catch what she said, but I guessed what she meant. I gestured toward my throat, and said, "Schilddrüse?" Thyroid? She said yes, and before I could answer her (and I didn't get the chance to answer the question at all), she corrected me by explaining that the thyroid isn't just in the throat but in the belly and thighs, as well, and then she moved on to another topic.
When someone else's information conflicts with my own, I often give it the benefit of the doubt in the moment I hear it, then later on check the validity of my own information to see what I might have mistaken or misunderstood. In Wikipedia.de, I looked up Schilddrüse, because it could be very possible that my understanding of the German word might have been inaccurate. I already know very well that the THYROID is located in the throat, in front of, and on either side of, the windpipe. But maybe I've been misunderstanding SCHILDDRÜSE all this time?
What I didn't get to tell her was that, yes, our village doctor had drawn blood to test my thyroid, but she didn't believe the results were significant enough to send me to an endocrinologist to do further testing. She just told me to walk around more, be more active. I didn't explain to her that I walk my son to and from kindergarten most days, which involves a hike up a steep gradient, and that, in fact, I had walked to her office that morning, as well. I'd decided to just leave it for when I could handle my health in my own country, in my own language.
Anway, after consulting Wikipedia.de, it turns out my information or translation wasn't mistaken.
My husband has barraged me over the years with a whole catalogue of misinformed health facts. While his education might have been... incomplete, even though he attended gymnasium and later aquired a certificate equivalent to a BS in business and internation trade, I lay the blame mostly at his mother's feet. She had had to drop out of school in Greece when she was 12 years old. She has a quick mind, but no education to back it up. I'm not criticizing her, I'm just pointing out a fact.
I considered whether I might print up the Wikipedia thyroid information, but then wondered what good would it do? But then, she might take it the wrong way and be insulted. And is it really worth it? I certainly don't want to do it do boost my own ego, to score a point against her... But might she want to know?
So things are calm here, now, and I'm grateful for it. I like peacefulness and harmony and quietude. But from years of experience, it's an ordeal of walking on pins and needles worse than when it's just my husband and myself. An explosive fight eventually breaks out between hubby and MoL, which results in MoL moving on to another son's home, where another fight breaks out, and she either moves on to the third son's home, or she hops on the next place back to Greece. That has been the pattern. She's been taking anti-psychotic and anit-anxiety drugs--at least she had been when she was here during the winter, though I've seen no evidence of them now, and I'm not about to snoop--and I see the difference in her even from last February.
Maybe that's helping keep the peace...? I've got my fingers crossed that all remains as peaceful as it has been the last 24 hours, and that this isn't the calm before the storm.
But then, a purely selfish thought just occured to me: The sooner she leaves, the sooner we will get stateside. Hmm. Maybe I will print up that article, after all...
In last night's World Cup game, Germany lost against Italy when Italy scored twice in quick succession during the second-half of the overtime of a 0:0 game. It was a blow to Germany, and we're now out of the finals. It's now down to France against Portugal (who beat England in the quarterfinals and sent the Tommys back home, alas. I had been holding out for England, anglophile that I am) tonight. The winner of that game, I guess, will play Italy, determining the winner of the World Cup. We're feeling a little sour about Italy right now, so we're rooting for France.
I had an interesting conversation with MoL during breakfast this morning. I had told her that I was accustomed to eating our big meals at lunchtime (a German custom), so when I hadn't had lunch yesterday and then ate my hamburger at 7 pm, it was way too much for me. My belly hurt. I couldn't finish my corn on the cob or drink my wine. I was uncomfortable for hours afterward. That opened it up for her to say that she's surprised that I have such a difficult time losing weight. I eat less than she, and yet... She asked if I had ever gone to the doctor to have something-or-other tested. I didn't catch what she said, but I guessed what she meant. I gestured toward my throat, and said, "Schilddrüse?" Thyroid? She said yes, and before I could answer her (and I didn't get the chance to answer the question at all), she corrected me by explaining that the thyroid isn't just in the throat but in the belly and thighs, as well, and then she moved on to another topic.
When someone else's information conflicts with my own, I often give it the benefit of the doubt in the moment I hear it, then later on check the validity of my own information to see what I might have mistaken or misunderstood. In Wikipedia.de, I looked up Schilddrüse, because it could be very possible that my understanding of the German word might have been inaccurate. I already know very well that the THYROID is located in the throat, in front of, and on either side of, the windpipe. But maybe I've been misunderstanding SCHILDDRÜSE all this time?
What I didn't get to tell her was that, yes, our village doctor had drawn blood to test my thyroid, but she didn't believe the results were significant enough to send me to an endocrinologist to do further testing. She just told me to walk around more, be more active. I didn't explain to her that I walk my son to and from kindergarten most days, which involves a hike up a steep gradient, and that, in fact, I had walked to her office that morning, as well. I'd decided to just leave it for when I could handle my health in my own country, in my own language.
Anway, after consulting Wikipedia.de, it turns out my information or translation wasn't mistaken.
My husband has barraged me over the years with a whole catalogue of misinformed health facts. While his education might have been... incomplete, even though he attended gymnasium and later aquired a certificate equivalent to a BS in business and internation trade, I lay the blame mostly at his mother's feet. She had had to drop out of school in Greece when she was 12 years old. She has a quick mind, but no education to back it up. I'm not criticizing her, I'm just pointing out a fact.
I considered whether I might print up the Wikipedia thyroid information, but then wondered what good would it do? But then, she might take it the wrong way and be insulted. And is it really worth it? I certainly don't want to do it do boost my own ego, to score a point against her... But might she want to know?
So things are calm here, now, and I'm grateful for it. I like peacefulness and harmony and quietude. But from years of experience, it's an ordeal of walking on pins and needles worse than when it's just my husband and myself. An explosive fight eventually breaks out between hubby and MoL, which results in MoL moving on to another son's home, where another fight breaks out, and she either moves on to the third son's home, or she hops on the next place back to Greece. That has been the pattern. She's been taking anti-psychotic and anit-anxiety drugs--at least she had been when she was here during the winter, though I've seen no evidence of them now, and I'm not about to snoop--and I see the difference in her even from last February.
Maybe that's helping keep the peace...? I've got my fingers crossed that all remains as peaceful as it has been the last 24 hours, and that this isn't the calm before the storm.
But then, a purely selfish thought just occured to me: The sooner she leaves, the sooner we will get stateside. Hmm. Maybe I will print up that article, after all...
Tuesday, July 4, 2006
A thank-you to everyone...
I just wanted to post a general thank you to everyone who has commented, especially the lovely ones concerning not my last post, but the one before, and my newest poem. I'm basically out of the reading and commenting circuit for the time being, and what stolen moments I can find are dedicated to writing "quickies" of any type: blogs, poetry, frozen scenes between people that get stuck in my head.
As soon as I can get back into the swing of things, I will return each and every comment in kind.
The Bad News: The atmosphere continues to thicken around here and we've had our first major scene late last night... Unfortunately, it was between me and my husband, resulting from a half-bottle of whisky he'd quietly, yet efficiently, poured down his throat; his bad mood; my having forgotten to record yesterday's Tour de France etappe, save for the last hour; and my MoL criticizing hubby about his bad behavior toward me.
The Good News (and perhaps the most disturbing): The mother-in-law and I have come to a better understanding of one another. Unfortunately, it's come under unpleasant circumstances... and it doesn't absolve her of her ceaselessly selfish behavior.
I did feel confident enough, however, to question why she doesn't switch her health insurance from Germany to Greece, thereby eliminating the need to make dozens of dr appointments every time she visits and putting her family out (namely me) to drive her all the way the heck into Stuttgart, to spend the day chauffering her to them all--and having to drag my kid out of kindergarten to do it. Her response, "Well, the insurance is better from Germany." My response, "But you LIVE in Greece, and you put everyone out to accomodate you and to conduct your personal business for you (a touchy issue separate from the health insurance one)..." And besides, no one ever asked ME if such and such a day is a good one for me to take the day off to drive her around all over der Vaterland...
Maybe this time my husband will let her take the car. I doubt it, but I can hope.
Or maybe she'll take the train, though I doubt hubby will let her.
Oh, and by the way, Happy 4th of July to all you fellow Amis out there. I've got a cookout ready to start. I hope it goes peacefully and the the only fireworks I see tonight are the ones from the few other Americans in our community lighting the skies.
As soon as I can get back into the swing of things, I will return each and every comment in kind.
The Bad News: The atmosphere continues to thicken around here and we've had our first major scene late last night... Unfortunately, it was between me and my husband, resulting from a half-bottle of whisky he'd quietly, yet efficiently, poured down his throat; his bad mood; my having forgotten to record yesterday's Tour de France etappe, save for the last hour; and my MoL criticizing hubby about his bad behavior toward me.
The Good News (and perhaps the most disturbing): The mother-in-law and I have come to a better understanding of one another. Unfortunately, it's come under unpleasant circumstances... and it doesn't absolve her of her ceaselessly selfish behavior.
I did feel confident enough, however, to question why she doesn't switch her health insurance from Germany to Greece, thereby eliminating the need to make dozens of dr appointments every time she visits and putting her family out (namely me) to drive her all the way the heck into Stuttgart, to spend the day chauffering her to them all--and having to drag my kid out of kindergarten to do it. Her response, "Well, the insurance is better from Germany." My response, "But you LIVE in Greece, and you put everyone out to accomodate you and to conduct your personal business for you (a touchy issue separate from the health insurance one)..." And besides, no one ever asked ME if such and such a day is a good one for me to take the day off to drive her around all over der Vaterland...
Maybe this time my husband will let her take the car. I doubt it, but I can hope.
Or maybe she'll take the train, though I doubt hubby will let her.
Oh, and by the way, Happy 4th of July to all you fellow Amis out there. I've got a cookout ready to start. I hope it goes peacefully and the the only fireworks I see tonight are the ones from the few other Americans in our community lighting the skies.
Monday, July 3, 2006
It's getting emotional around here...
My mother-in-law is walking to the Rathaus (a rather telling name for a town hall, isn't it? Rat house?), accompanied by my son. She has some unfinished business there regarding her status as a resident of our village and our house. Each time you move, you have to register your new residence and all household members with the local Rathaus. For specific purposes, my mother-in-law, who really lives in Greece, got my husband to register her as a resident of our household.
A few weeks ago, my husband un-registered her because of our impending emigration. But now, she's over there, tending to her own business, (for once not making my husband do it for her), and what it involves specifically I'm not sure. No one in our community knows yet that we're leaving, for reasons of my husband's own, and there some concern MoL will let something slip while she's at the rat house... oops, I mean Rathaus.
So, MoL has been here since Saturday. Things have been going fairly smoothly, I suppose. I've gone out of my way to be accomodating and to at least meet her somewhere between what she wishes I were and what I am. I'm gratified that for once she knows her place as a guest and doesn't walk around here with the attitude that it all belongs to her. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that she's no longer an official member of our household. It might also have to do with the dramatic parting between her and my husband last February and that she no longer has the hold on him that she used to. And it might even have something to do with a certain amount of drama and line-drawing between me and her, as well. Or maybe I'm simply being territorial, but I don't think that's entirely it, either. You have to witness it to understand it.
I did notice that, starting on day one, she speaks low to my husband when I'm out of the room, diving headlong into her campaign to convince my husband that moving is a bad idea. She either thinks that I can't hear, or that I don't understand. She's said a few disparaging things about me, as usual, centering around my feeble German skills (though not as feeble as she likes to think), comparing me with how when she was as a fresh immigrant from Greece at age 17 or 18. In some ways, she's right, in others she's being unfair. She sees me as the prime mover behind our emigration, and she's right in the sense that, if her son hadn't married me he wouldn't be doing this. But it's a decision we've come to together.
Sunday, I could tell that my husband was beginning to feel a bit strained by his mother's murmurings, and Sunday night, he asked when she's leaving. He'd told me earlier that day that she'd said she was going to stay a week, at first, but now it's indeterminate. It's indicative of her narcissitic nature to constantly change her plans, as if they don't affect anyone else. It's very straining on everyone around her, and my husband has had plenty of experience with this type of behavior from her, even before I came on the scene.
This morning, my husband left for work and I prepared breakfast for her and my son. I ignored the fact that, just as I got out of the shower and was towelling off, MoL walked right into the bathroom without knocking to wash her hands. If I hadn't heard her coming and had a hunch she might "forget" to knock, and jumped back into the tub behind the shower curtain, she would have gotten quite an eyeful. Part of me wonders how much her neglect was passive aggression, and how much of it was her thoughtlessly assuming that I might not mind another person just walking into the bathroom while I'm butt-naked. I left it for another day, in the event she does it again.
While we ate, she very defensively broached the subject of our leaving. I have the utmost sympathy for her, and a certain amount of empathy, too, because I've been living in the position of complete separation from my family for seven years with absolutely zero support on this side of the Atlantic. I know how my mother has felt being separated from her eldest daughter (the more stable one, to boot) and her only grandchild. Understandably, MoL is very upset about our moving, and disagrees that it'll be the best thing for us. When I pointed out that I and my family have had to deal with the separation, as well, she said that at least my mother has my sister.
What I didn't mention is that my sister suffers ADD, has been a very large handful even now, as a young adult (25 years), and that MoL also has two other sons and two other grandchildren in Germany, and that maybe she'll have to rethink her priorities, set her pride aside, and work a little harder to maintain a semi-harmonious relationship with those sons and their families.
I was cold towards her, which is generally unlike me, although I was shaken by her burst of emotion and tears. But I knew from experience that she very deftly could turn this around to make the situation all about herself.
Before we got involved in the discussion, I prefaced my initial response with, "I don't want this to be an emotional conversation..." And I didn't. I needed to protect myself, and I wanted to keep things on an even keel for the sake of my son, who was munching away on his Nutellabrot between us. MoL likes drama and can really turn a situation upside down, and I needed to stamp out the fire I saw beginning to smolder.
She didn't like it when I pointed out that she only visits us twice a year, anyway, and what's the difference between visiting us in Germany, or visiting in America. She said she's 61 years old and didn't like the idea of sitting in a plane for hours on end. That she's travelling alone, and that at least my mother has my father to travel with. She said that when she comes to America, she doesn't know the language at all. I said my mother's 60. My father was in Germany once before, seven years ago. The other times mom had visited, she had been alone, too. (My dad actually came a second time, too, three years ago, but I'd forgotten about that. It wouldn't have helped my argument, anyway...), and that my mother doesn't speak a word of German, besides Danke. How is the situation different?
Like I said, I have a lot of sympathy for MoL's situation. I know it very well. But I was irritated, maybe unfairly so, that she has never once given a single thought to how my side of the family has felt, all this time.
At the end, I pointedly told her that I don't want to hurt her, and that our decision to move isn't about her. It isn't about me alone, or my parents or any of my other American family. It's about our own little family, me, my husband and my son, and what we think is best for the three of us as a whole. And that was the end of the conversation.
I tried to be really nice to her after that. I told her I'd bought a big lump of pork roast and that I would really like it if she would show me how she makes her delicious Goulasch. And after complaining that it's too hot to make Goulasch (never mind that it's too hot to boil and fry up big meals in pots and pans, anyway), she said she would.
Tomorrow, perhaps somewhat cruelly, I've planned an Independence Day cookout. I'd be lying if I said that the cookout hadn't put an evil gleam in my eye when I considered the timing of my MoL's visit and her reason for being here (to say goodbye). One might say it's an expression of my own passive aggression, but the party has been planned since before we knew she was coming. I'm really not that mean-spirited.
And anway, after this morning's conversation I've decided not to mention the reason for the mid-week grill party at all.
A few weeks ago, my husband un-registered her because of our impending emigration. But now, she's over there, tending to her own business, (for once not making my husband do it for her), and what it involves specifically I'm not sure. No one in our community knows yet that we're leaving, for reasons of my husband's own, and there some concern MoL will let something slip while she's at the rat house... oops, I mean Rathaus.
So, MoL has been here since Saturday. Things have been going fairly smoothly, I suppose. I've gone out of my way to be accomodating and to at least meet her somewhere between what she wishes I were and what I am. I'm gratified that for once she knows her place as a guest and doesn't walk around here with the attitude that it all belongs to her. It probably has a lot to do with the fact that she's no longer an official member of our household. It might also have to do with the dramatic parting between her and my husband last February and that she no longer has the hold on him that she used to. And it might even have something to do with a certain amount of drama and line-drawing between me and her, as well. Or maybe I'm simply being territorial, but I don't think that's entirely it, either. You have to witness it to understand it.
I did notice that, starting on day one, she speaks low to my husband when I'm out of the room, diving headlong into her campaign to convince my husband that moving is a bad idea. She either thinks that I can't hear, or that I don't understand. She's said a few disparaging things about me, as usual, centering around my feeble German skills (though not as feeble as she likes to think), comparing me with how when she was as a fresh immigrant from Greece at age 17 or 18. In some ways, she's right, in others she's being unfair. She sees me as the prime mover behind our emigration, and she's right in the sense that, if her son hadn't married me he wouldn't be doing this. But it's a decision we've come to together.
Sunday, I could tell that my husband was beginning to feel a bit strained by his mother's murmurings, and Sunday night, he asked when she's leaving. He'd told me earlier that day that she'd said she was going to stay a week, at first, but now it's indeterminate. It's indicative of her narcissitic nature to constantly change her plans, as if they don't affect anyone else. It's very straining on everyone around her, and my husband has had plenty of experience with this type of behavior from her, even before I came on the scene.
This morning, my husband left for work and I prepared breakfast for her and my son. I ignored the fact that, just as I got out of the shower and was towelling off, MoL walked right into the bathroom without knocking to wash her hands. If I hadn't heard her coming and had a hunch she might "forget" to knock, and jumped back into the tub behind the shower curtain, she would have gotten quite an eyeful. Part of me wonders how much her neglect was passive aggression, and how much of it was her thoughtlessly assuming that I might not mind another person just walking into the bathroom while I'm butt-naked. I left it for another day, in the event she does it again.
While we ate, she very defensively broached the subject of our leaving. I have the utmost sympathy for her, and a certain amount of empathy, too, because I've been living in the position of complete separation from my family for seven years with absolutely zero support on this side of the Atlantic. I know how my mother has felt being separated from her eldest daughter (the more stable one, to boot) and her only grandchild. Understandably, MoL is very upset about our moving, and disagrees that it'll be the best thing for us. When I pointed out that I and my family have had to deal with the separation, as well, she said that at least my mother has my sister.
What I didn't mention is that my sister suffers ADD, has been a very large handful even now, as a young adult (25 years), and that MoL also has two other sons and two other grandchildren in Germany, and that maybe she'll have to rethink her priorities, set her pride aside, and work a little harder to maintain a semi-harmonious relationship with those sons and their families.
I was cold towards her, which is generally unlike me, although I was shaken by her burst of emotion and tears. But I knew from experience that she very deftly could turn this around to make the situation all about herself.
Before we got involved in the discussion, I prefaced my initial response with, "I don't want this to be an emotional conversation..." And I didn't. I needed to protect myself, and I wanted to keep things on an even keel for the sake of my son, who was munching away on his Nutellabrot between us. MoL likes drama and can really turn a situation upside down, and I needed to stamp out the fire I saw beginning to smolder.
She didn't like it when I pointed out that she only visits us twice a year, anyway, and what's the difference between visiting us in Germany, or visiting in America. She said she's 61 years old and didn't like the idea of sitting in a plane for hours on end. That she's travelling alone, and that at least my mother has my father to travel with. She said that when she comes to America, she doesn't know the language at all. I said my mother's 60. My father was in Germany once before, seven years ago. The other times mom had visited, she had been alone, too. (My dad actually came a second time, too, three years ago, but I'd forgotten about that. It wouldn't have helped my argument, anyway...), and that my mother doesn't speak a word of German, besides Danke. How is the situation different?
Like I said, I have a lot of sympathy for MoL's situation. I know it very well. But I was irritated, maybe unfairly so, that she has never once given a single thought to how my side of the family has felt, all this time.
At the end, I pointedly told her that I don't want to hurt her, and that our decision to move isn't about her. It isn't about me alone, or my parents or any of my other American family. It's about our own little family, me, my husband and my son, and what we think is best for the three of us as a whole. And that was the end of the conversation.
I tried to be really nice to her after that. I told her I'd bought a big lump of pork roast and that I would really like it if she would show me how she makes her delicious Goulasch. And after complaining that it's too hot to make Goulasch (never mind that it's too hot to boil and fry up big meals in pots and pans, anyway), she said she would.
Tomorrow, perhaps somewhat cruelly, I've planned an Independence Day cookout. I'd be lying if I said that the cookout hadn't put an evil gleam in my eye when I considered the timing of my MoL's visit and her reason for being here (to say goodbye). One might say it's an expression of my own passive aggression, but the party has been planned since before we knew she was coming. I'm really not that mean-spirited.
And anway, after this morning's conversation I've decided not to mention the reason for the mid-week grill party at all.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Just short of a cloudburst
It's thundering, as I write this. The weather is at just my favorite, when a cold front moves through and a storm brews in the near distance. The air is charged with energy, and it energizes me. I feel it tingling along my skin, prickling along my scalp, and my creativity surges. Words and images ricochet in my mind and I have to scramble to capture them. I feel content, yet restless, like a tiger in a cage. I'm grateful I'm alone so I can release some of the energy in my writing.
I just took this photo. I liked the look of the white clouds against the bluing clouds behind them, and wanted to share it with you. The crows were cawing in a mad caw-caphony as the thunder rumbled through, and they are now suddenly silent. I think the storm will pass us over, though it's possible another will mosey along and drench us in a little while. My aching limbs cry of rain and drama, and through the discomfort I welcome it. I love this weather.
Heaven Help Us All
Blogital Daughter vanishes again... Isn't it just the way it always goes? Hubby finally returns to work, I get back on my writing track for a week, only to be interrupted again.
What's my excuse, this time?
Well, my mother-in-law is expected to arrive in Stuttgart, Saturday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time. Maybe a week. Probably just until she causes enough trouble to instigate another blow-out between her and my husband.
She's coming from Greece, where she lives, to say goodbye. While I have the utmost sympathy for her grief that her oldest son and his family are moving to America--I really do, I understand the separation issue all too well--I have no doubt she is going to be selfish about it and manipulate the issue to be entirely about her. It's just her way. After talking to his mother yesterday, my husband called me from work and said, "My mom's really sad. And now I am, too."
I don't think she'll persuade him to stay here, but the danger is there. It's right and natural that he should feel anxiety and grief about leaving. But we can't stay because of her, can we? The last time she stayed with us, they had an explosive argument. This is nothing unusual. It happens every time. At the end of that argument, my husband took me aside and said, "I really hope this America thing works out. We have to get out of here."
And besides, there are two other brothers left in Germany, and the youngest of them has a set of twins, not yet a year old. The middle brother is newly engaged, though my M-i-L doesn't know it yet.
In some ways, I'm more relaxed about this visit of hers because it's the last here in Germany, and her next visit will be on MY turf. But I'm a little nervous, as well, because while her inevitable theatrics will probably solidfy my husband's decision to go through with the move, she might play her cards just right (unlikely, but still a possibility) to influence him just enough.
So, that's what we're in for beginning Saturday afternoon. After today, I probably won't be around much until she leaves again. Check the sky periodically for SOS smoke signals, then send help immediately.
What's my excuse, this time?
Well, my mother-in-law is expected to arrive in Stuttgart, Saturday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time. Maybe a week. Probably just until she causes enough trouble to instigate another blow-out between her and my husband.
She's coming from Greece, where she lives, to say goodbye. While I have the utmost sympathy for her grief that her oldest son and his family are moving to America--I really do, I understand the separation issue all too well--I have no doubt she is going to be selfish about it and manipulate the issue to be entirely about her. It's just her way. After talking to his mother yesterday, my husband called me from work and said, "My mom's really sad. And now I am, too."
I don't think she'll persuade him to stay here, but the danger is there. It's right and natural that he should feel anxiety and grief about leaving. But we can't stay because of her, can we? The last time she stayed with us, they had an explosive argument. This is nothing unusual. It happens every time. At the end of that argument, my husband took me aside and said, "I really hope this America thing works out. We have to get out of here."
And besides, there are two other brothers left in Germany, and the youngest of them has a set of twins, not yet a year old. The middle brother is newly engaged, though my M-i-L doesn't know it yet.
In some ways, I'm more relaxed about this visit of hers because it's the last here in Germany, and her next visit will be on MY turf. But I'm a little nervous, as well, because while her inevitable theatrics will probably solidfy my husband's decision to go through with the move, she might play her cards just right (unlikely, but still a possibility) to influence him just enough.
So, that's what we're in for beginning Saturday afternoon. After today, I probably won't be around much until she leaves again. Check the sky periodically for SOS smoke signals, then send help immediately.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
How do you let go of the past?
When I was between ten and thirteen years old, my best friend and I were inseparable. We did everything together. We slept over at each other's houses every weekend, sometimes several days in a row, if our mother's would let us, during summer vacation. We tried to wear the same, or similar outfits. "I'm wearing the red shorts with the white stripe. Are you going to wear yours, too?" "Yeah." "Good."
We both loved unicorns and the color purple. We wore purple eye shadow, purple nail polish, purple lipstick. This was back in 1980-1983, when those colors were okay to wear on our faces. We both bought knockoff Walkmans from Mr. D's dollar store, for $5, when Walkmans first entered the scene.
I remember putting those headphones on for the first time ever and absolutely reeling with the sensation of music flowing right to the center of my head, to swirl and dance there. I was standing in Katie's yard in my new bathing suit, the sides cinched up high past my thigh to my hip bones, as was the fashion. Katie's new bathing suit was quietly "borrowed" from her older sister, and quite a bit more risque than mine. We felt adult and poweful, filled with the potential of our budding sexuality, even though we both had to still pull down our bras in the front as they crept upward, not held in place by much of anything.
Before I met Katie, there was another girl I was acquainted with. Marci and I weren't really friends. We bumped into each other occasionally, living in different neighborhoods, and hooked up now and again to play together. I had problems with Marci. She was bossy and a little mean. As an only child until I was ten-and-a-half, I didn't learn how to assert and defend myself until well after I had married at age 28, so dealing with Marci was often painful and I did not pursue her friendship very often.
When Katie and I were in seventh grade together, I ran into Marci at our middle school. It had been some years since I'd seen her last, so being the nice girl that I was, I thought things could be different now. Hanging out with Marci didn't seem to be as difficult as I had remembered it to be. In fact, I was rather enjoying her company. I introduced her to Katie, and the three of us became fast friends.
It didn't take long before Marci began doing things alone with me, or with Katie, rather than as a threesome. Soon, the close friendship I had with Katie began to deteriorate. Marci had started telling me Katie was saying bad things about me, which I refused to believe. I wondered why Katie wasn't calling me anymore, and when Katie finally returned one of my phone calls, I surprised to hear that she was angry at me. She said Marci had told her I'd said something terrible about Katie. And it wasn't true. I repeated the things Marci had told me Katie had said about me. They weren't true, either. By the end of the call, we both decided we weren't going to hang out with Marci anymore, much less believe anything she said about the other, that we would tell each other anything she might have said.
I hung up thinking our friendship was saved, and very much disturbed about Marci. She was still mean and bossy, and now she seemed to be deliberately driving a wedge between me and my best friend.
Shortly after that phone call came my thirteenth birthday. It was the summer of 1983, and we were entering eighth grade, our final year of middle school before starting high school. I don't remember why, but for some reason I was celebrating my birthday alone with my parents, without Katie. I think Katie had told me she had other plans. My mom had taken me to the hair dresser to get one of those curly perms that were so popular in the days of HBOs erotic aerobicize ladies. My hair wasn't quite long enough to allow the perm to hang correctly, so I looked more like Li'l Orphan Annie than I did one of those sexy aerobics women.
As I floated around my house in the cloud of ammonia that emanated from my head, waiting for something to happen, there came a knock at the front door. When I opened it, I was surprised to see Katie and Marci standing there together. They were very rude to me, cold, teasing me about my hair.
That Katie and Marci were together was not according to plan. It worried me, and judging from their behavior, I could only assume Marci had said something really devastating to Katie to turn her against me. When they turned to leave, I closed the door behind them and cried, confused and deeply hurt by their nastiness. My mother comforted me, telling me she was sorry about Katie, but she had never like Marci and maybe now I would understand I was better off without her. It was a lesson hard-learned.
When school started a few weeks later, I deeply mourned the loss of Katie's friendship. I tried many times to find out what had turned her against me, but she wouldn't talk to me at all. In fact, it confuses and bewilders me to this day. I'd made other friends and developed new interests, and it wasn't long before Katie was replaced by a new best friend. But even through high school, even after the death of Katie's father and the note my family and I had sent her in sympathy, Katie refused to give me the time of day.
Though I wasn't a bit surprised, it was small consolation to see that Katie's and Marci's friendship did not survive long into high school. By that time, I had a large circle of friends, was active in choir, piano, theatre and enjoyed discovering the world of boyfriends and staying out late and sneaking into midnight showings of Rocky Horror.
I never heard from Katie again, but I still think about her. About fifteen years ago, a mutual acquaintance told me that she was getting her teacher's certificate, possibly in special ed. I begged our friend to please pass on my good will to Katie, half hoping I would hear something in return. I never did.
I wonder what Katie is up to now. Her friendship was so profound to me that even at nearly 36 years old, I have trouble entirely letting go of her memory. For some reason, she's been on my mind a lot the last few weeks, and I've even considered writing a note to her mother to say hello and to please pass on my greeting.
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, it occured to me that the time is drawing near that I might finally be able to forgive Marci, who was obviously a troubled young lady. The severing of my friendship with Katie has left a hole in my heart for nearly twenty-five years, and think it's mostly because the reason behind it has never been resolved.
Should I contact Katie's mother? Would I be beating a dead horse? Is there a deeper reason why Katie has been on my mind so much for the first time in many years? Is it time to reconcile only long enough to communicate what happened and put old ghosts to rest? Is she as troubled as I sometimes am over what happened?
What would you do?
We both loved unicorns and the color purple. We wore purple eye shadow, purple nail polish, purple lipstick. This was back in 1980-1983, when those colors were okay to wear on our faces. We both bought knockoff Walkmans from Mr. D's dollar store, for $5, when Walkmans first entered the scene.
I remember putting those headphones on for the first time ever and absolutely reeling with the sensation of music flowing right to the center of my head, to swirl and dance there. I was standing in Katie's yard in my new bathing suit, the sides cinched up high past my thigh to my hip bones, as was the fashion. Katie's new bathing suit was quietly "borrowed" from her older sister, and quite a bit more risque than mine. We felt adult and poweful, filled with the potential of our budding sexuality, even though we both had to still pull down our bras in the front as they crept upward, not held in place by much of anything.
Before I met Katie, there was another girl I was acquainted with. Marci and I weren't really friends. We bumped into each other occasionally, living in different neighborhoods, and hooked up now and again to play together. I had problems with Marci. She was bossy and a little mean. As an only child until I was ten-and-a-half, I didn't learn how to assert and defend myself until well after I had married at age 28, so dealing with Marci was often painful and I did not pursue her friendship very often.
When Katie and I were in seventh grade together, I ran into Marci at our middle school. It had been some years since I'd seen her last, so being the nice girl that I was, I thought things could be different now. Hanging out with Marci didn't seem to be as difficult as I had remembered it to be. In fact, I was rather enjoying her company. I introduced her to Katie, and the three of us became fast friends.
It didn't take long before Marci began doing things alone with me, or with Katie, rather than as a threesome. Soon, the close friendship I had with Katie began to deteriorate. Marci had started telling me Katie was saying bad things about me, which I refused to believe. I wondered why Katie wasn't calling me anymore, and when Katie finally returned one of my phone calls, I surprised to hear that she was angry at me. She said Marci had told her I'd said something terrible about Katie. And it wasn't true. I repeated the things Marci had told me Katie had said about me. They weren't true, either. By the end of the call, we both decided we weren't going to hang out with Marci anymore, much less believe anything she said about the other, that we would tell each other anything she might have said.
I hung up thinking our friendship was saved, and very much disturbed about Marci. She was still mean and bossy, and now she seemed to be deliberately driving a wedge between me and my best friend.
Shortly after that phone call came my thirteenth birthday. It was the summer of 1983, and we were entering eighth grade, our final year of middle school before starting high school. I don't remember why, but for some reason I was celebrating my birthday alone with my parents, without Katie. I think Katie had told me she had other plans. My mom had taken me to the hair dresser to get one of those curly perms that were so popular in the days of HBOs erotic aerobicize ladies. My hair wasn't quite long enough to allow the perm to hang correctly, so I looked more like Li'l Orphan Annie than I did one of those sexy aerobics women.
As I floated around my house in the cloud of ammonia that emanated from my head, waiting for something to happen, there came a knock at the front door. When I opened it, I was surprised to see Katie and Marci standing there together. They were very rude to me, cold, teasing me about my hair.
That Katie and Marci were together was not according to plan. It worried me, and judging from their behavior, I could only assume Marci had said something really devastating to Katie to turn her against me. When they turned to leave, I closed the door behind them and cried, confused and deeply hurt by their nastiness. My mother comforted me, telling me she was sorry about Katie, but she had never like Marci and maybe now I would understand I was better off without her. It was a lesson hard-learned.
When school started a few weeks later, I deeply mourned the loss of Katie's friendship. I tried many times to find out what had turned her against me, but she wouldn't talk to me at all. In fact, it confuses and bewilders me to this day. I'd made other friends and developed new interests, and it wasn't long before Katie was replaced by a new best friend. But even through high school, even after the death of Katie's father and the note my family and I had sent her in sympathy, Katie refused to give me the time of day.
Though I wasn't a bit surprised, it was small consolation to see that Katie's and Marci's friendship did not survive long into high school. By that time, I had a large circle of friends, was active in choir, piano, theatre and enjoyed discovering the world of boyfriends and staying out late and sneaking into midnight showings of Rocky Horror.
I never heard from Katie again, but I still think about her. About fifteen years ago, a mutual acquaintance told me that she was getting her teacher's certificate, possibly in special ed. I begged our friend to please pass on my good will to Katie, half hoping I would hear something in return. I never did.
I wonder what Katie is up to now. Her friendship was so profound to me that even at nearly 36 years old, I have trouble entirely letting go of her memory. For some reason, she's been on my mind a lot the last few weeks, and I've even considered writing a note to her mother to say hello and to please pass on my greeting.
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, it occured to me that the time is drawing near that I might finally be able to forgive Marci, who was obviously a troubled young lady. The severing of my friendship with Katie has left a hole in my heart for nearly twenty-five years, and think it's mostly because the reason behind it has never been resolved.
Should I contact Katie's mother? Would I be beating a dead horse? Is there a deeper reason why Katie has been on my mind so much for the first time in many years? Is it time to reconcile only long enough to communicate what happened and put old ghosts to rest? Is she as troubled as I sometimes am over what happened?
What would you do?
Saturday, June 17, 2006
It's getting closer... when you know it's time to get out
My husband has been home since last week, so I haven't been able to write. Now that he's out swimming with our son, I'm taking advantage of the alone time to sit down and write a quick post before starting the laundry.
So, we're getting closer to V-day. Well, it'll be V-day for me, and I suppose it might be a little selfish of me to view it that way. But nevertheless, things are progressing pretty quickly now. Last Sunday, I suggested my husband take advantage of his week home from work to go through our stuff with me. He refused to talk about it, and the subject was dropped. But as the week moved on and our position became more secure, by Wednesday my Dear Hubby (DH) began going through his mother's stuff that's been stored in two of our three lower-level rooms for the last six months. He sorted through it, and through some of our own displaced possessions, as well, and we decided what to try to sell together. Which of our own things to sell. Not to sell his mother's. His mother's things will be transferred to his brother's place in Heidelberg, to the delight of the brother and his current female partner.
The subject of DH's mother's stuff is a touchy one in general, since all are in agreement that she should have taken care to rid herself of it or should have shipped it to Greece long ago, before she officially moved out of her Stuttgart apartment and left Germany for good. Instead, she just packed it all into boxes and made two of her sons cart it, carload by carload, to occupy half of the lower level of our house. It's an endless assortment of household things that should have been thrown away, along with her electronics, and exercise bike and a couple of pieces of furniture. But this kind of presumption and imposition is typical of her narcissistic and careless behavior, and not at all surprising in spite of the bad feelings it incurs.
The next two days were spent sorting through our son's toys, most of which will be left behind. Our son was very good about letting go of his belongings. Part of it was he's very easy going. Part of it was that most of those things are simply too young for him now, a big-big six-year-old about to start big-boy school in the fall. But just as I suspected would happen, my nurturing child was very reluctant to let go of his stuffed animals, even the ones he hasn't looked at in 18 months. So, the stuffed-animal pile is bigger than is convenient. He also, not surprisingly, was reluctant to let go of a good half of his books. Just like Mommy. I'm tempted to quietly slip some of those animals and books into the trash pile. He'll never miss them.
Next come the boxes of things I've already sorted through, and with DH's help to bolster my courage (he's not the type to hold on to things), we should be able to reduce those three boxes still further.
So the gist of all this is, DH is finally committed to leaving. We've been emptying our house out little by litte. He's even suggested that my son and I leave for Chicago in the first half of July. DH will follow about the middle of August, after he's settled our affairs here, to be there in time for our son's first day of school.
It's possible that I'll be back home in Chicago in less than three weeks. Hard to imagine, after all that's passed.
So, we're getting closer to V-day. Well, it'll be V-day for me, and I suppose it might be a little selfish of me to view it that way. But nevertheless, things are progressing pretty quickly now. Last Sunday, I suggested my husband take advantage of his week home from work to go through our stuff with me. He refused to talk about it, and the subject was dropped. But as the week moved on and our position became more secure, by Wednesday my Dear Hubby (DH) began going through his mother's stuff that's been stored in two of our three lower-level rooms for the last six months. He sorted through it, and through some of our own displaced possessions, as well, and we decided what to try to sell together. Which of our own things to sell. Not to sell his mother's. His mother's things will be transferred to his brother's place in Heidelberg, to the delight of the brother and his current female partner.
The subject of DH's mother's stuff is a touchy one in general, since all are in agreement that she should have taken care to rid herself of it or should have shipped it to Greece long ago, before she officially moved out of her Stuttgart apartment and left Germany for good. Instead, she just packed it all into boxes and made two of her sons cart it, carload by carload, to occupy half of the lower level of our house. It's an endless assortment of household things that should have been thrown away, along with her electronics, and exercise bike and a couple of pieces of furniture. But this kind of presumption and imposition is typical of her narcissistic and careless behavior, and not at all surprising in spite of the bad feelings it incurs.
The next two days were spent sorting through our son's toys, most of which will be left behind. Our son was very good about letting go of his belongings. Part of it was he's very easy going. Part of it was that most of those things are simply too young for him now, a big-big six-year-old about to start big-boy school in the fall. But just as I suspected would happen, my nurturing child was very reluctant to let go of his stuffed animals, even the ones he hasn't looked at in 18 months. So, the stuffed-animal pile is bigger than is convenient. He also, not surprisingly, was reluctant to let go of a good half of his books. Just like Mommy. I'm tempted to quietly slip some of those animals and books into the trash pile. He'll never miss them.
Next come the boxes of things I've already sorted through, and with DH's help to bolster my courage (he's not the type to hold on to things), we should be able to reduce those three boxes still further.
So the gist of all this is, DH is finally committed to leaving. We've been emptying our house out little by litte. He's even suggested that my son and I leave for Chicago in the first half of July. DH will follow about the middle of August, after he's settled our affairs here, to be there in time for our son's first day of school.
It's possible that I'll be back home in Chicago in less than three weeks. Hard to imagine, after all that's passed.
Friday, June 9, 2006
Thinning Out
We're getting ready to make the big move to America, and while my husband still refuses to verbally commit to moving (he still says, MAYBE we'll leave), he's cancelled our apartment damage insurance, for example, and has given the thumbs up to my sorting through all our stuff and putting it into piles of To Keep or To Toss. We have around twelve unopened boxes from our last move, and I've gone through all of them and reduced the To Keep pile to three boxes--not including my son's things. The To Keep pile will be further reduced, I'm sure, especially once I enlist my husband's aid. And everything else that's in the house will stay behind.
Yesterday, as I was going through one box and called my husband at work to ask if he wanted to keep a certain computer game, he made the most decisive verbal commitment to the move I've ever heard from him. He said, "Before we go, we can go through those things together." Naturally, I skipped lightly over those words, "before we go," as if it were the hundredth time he'd said it. But my heart soared when I heard them for the first time, yesterday.
It's been very difficult thinning out my life (though I wish thinning out my SELF would be so easy). I've always been a keeper of things. Papers, books, pens, little mementoes. Part of it is that common conviction that SOME DAY I'll need this again. Part of it is an unwillingness to let go of something of the past. And still another part is a childish irrationality that an inanimate object will feel lost and rejected when I throw it in the trash. This deep and well-hidden sense of animism is probably more indicative of myself than of an innate sense of common soulfulness among all and everything. But it's still there, left over from childhood, that little girl who was secretly certain that the rock held in her hand possessed a form of soul...
So how do you get rid of all these things that, if they possess no soul of their own, at least claim and harbor a portion of your own? It requires careful, steady ruthlessness, that's certain.
But even so, it's difficult.
Yesterday, as I was going through one box and called my husband at work to ask if he wanted to keep a certain computer game, he made the most decisive verbal commitment to the move I've ever heard from him. He said, "Before we go, we can go through those things together." Naturally, I skipped lightly over those words, "before we go," as if it were the hundredth time he'd said it. But my heart soared when I heard them for the first time, yesterday.
It's been very difficult thinning out my life (though I wish thinning out my SELF would be so easy). I've always been a keeper of things. Papers, books, pens, little mementoes. Part of it is that common conviction that SOME DAY I'll need this again. Part of it is an unwillingness to let go of something of the past. And still another part is a childish irrationality that an inanimate object will feel lost and rejected when I throw it in the trash. This deep and well-hidden sense of animism is probably more indicative of myself than of an innate sense of common soulfulness among all and everything. But it's still there, left over from childhood, that little girl who was secretly certain that the rock held in her hand possessed a form of soul...
So how do you get rid of all these things that, if they possess no soul of their own, at least claim and harbor a portion of your own? It requires careful, steady ruthlessness, that's certain.
But even so, it's difficult.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Blonde. Jane Blonde.
Well, we are almost certainly going to make it to the States this summer. I won't go into the sordid details--and yes, they are sordid--but suffice it to say it's been an icky business the last week in particular. Just between me and thee, over the weekend, when it was understood it would be a no-go, I came the closest I've ever been to suicide. Not in a petulant way, little Silver wasn't getting her way, but rather because I don't think I realized until that point just how important it is to me to make this move.
I don't think I can explain how deep the need is without sounding like a complete debutante who can't make it work for herself in a foreign country. You'll have to take my word for it that I'm not being a princess about this whole thing (if you knew me, you'd know I am NOT the princess type), and everyone familiar with our situation believes it's the best thing for our family.
Thanks to my parents, but not to my husband's ill judgment and bull-headedness, we are considerably closer to departure than ever before. But as the details get worked out between them, my son and I are basically being held for "ransom", which is a shitty position to be in, and the future is still held precariously in the balance. I'm infuriated with my husband but can't show it, and indebted to my parents for their generosity and understanding. So now one stress has been replaced with another, and I'm floating through the house, doing my housewifely things, preparing our belongings for the move, continuing to home school our bright son... but still unsure where our destiny lies. Is it yay, or nay?
To facilitate the cause, I've begun carrying around a little medicine bag. It's a tiny felt change purse decorated with a silver edelweiss flower I bought in Füssen when we visited Neuschwanstein castle (the one the Disney castle is based on) a few weeks before our son's birth. In it are an American quarter, St. Jude's prayer (though I'm not Christian, I do believe prayers go somewhere and are heard), an English pound, an Elizabethan groat, an American flag pin, and my favorite little worry doll. I carry it around everywhere and hold it in my hand when I can. I talk to my mother's father, who passed away two years ago, and who I believe has had a positive influence on the outcome so far. I talk to my other deceased grandfather.
I don't think I can explain how deep the need is without sounding like a complete debutante who can't make it work for herself in a foreign country. You'll have to take my word for it that I'm not being a princess about this whole thing (if you knew me, you'd know I am NOT the princess type), and everyone familiar with our situation believes it's the best thing for our family.
Thanks to my parents, but not to my husband's ill judgment and bull-headedness, we are considerably closer to departure than ever before. But as the details get worked out between them, my son and I are basically being held for "ransom", which is a shitty position to be in, and the future is still held precariously in the balance. I'm infuriated with my husband but can't show it, and indebted to my parents for their generosity and understanding. So now one stress has been replaced with another, and I'm floating through the house, doing my housewifely things, preparing our belongings for the move, continuing to home school our bright son... but still unsure where our destiny lies. Is it yay, or nay?
To facilitate the cause, I've begun carrying around a little medicine bag. It's a tiny felt change purse decorated with a silver edelweiss flower I bought in Füssen when we visited Neuschwanstein castle (the one the Disney castle is based on) a few weeks before our son's birth. In it are an American quarter, St. Jude's prayer (though I'm not Christian, I do believe prayers go somewhere and are heard), an English pound, an Elizabethan groat, an American flag pin, and my favorite little worry doll. I carry it around everywhere and hold it in my hand when I can. I talk to my mother's father, who passed away two years ago, and who I believe has had a positive influence on the outcome so far. I talk to my other deceased grandfather.
The flower on my tiny change purse looks very similar to the flower on this ring.
Neuschwanstein Castle.
I also talk to my husband's deceased father--who died shortly before my husband and I met, and who my husband is certain helped us find each other--and beg him to soften his son to comply to my dad's terms, and not to try to strongarm my father.
I might sound pretty wacky to some of you, but I won't apologize for my metaphysical practices.
Anyway, while I was thinking all this out a little while ago, my husband and son were rough housing before bed. My son said to his dad, "I'm James Bond! Who are you, Daddy?" James Bond was my son's very first hero, a few years ago. My husband said, "I'm James Gond!" I couldn't resist piping in with, "Well, I'm Jane Blonde!" and managed to elicit a rare amused smile from my husband.
I couldn't help but wonder how Jane Blonde would fare in this tense, delicate situation my family and I face right now? Much better than I, I'm sure.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Will we or won't we???
It's been a rollercoaster ride all the way.
I'm dropping by today to say that whether we relocate to America or stay here in Germany is hanging by the thinnest of threads. It's an agonizing time right now.
Wish us luck.
I'm dropping by today to say that whether we relocate to America or stay here in Germany is hanging by the thinnest of threads. It's an agonizing time right now.
Wish us luck.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
A Womb with a View
My son is the light of my life.
He's very special, and a natural nurturer.
He made this object out of computer paper and tape,
and decorated it with chocolate smudges.
Can you guess what it is?
and decorated it with chocolate smudges.
Can you guess what it is?
Why, it's a Womb with a View, of course.
How do you romance your mind?
I didn't intend to post this morning, but a comment on the previous post--from a blogger on another blogging forum--prompted this response from me.
While everyone is entitled to their opinion about what they might consider worthy reading material, it's my own opinion that bashing a particular genre as illegitimate is being pathetically closed-minded. Romance seems to receive the brunt of this prejudice, and yet it's the highest-selling, most lucrative genre out there. What does that tell you? Those nay-sayers automatically assume that writers of genre fiction are largely bad writers writing predictable material.
Sure, in romance the girl always gets the guy (or the apprentice always gets the evil sorcerer several books down the line, or the spaceship commander gets the big ugly alien, or the good guy always dies, or whatever ending is appropriate for your favorite genre--including literary fiction), the journey there is never the same and can hold as many twists and surprises as a Dickens novel.
As for the writing, every single genre out there boasts some excellent writers who can not only dream up interesting story lines, but use language exquisitely to carry the reader along a fascinating journey. By the same token, there are also writers out there who, for all intents and purposes, can't put a proper sentence together and shouldn't be published at all, except that they have fertile imaginations and a great hook that sells.
Just as there are different types of intelligence--and one type isn't any better than another--there are different genres that fit different personalities or emotional needs. A person's IQ isn't lowered just because he or she likes to read about romantic love and steamy sex, or dragons and magic. Just as it doesn't automatically make you a great intellectual if you prefer literary and science fiction.
Read, and write, what makes you feel good, or what inspires your imagination. You don't have to like every single genre, you don't even have to sample from every one that doesn't spark interest. But snobbery and prejudice are so unattractive whatever form they take. They not only severely limit a person's experience, but colors one's character a certain shade of bland.
How boring.
While everyone is entitled to their opinion about what they might consider worthy reading material, it's my own opinion that bashing a particular genre as illegitimate is being pathetically closed-minded. Romance seems to receive the brunt of this prejudice, and yet it's the highest-selling, most lucrative genre out there. What does that tell you? Those nay-sayers automatically assume that writers of genre fiction are largely bad writers writing predictable material.
Sure, in romance the girl always gets the guy (or the apprentice always gets the evil sorcerer several books down the line, or the spaceship commander gets the big ugly alien, or the good guy always dies, or whatever ending is appropriate for your favorite genre--including literary fiction), the journey there is never the same and can hold as many twists and surprises as a Dickens novel.
As for the writing, every single genre out there boasts some excellent writers who can not only dream up interesting story lines, but use language exquisitely to carry the reader along a fascinating journey. By the same token, there are also writers out there who, for all intents and purposes, can't put a proper sentence together and shouldn't be published at all, except that they have fertile imaginations and a great hook that sells.
Just as there are different types of intelligence--and one type isn't any better than another--there are different genres that fit different personalities or emotional needs. A person's IQ isn't lowered just because he or she likes to read about romantic love and steamy sex, or dragons and magic. Just as it doesn't automatically make you a great intellectual if you prefer literary and science fiction.
Read, and write, what makes you feel good, or what inspires your imagination. You don't have to like every single genre, you don't even have to sample from every one that doesn't spark interest. But snobbery and prejudice are so unattractive whatever form they take. They not only severely limit a person's experience, but colors one's character a certain shade of bland.
How boring.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Here's a fun exercise...
Two years ago, I realized two things about my writing:
1. I didn't feel that literary fiction was my niche. I had, and still have, little to say in the way of literary fiction.
2. Almost everything I had been writing revolved around relationships and romance. ...Including, to a certain extent, the horror novella I had recently completed.
In my critique group, I had received many unpleasant comments about several of my stories sounding like a Harlequin romance novel. Since I hadn't read romance novels up until that point, I decided to start and see what I could make of them--and if I could write a romance novel, myself.
Well, I discovered that I actually enjoy reading romance novels, though they sometimes depress me, and I do get tired of them after a few and have to move on to something else for a while. I also discovered that writing romance is fun, too, though I have yet to complete that novel I started two years ago.
While researching romance writing, I happened across the Harelquin website. Not only does it promote its own, very numerous imprints, but it has a free online library where visitors can read short stories that parallel the current novels of the month. It also features a writer's section where there are online workshops, message boards, and, among other things, a Writing Round Robin. One of the featured authors begins a chapter of a short story, about 1,000 words long, and then readers can submit subsequent chapters for online publication every two weeks or so.
I did this once, two summers ago, when I first started out in the romance genre. Of course I didn't get selected. I didn't expect to. But it was fun. And it wasn't until this month, that my timing was right on (or should I say write on?). Not only did I remember to check in on the current Writing Round Robin, but I managed to check just last week, shortly before the new one began. I promptly made my way to the online library and printed up a good dozen short stories to get a good idea of what and how to write. And, I've been having a lot of fun with my research!
So when does the new WRR begin? Well, today, actually, which is why I'm writing.
I just downloaded the first chapter of the new WRR, and plan to get started writing the second chapter this afternoon. Yeah, I'll submit the chapter. And it's highly unlikely any of my submissions would get chosen. But it's good practice, and good fun.
And it's a wonderfully non-committal way to get myself back into writing fiction. I may not get published, but I'm still a winner any way you slice it!
1. I didn't feel that literary fiction was my niche. I had, and still have, little to say in the way of literary fiction.
2. Almost everything I had been writing revolved around relationships and romance. ...Including, to a certain extent, the horror novella I had recently completed.
In my critique group, I had received many unpleasant comments about several of my stories sounding like a Harlequin romance novel. Since I hadn't read romance novels up until that point, I decided to start and see what I could make of them--and if I could write a romance novel, myself.
Well, I discovered that I actually enjoy reading romance novels, though they sometimes depress me, and I do get tired of them after a few and have to move on to something else for a while. I also discovered that writing romance is fun, too, though I have yet to complete that novel I started two years ago.
While researching romance writing, I happened across the Harelquin website. Not only does it promote its own, very numerous imprints, but it has a free online library where visitors can read short stories that parallel the current novels of the month. It also features a writer's section where there are online workshops, message boards, and, among other things, a Writing Round Robin. One of the featured authors begins a chapter of a short story, about 1,000 words long, and then readers can submit subsequent chapters for online publication every two weeks or so.
I did this once, two summers ago, when I first started out in the romance genre. Of course I didn't get selected. I didn't expect to. But it was fun. And it wasn't until this month, that my timing was right on (or should I say write on?). Not only did I remember to check in on the current Writing Round Robin, but I managed to check just last week, shortly before the new one began. I promptly made my way to the online library and printed up a good dozen short stories to get a good idea of what and how to write. And, I've been having a lot of fun with my research!
So when does the new WRR begin? Well, today, actually, which is why I'm writing.
I just downloaded the first chapter of the new WRR, and plan to get started writing the second chapter this afternoon. Yeah, I'll submit the chapter. And it's highly unlikely any of my submissions would get chosen. But it's good practice, and good fun.
And it's a wonderfully non-committal way to get myself back into writing fiction. I may not get published, but I'm still a winner any way you slice it!
Oh, the summer time is comin', and the trees are sweetly bloomin'...
Oh, the summertime is comin',
and the trees are sweetly bloomin',
and the wild mountain thyme
grows around the bloomin' heather.
Will ye go, lassie, go?
This is the chorus to a song close to my heart. We sang it a lot at the Ren Faire I worked as a musician.
I got these lovely flowers for Mother's Day. My husband took my son out Saturday morning (everything's closed here on Sundays) to pick out my flowers.
I think they're the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen. My son decorated a card with three sunflowers on it. "This is Daddy, you and me," he said when I opened it. On the flap of the envelope, my husband had written, "Für unsere liebe Mami... Because you are the only angel that lives on earth." The inscription brought tears to my eyes, because it was a rare declaration of the depth of my husband's affection.
My husband also gave me a new backgammon set. Our old one is a glass board with glass stones which we got from a Folksfest carnival two years ago. I've been wanting a real, fold-up board ever since, so it was a lovely surprise. The day was relaxing, quiet, pleasant, and we got a good many games of backgammon in, as well! We're pretty well matched as players, so it's always a toss-up who'll win.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Black moods and sesame-seed bagel cravings...
I can't even blame my mood on the weather. Today is my favorite kind: impending rain and thunderstorms accompanied by a nice cool front.
To everyone I know, I'm an anomaly in this respect. I love rain, clouds, mist, thunder, wind, dramatic weather of the cool and cloudy kind. It comforts me. It rests contentedly behind my eyes. It doesn't burn my skin or make me sweat or hurt my eyes.
So, it's not the weather that's making me crabby, either.
I don't know what it is. When I awoke this morning, I felt pretty normal. But The Mood descended over me like a black shroud as I was blow-drying my hair, when my son sneaked into the bathroom and stood quietly beneath me. When I lowered the arm holding the hair dryer, I bonked him on the head with my elbow.
"Ouch!" he said. "Be careful, Mommy."
I was irritated that once again he had snuck in without knocking, a habit I'm trying to break him of. He's getting too old to walk freely into the bathroom when Mommy is in there doing mysterious Mommy things. Like taking a shower and personal activities of that ilk. I tried to be decent about it, but the irritation leaked through when I said, "Sweetheart, darnit, knock before you come in!"
And then I was reminded by him, for the umpteenth time this morning, to call his kindergarten teacher to find out when the fireman is expected to arrive for the kindergarten demonstration.
Today is speech therapy day, and normally we skip kindergarten (which is like preschool, and daily attendance is not required) on Tuesdays to concentrate on that activity. But the fireman is coming, and my son didn't want to miss it. So, I had to call to find out when he was coming, so we could work that in before zipping off to speech therapy.
And it was that final reminder that pushed me over the edge. I didn't want to be reminded again, and it wasn't even 8 am, yet. I didn't want to deal with phone calls in a foreign language and kindergarten and firemen and speech therapy and my diet, and my son's inevitable begging to take him to McDonad's as we sometimes do on our way home from Tuesday speech therapy, and cleaning the kitchen, and changing the sheets and doing more laundry and folding it and spending the afternoon trying to reign in my son's energy to sit the afternoon learning to read, write, add and subtract, and the further inevitable begging to play our favorite computer game afterward...
And so, that's why I'm crabby. Oh, and I'm sure PMS might have something to do with it, as well. Nice synchronicity, there, she adds wryly.
And so I thought I'd use the downtime--before picking up the boy from KG to bring him to our appointment--to do a little blogiting. And you know what? I don't even feel like that, today.
The clouds just broke open with lightning and thunder, and I think I'm just going to sit back and play my computer game for a little while. Haven't played it in weeks. Maybe it'll take my mind off my bad humor and my empty tummy.
To everyone I know, I'm an anomaly in this respect. I love rain, clouds, mist, thunder, wind, dramatic weather of the cool and cloudy kind. It comforts me. It rests contentedly behind my eyes. It doesn't burn my skin or make me sweat or hurt my eyes.
So, it's not the weather that's making me crabby, either.
I don't know what it is. When I awoke this morning, I felt pretty normal. But The Mood descended over me like a black shroud as I was blow-drying my hair, when my son sneaked into the bathroom and stood quietly beneath me. When I lowered the arm holding the hair dryer, I bonked him on the head with my elbow.
"Ouch!" he said. "Be careful, Mommy."
I was irritated that once again he had snuck in without knocking, a habit I'm trying to break him of. He's getting too old to walk freely into the bathroom when Mommy is in there doing mysterious Mommy things. Like taking a shower and personal activities of that ilk. I tried to be decent about it, but the irritation leaked through when I said, "Sweetheart, darnit, knock before you come in!"
And then I was reminded by him, for the umpteenth time this morning, to call his kindergarten teacher to find out when the fireman is expected to arrive for the kindergarten demonstration.
Today is speech therapy day, and normally we skip kindergarten (which is like preschool, and daily attendance is not required) on Tuesdays to concentrate on that activity. But the fireman is coming, and my son didn't want to miss it. So, I had to call to find out when he was coming, so we could work that in before zipping off to speech therapy.
And it was that final reminder that pushed me over the edge. I didn't want to be reminded again, and it wasn't even 8 am, yet. I didn't want to deal with phone calls in a foreign language and kindergarten and firemen and speech therapy and my diet, and my son's inevitable begging to take him to McDonad's as we sometimes do on our way home from Tuesday speech therapy, and cleaning the kitchen, and changing the sheets and doing more laundry and folding it and spending the afternoon trying to reign in my son's energy to sit the afternoon learning to read, write, add and subtract, and the further inevitable begging to play our favorite computer game afterward...
And so, that's why I'm crabby. Oh, and I'm sure PMS might have something to do with it, as well. Nice synchronicity, there, she adds wryly.
And so I thought I'd use the downtime--before picking up the boy from KG to bring him to our appointment--to do a little blogiting. And you know what? I don't even feel like that, today.
The clouds just broke open with lightning and thunder, and I think I'm just going to sit back and play my computer game for a little while. Haven't played it in weeks. Maybe it'll take my mind off my bad humor and my empty tummy.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Secrets Kill
A common secret that shouldn't be common, nor a secret.
Secrets kill your spirit, your mind, your body.
Last year I came to understand that the my greatest weapons over emotional abuse inflicted by a partner battling his own inner demons is to no longer respond to his outbursts, and to open my mouth and tattle.
Responding to verbal abuse creates justification for the abuse. And if you let the other person go on without visibly getting worked up about it yourself, you go a long way toward minimizing the situation. Eventually, the abuser gets an earful of his own blathering and backs down when he understands that you're not a sufficient sponge to soak up his feelings of inadequacy. He shuts
up because his words echo back to him and he hears their ridiculousness.
Useful phrases in my repertoire, when I start to get worked up in spite of my efforts not to, include:
Why are you shouting? and
Come back when you find something worth getting angry over.
In reference to my last post, my husband and I are both concerned about our son's readiness for German AND American first grade, both of which have very different requirements. Our son already meets his German requirements, which are minimal, but my husband is desperate to ensure our son's academic success in Germany, in the event we stay put. Germany is far less forgiving of students who don't excell early, determining as early as age ten whether they are university material or not and dictating the direction of each student's education accordingly.
So, to ensure that our son has an advantage over every other incoming German first grader, he wanted me to teach him to read in German this summer (in addition to a year's worth of American kindergarten curriculum which we've been desperately cramming the last few weeks) he told us that our son could no longer watch TV or play our nightly computer game after hours of afternoon of studying, and that I could not read any more books.
My infuriated response was to write about it in my previous post. But I kept quiet to him about it (because I also recognized his need to start a fight), and his mandate was never enforced.
In the meantime, I inquired of our son's speech therapist and kindergarten teacher about the best techniques and tools for teaching reading to German children, and they both stoutly insisted to let the school do it. They have their methods, and it's best when everyone starts off on the same foot. I told my husband this, and while he wasn't happy about it, never pressed me further. That's not to say the bug won't crawl up his ass later on and I won't get another earful.
But the pressure is off for the time being.
And I never even stopped reading, as if he could stop me.
My husband's problem is mild compared to other abusives. He's very caring, sensitive, thoughtful and responsible to a fault. He's an injured bird done wrong by his parents. and the result is a common Jeckyl-and-Hyde syndrome. But that doesn't make his behavior right or justifiable, and it doesn't stop me from feeling desperate, infuriated, and even depressed at times.
I work hard to make our marriage tolerable in our present environment. I work hard to remain in touch with my Self, in spite of my husband's occasional attempts to rob me of my individual identity. I work hard to instill in our son a sense of love and gentleness, and to help him understand that his father's behavior is sometimes inappropriate. And I work hard to ensure our son understands that he is boundlessly loved not only by me, but by my husband as well.
I try not to let this side of my life bleed onto this blog. I don't want sympathy--there are a lot more people who need a lot more help than I--but sometimes I need an ear to scream my frustration into.
And I need to get it across right now that it's wrong to assume that all people who receive abuse from their partners or spouses are weak and passive, uneducated or unintelligent, and take it all lying down. Abuse is a secret, insidious disease, and it is far more common and reaches into far more social sectors than you might believe.
And if you find yourself in an abusive relationship, start telling people. It's liberating and empowering. It strengthens your deepest belief that you don't deserve it. It makes you stronger to begin taking steps to better your life and your spirit, however you choose to do that.
Keeping secrets will only kill you.
Secrets kill your spirit, your mind, your body.
Last year I came to understand that the my greatest weapons over emotional abuse inflicted by a partner battling his own inner demons is to no longer respond to his outbursts, and to open my mouth and tattle.
Responding to verbal abuse creates justification for the abuse. And if you let the other person go on without visibly getting worked up about it yourself, you go a long way toward minimizing the situation. Eventually, the abuser gets an earful of his own blathering and backs down when he understands that you're not a sufficient sponge to soak up his feelings of inadequacy. He shuts
up because his words echo back to him and he hears their ridiculousness.
Useful phrases in my repertoire, when I start to get worked up in spite of my efforts not to, include:
Why are you shouting? and
Come back when you find something worth getting angry over.
In reference to my last post, my husband and I are both concerned about our son's readiness for German AND American first grade, both of which have very different requirements. Our son already meets his German requirements, which are minimal, but my husband is desperate to ensure our son's academic success in Germany, in the event we stay put. Germany is far less forgiving of students who don't excell early, determining as early as age ten whether they are university material or not and dictating the direction of each student's education accordingly.
So, to ensure that our son has an advantage over every other incoming German first grader, he wanted me to teach him to read in German this summer (in addition to a year's worth of American kindergarten curriculum which we've been desperately cramming the last few weeks) he told us that our son could no longer watch TV or play our nightly computer game after hours of afternoon of studying, and that I could not read any more books.
My infuriated response was to write about it in my previous post. But I kept quiet to him about it (because I also recognized his need to start a fight), and his mandate was never enforced.
In the meantime, I inquired of our son's speech therapist and kindergarten teacher about the best techniques and tools for teaching reading to German children, and they both stoutly insisted to let the school do it. They have their methods, and it's best when everyone starts off on the same foot. I told my husband this, and while he wasn't happy about it, never pressed me further. That's not to say the bug won't crawl up his ass later on and I won't get another earful.
But the pressure is off for the time being.
And I never even stopped reading, as if he could stop me.
My husband's problem is mild compared to other abusives. He's very caring, sensitive, thoughtful and responsible to a fault. He's an injured bird done wrong by his parents. and the result is a common Jeckyl-and-Hyde syndrome. But that doesn't make his behavior right or justifiable, and it doesn't stop me from feeling desperate, infuriated, and even depressed at times.
I work hard to make our marriage tolerable in our present environment. I work hard to remain in touch with my Self, in spite of my husband's occasional attempts to rob me of my individual identity. I work hard to instill in our son a sense of love and gentleness, and to help him understand that his father's behavior is sometimes inappropriate. And I work hard to ensure our son understands that he is boundlessly loved not only by me, but by my husband as well.
I try not to let this side of my life bleed onto this blog. I don't want sympathy--there are a lot more people who need a lot more help than I--but sometimes I need an ear to scream my frustration into.
And I need to get it across right now that it's wrong to assume that all people who receive abuse from their partners or spouses are weak and passive, uneducated or unintelligent, and take it all lying down. Abuse is a secret, insidious disease, and it is far more common and reaches into far more social sectors than you might believe.
And if you find yourself in an abusive relationship, start telling people. It's liberating and empowering. It strengthens your deepest belief that you don't deserve it. It makes you stronger to begin taking steps to better your life and your spirit, however you choose to do that.
Keeping secrets will only kill you.
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