Saying sorry

My kid is crying. Not screaming. But crying pretty loud. It has been a few rounds of asking her to do things and her ignoring me, and continuing to play to stay in the bath, or, or, or. One of those evenings when nothing I say is listened to. When she screams my name from the bathroom instead of saying the "I'm sorry mama" I've asked for. I'm the only parent on duty tonight, and I get that she's tired and that I'm tired, but I'm not finding my way out of it right now.

I haven't gotten and "I'm sorry", a "please" or a "thank you" for most of the afternoon. There have been loud protestations of "I get all the dessert! Not you get any! Or I won't eat any!" There have been ice creams and trips to the park to play in the sun and special dinner pies from the English pie lady. There has been a lot. And not enough.

And how to teach a child, and only child (is this the problem? probably not all of it), to share instead of throwing a fit when she can't have all the dessert on the table? Or to say she's sorry? Or to say please or thank you? Does it come later than 3 1/2 years old? Does all of it come later?

Because it isn't coming tonight. I'm close to crying myself. As soon as I engage again, she starts playing or not listening. And I don't think this is all conscious on her part - or at least it isn't meant to piss me off more, it just does. But I have no idea to get an I'm sorry.

Even though I give them - if I've hurt her feelings, if I've yelled, if I've hurt her by accident while I'm stopping her from hitting me during a tantrum. I say "sorry." I want her to hear it, to know that it is important to say, to learn it, to remember being told her feelings matter.

And I guess that is what this is about at some level. My feelings not mattering.

Yes, I go to a dark little place where I'm the kid again, and again, my feelings don't matter enough for some adult in my life to say and actual "sorry" that ends there and not a "sorry, but...". Or someone who can't say "I love you." And although my husband is great with the "I love you"'s, he's still learning to say "sorry" as well.

It is now 8:15pm and A is asleep, and it took some 5 minutes after the one book we had time for, after she gave me a big hug and a kiss on the chin, after I told her that a big hug and a kiss on the chin could be our special secret code for "I'm sorry", after she told me she didn't say she was sorry because sometimes she is shy, after she told me she said "enschuldigung" to a baby the other day for squeezing her hand too tight, after we talked about if she says "sorry" to any of her friends ever, after I talked about how sorry can mean "I wish I could take it back" or "I didn't mean to hurt you" or "I want things to be ok between us again."

After we both calmed down and sat on the bed, after I raised my voice and told her that if she can't say she's sorry to friends she's not going to have any (yes, I know, I'm sort of dying a bit inside to see myself write that right now), after I raised my voice and said something like "Why can't you say I'm sorry? Why can't you just say it?!"

I'm going to have to apologize for that last part tomorrow morning.

(Before you unfriend me, or decide I am scum or some such thing, I did actually have the presence of mind to tell her that it is wonderful she is learning to apologize to her friends and other kids and she will have friends. I know that one was a mistake to say in the first place.)

Can't be a manager and a mentor to the same person.

A while ago I wrote a post about this dilemma in academia - that professors are supposed to be both managers (getting projects done on time, papers published, grant proposals submitted, fitting postdoc candidates recruited) at the same time as being mentors (encouraging a person to really think about what they want to do with their career, and academia may not be it) to the same people. Which I think is a huge problem.

And I'm not the only one. So many graduate students and postdocs run into trouble with this - the judge and the cheerleader are wrapped up in one person, so of course there will be problems. There is no way for the judge to stay home when she or he goes to be the cheerleader at a student presentation. There may well come a time when that professor has to write recommendation letters for two people from her or his group, for the same position, and will be asked to compare them. How can you possibly be this person, the letter writer, and say "no one is judging you" to a student giving a talk in a journal club or seminar? It isn't possible to not form an opinion. Of course that talk impact how that student will be evaluated some day.

No wonder students don't speak up at journal clubs. More on that later. A lot later. Like, "I'm looking into it research-wise" later.

But the same holds for parents, I think. And I finally made that connection this weekend.

Because, see, we have one child. And that may be where it ends, like it or not. I may never have another. And part of coming to terms with an only child is my confusion about how to teach her to share and play with others. I often find myself stuck between letting her win, take many turns in a row, draw on my drawing, take my food, etc., and asking her to be considerate, holding out until I get a turn, too, etc. And although I think at some level a parent can be both mostly the giver but also ask for consideration, I realized this weekend that I can't be both her sibling/friend and her parent.

I am the parent. That will never change. She'll have to learn more about sharing toys and turns from friends who get grumpy when she doesn't. I can't play that role for her because it will start edging into my parental role - which is also nurturer.

Now, I don't mean to say that I'm not going to get grumpy myself when she keeps kicking me in the ribs when I've asked her not to. And I've already decided that I may not be able to stop the boogie-licking, but I don't have to stay in the room watching it like some horror film I didn't mean to buy tickets so. But I do mean that when we play, I don't have to push so much for equality. I'm not her equal, I'm her parent. I have significant power over her emotional landscape, and that needs to be taken into account when I play with her.

So, I'll let her draw on my drawing, and eat all the last bites of my dessert. She still has to ask about looking in my purse, but if she want to build a puzzle halfway and then chuck that badboy across the floor, I'm not going to stop playing with her. Probably not even when she does it to my puzzle.

I may just not play as long. Because, after all, I'm also an only child, and we don't stand for that kind of thing.

It all comes out in the wash

I mean that as a saying, not literally. Since as an underachiever in the kids' laundry category I am perfectly incapable of getting many food stains out of many a white t-shirt. And those are supposed to be the easy ones. Let's just say that for color-bleeding reasons my laundry loads don't actually see 90 C very often.

But I digress. I picked the title of this post as a comment on my day today, as a parent. The ups and downs, the lucky highs and the tantrum lows. You can pretty much match them, turn for turn, and come out with an average day. Not way better than most and not way worse. And yet, within the confines of its hours, there were all manner of things going on.

My 3+ kid woke me at 4am to help her find her pacifier. I couldn't sleep for the rest of the hour after that. Unlucky.

Found ourselves in the middle of a crowd of mardi gras costume wearing kids and their families (and we happened to all have our animal hats on in case the main parade that is actuallz tomorrow was today) and the steel drum band. Lucky.

My daughter fell asleep in her stroller during the parade (lucky) and then didn't sleep a wink more the moment we got home, 45 minutes later because of missed connections (un-LUCK-eh).

A and I caught the twice an hour bus by running fast, on our way to do some shopping. This driver actually waited an extra 10 seconds for us, which usually counts as a miracle here. Luck-a-luck-a-luck-eee.

A's scooter caught a cobblestone on the way back to the bus home, just at a busy intersection, and I about lost it (un-lucky-ducky). I took it away for the streets, too quickly and finally in that instant and I had a 20 minute tantrum on my hands for the wait and bus ride home. (Now you guess, which category?).

She wanted apricot flavor for dessert and the unlucky broken yogurt in our grocery bag just happened to be the apricot one. At that time of the night, with the tantrum behind us? LUCK-Y.

A flipped off the kids' chair in the kitchen, pretty much while just standing there. Rare and unlu...strike that. This kid has such balance that this was just TIRED.

Bedtime prep went great for all involved. Lucky.

End of the tally, seems pretty even to me.

That smile. That heartbreaking smile.

We've had a tough night previous, on the way to bedtime, the little A and her Mama. And now we are dressed, and on our way to school. Not the first bus that I like better, but still going to be on time. Things are good. We are walking.

"I will go to kindergarten, too, mama!" she says, huge grin of imagined joys splashing across her face.

And although my first reaction is to smile with her and ask "You will?! Will that be fun?", my second reaction, what seems like only 1/2 a second later is this deep ache in my heart.

For all the things that kindergarten won't be like. For the kid who might bully her (I never consider she might one day be the bully). For the teacher who won't understand what she is trying to say and doesn't give her the benefit of the doubt. For whatever unidolphincorn she thinks will be the class pet, drinking their snowflake water and fairy-dusted snacks. For the let down.

I should just let her have the thought. And I do. But I should let myself see her happy now, and not see myself in that toothy grin, announcing I'm going to have a second child (and then having to announce later that that didn't work out), or that I'm moving to Switzerland and then hitting the reality of living in a foreign country with no family network.

I guess that deep ache is for my dashed hopes.

And yet, for those moments, before reality set it, I was happy just imagining. So maybe it is okay to just be happy in the moment of expectation, and then take life as it comes.

I'm not sure. She, just like I, takes it very hard when things aren't as she hoped. Her excuse is that she is a toddler with a still developing brain. My excuse has yet to make it to the foreground.

We round the corner, headed for the stop of the bus that will take us up the hill. We talk about the possibility that she may get to "in front", as she always hopes to sit on the buses. From sitting in front at 8:45am, to a no tantrum bedtime - even though we come close when I've told her again not to pull a toilet roll fixture (I have very important priorities, you see) and she slaps my face with both hands, and I leave and she cries. But from somewhere I haven't been able to draw on other nights, I let her cry for a bit without yelling at her, and then come back to ask if it was a mistake. We wash her hands, get her in pajamas and a blanket-rich stroller for the night ride to walk the dog one last time.

Bedtime is mostly smooth, definitely smoother than last night. And I realize writing this that maybe the unanticipated joys of one calmer evening, brought about by intention-driven actions on my part, more than makes up for the disappointing realities of beautiful dreams.

Happy Valentine's Day, A. 

Happy New Year, sink full-o-dishes

I got to wash pots and pans, while an afternoon pot of coffee got itself ready on the stove just now. It was pretty wonderful.

Both my beloveds are asleep, one in each bedroom, and the dog is still with the sitter for a few more days. So I had the kitchen to myself. And the living room, and the dining room. Just me. A cup of fresh, strong coffee on the window ledge, the NYTimes crossword and a mechnical pencil near my feet, a new Barbara Kingsolver book on my iPhone. I'll do the dishes for that kind of solitary time anytime.

We took a different approach to Christmas this year, which meant a really short trip to North America. And no "getting over" jetlag. A was awake from 2 or 4am through midday most days, which meant so was one of us. The "box of baking soda" item on the fridge list for American goods to bring home remains unchecked. We almost just stayed in Zurich, since we'd had a long trip in fall, and the travel (especially said jet-lag skews about 5 days on either end, usually all for me and the pistachio). But my South American family decided to go for a white Christmas this year, and it was A's first chance to meet them all, and our chance to see them after 5 years. It was hectic, tiring, full of people and laughs and kids and food and great.

And I don't ever want to do such a short trip to North America with a small child again.

But we made it back here in time for New Year' Eve. And had a small party, which was actually the exact right size. Two other couples and 3 other kids. A full house for our apartment. The apartment with the killer view of the valley and the city and the lake, which meant about 100 min. of fireworks in all directions starting at 11:00pm last night. By 10pm, I was starting to worry that I'd oversold the fireworks view to our guests, only a pop or a flash here and there happening. But, no worries. By 11:30pm I'd realized that I'd undersold it. Cars were parking in our neighborhood so people could go up the hill to look over the valley. Fireworks were going off east, west, below us, above us, about 5 per second. By the time the city started its show, I was almost done with beautiful, multi-colored lights. And the kids, the littlest ones, made it the whole way through to 12:40pm. A did not. She fell asleep in her stroller on balcony, covered in down blankets and footie pajamas by 11:15pm.

So here's to a new year. A new chance at practicing slowing down - writing a blog instead of clicking through horrible TV channels, calling an old friend instead of going shopping, doing my back exercises, and noticing the passage of time. Of being aware of moods and their transience. Of practicing not doing too much. Of making my temporary home country a better place with things I bring to the mix, instead of just despairing about what is here already.

And now, 12 hours later, M and A are asleep, and I have the place to myself. Both the washing machine and the dishwasher are running, sounds which make me feel even more soothed. I can flip through the earmarked pages of my physical copy of Bitch magazine, drink my coffee, and sit down to write a blog post on an old laptop that got resurrected last night to show kids' videos because none of our new computers have CD drives anymore. Ahhh, the passage of time.

The stretch limo is waiting

Ricidulously fantastic potato pancakes. Which are really just a vehicle for sour cream.

I've been away from Zurich for a month now. In the US, for family medical issues (that have settled and are ok now), family visits, and a wedding. And for that month I was on a lot of main caregiver duty, because M only came for the last 10 days. I had help from grandmothers, and from some good friends, which kept me going. Mostly to JCPenney's or Target, places I would wander, trying on cheap, not so well-made clothing. I went to Whole Foods and stocked up on pancake and cookie mixes. I must have hit a DSW shoe store some 3 times, and unfortunately for A, those times she was with me. I think we've finally determined (on her part, too) that she does not, in fact, "like shopping", kind of like "I no like Istanbul, Mama."

I spent too much time in, and on the way to and from, stores. I spent too much time feeling worried that I would offend people who I didn't visit enough. I spent too much time trying feel like I was living in the US, shopping where I used to, visiting many people I know, trying to re-establish connections that there wasn't actually enough time to re-establish. 

I also connected with different people, though. Some I hadn't known as well, and made some deeper friendships. I spent time making loud, funny noises with my mouth, with A, in an attempt to make it the last 20 miles of a long days of flights and car rides. I worked on speaking up about what I would like, and what I didn't like to those with whom I sometimes have a hard time doing this. 

And I ate about the weight of my carry-on in potatoes, butter, sour cream and bacon at the rehearsal dinner for my cousin D's wedding. I drove about 5 different manual and automatic cars (and gained some 5 extra no-walking pounds) over 4 weeks, some rented, some borrowed, and lost just a bit of my soul every time I was at a Hertz Rental office. But I gained back some soul at a small, independent kids' shoe store in Chicago's north side, and at any place that served pancakes or french toast. I went to Toast in Chicago twice. Twice. For a food snob, my culinary desires in the US tend to gourmet comfort food. Chicken and waffles, Baja style shrimp tacos, Peanut Butter cheesecake, and anything from Toast. I mentioned that place already, yes?

Pretty good Kugelis. Also, vehicle for sour cream, thank you very much. Perhaps the leftover butter/bacon/sour cream sausce, too.

When you need a cab to the airport from the Chicago 'burbs, one option for the family bursting at the seams with luggage is....a stretch limo. "Mama, this is a biiiiiig taxi!" she said. M and A practice their "no paparazzi" moves.

I'm home again. And trying to both get back into life here in Swtizerland, and get over jetlag. Tonight is a bit bigger setback than I hoped, although it seems to be just me awake, which I'm pretty happy with. I did a lot of complaining over in the US, while I was wincing at pretty much any television content, about the lack of soul here in Switzerland. I've decided that it is time not only to seek it out actively, but to be the instigator of some such soul, when possible. A coffee shop + kids' bookstore + place-that-makes-breakfast-all-day-long-like-Toast is probably not in my cards, given that I do not care so much about cooking as I do about eating, or making coffee as I do about drinking it. But, depending some relationships, expanding how I (how we) participate, is now due. I have a few projects in mind. We'll see how they start off and I'll share a bit more here when they are underway.

At glacial speed

If I stay quiet, calm just long enough, I feel the motion. But it has to be a just-woke-up quiet, the kind where I am still pretty tired but not going to fall asleep again. The 6:53am kind, where 7am is so close that the best option is to roll around a bit, and just try to start waking up.

Usually, I will go for my iPhone to help my brain get started by a barrage of useless activities like Facebook and checking the weather. This morning, it is cold and rainy, what feel like the first day of fall just sneaking in, and even 6:53am seems a lot darker than it did yesterday. And I let myself be calm and feel it.

It is a slow motion, of something big, something heavy. It is the passing of time, the approach of my 40th year, the changing of the guard, the end of the summer I thought we might just get pregnant and without having to do all that soul searching just get thrown into the mess, and chaos and energy and fray of a new life. And I would put off thinking about my career a bit longer, or my age. We would have a few more years of not even having the time to notice that time is passing.

Mind you, this isn't really a sad feeling. It is slow, it is calm. There are probably still a few years in which, if I really want (or just accidentally end up there), I can hop on over to that glacier top. It isn't going anywhere fast. I could probably even just step a bit more vigorously and catch it, with its new baby and upheaval, and blinding in-the-momentness that a new child brings to a family. It wouldn't even require a jump. But where once that 40 years old mark was slowly approaching, it is now almost lined up with where I'm standing, and soon will be receding. It is the next stage of life. I will still enter it, sooner or later, and I realized yesterday afternoon that having another child will not make me 36 again. And many of those women around me that I've felt the second-child-having influence of so strongly, they are still in that 35-38 range.

So yes, of course I can still try for a child. I'm healthy, I've gotten pregnant at least twice now, it is likely possible. But it means something different to me approaching 40 than it did approaching 36. I'm not "too old" to have another child in the literal, can your ovaries and uterus do this sense. My husband is not 65, and on and on. But I did not realize that the cycle of having one child would last 6 years for us, starting with starting to try getting pregnant, through infertility and interventions, through a difficult beginning, a first ray of light and then through a miscarriage and then the recovery. When I started this baby having activity, I was 33 years old. I've woken up this morning and I'm 39.

And I have no certainty about another child or not. I know that this morning I was calm, I had time to lay in bed another 10 minutes and hear that slow movement of life. I had energy to make a nice breakfast and to not pull A to run to the bus. We had smiles and time to talk about how sometimes none of us wants to go to work or school. I had time to sit in the foyer, while she screamed about having her pacifier taken away, until she calmed down - I didn't have to wrap her in a jacket and carry her flailing with boots to the bus.

It is the first day of fall, and I've decided to have a month of calmer, thoughtfulness. I will not be giving up on losing it sometimes, but I will be trying to find one thing per day to do or actively choose that connects me with others. That makes the world a bit better place and funnels some of my energy of not being pregnant with a second child back into the world that could definitely use it. I will slow down this month, for the next 3 weeks at least. I will notice this month passing.

I may not be able to move the glacier back (in my mind it is majestic, grand, solid and slow, its coldness is not really a feature, it is not a sad glacier, it is just ancient and bigger than me), but I can make this time before 40 fuller and honor it. 

How old was your dad when you were born?

It is date night here at our house, which means the babysitter is coming and we're heading out to celebrate the end of M's exam week and almost-end of the work week with dinner in the Old City and a movie. Probably "What to Expect When You're Expecting."

Because it has that American-ness to it that we're both craving a bit right now. It doesn't have to be awesome to be comforting.

I keep calling it "What Did You Expect?" or "What Were We Thinking?".  I didn't much like the book of the same title when I was expecting because, as many before me have pointed out, it has that "sad you, who can't live off of no caffeine and fruitjuicesweetened-practically-everything when you are pregnant - you must not really love your unborn child" quality to some of its suggestions. It could be a playbook for out-earthmothering your fellow pregnant ladies. But I do expect some easy laughs from the movie.

And at just the right time. Because the hottest thing on the NYTimes right now is this article about increased risk of a child with autism or schizophrenia with advanced age of the father. This just days after I finished reading this book on a family whose autistic daughter has beaten a lot of odds to communicate with a computer with grace and eloquence, wit and insight, about autism itself, and the rest of the things a teenager thinks about. That is the life-afirming part of the book. The description of the exhaustion, sadness and burnout that the family lives with, and still uses respite care to help combat, is the part that prompted me to start talking with M about why we want another child.

Just to be a companion to A? We have enough crap of our own we're still working through that maybe we are better off teaching her to make close friends, spending some extra money on serious charity contributions that also leave a legacy (instead of looking for an embodied legacy in another child), and just keep working on our own issues.We could donate to places helping families who are already struggling. We could try to make a difference in this world in a different way.

And what if we were to have an autistic child? The book was already in the process of being read when this question came up and almost drowned me. What if all the things that have gone wrong with getting pregnant and giving birth and having a miscarriage, what if they all actually point to some reason we shouldn't try for another child? What if my body, which is almost 40 years old, is trying to tell me about my chances with the next child, and to just stop here?

Then the article came out. Well, gee, that sure helps the picture. Although, I have to say it is nice to hear anything that for once tells the menfolk they too are not untouched by reproductive aging. That it isn't just my biological clock ticking away, it is his, too. I mean to be gloating in a general, I-represent-all-womanhood sort of way, not to imply that I'm thrilled for M to have to think about all of this now. I mean, we're both old - double whammy.

And as a nightcap to all that, A had her first exorcist-level meltdown, which I only navigated with so much grace (heck, yeah, I'm proud) because of how much I've worked on myself, and the fact that a close friend's kid had a similar one a few weeks ago. I could chalk up 25 minutes of screaming, thrashing, running in random-including-the-street directions if I put her down, kicking and wailing to a developmental phase. I was one cool customer, even on the bus part of the program. I was exhausted afterwards (and A is now sleeping it off), and amazed at how randomly it passed. And feeling a profound sadness for lives where that continues to be a daily occurrence even for older children and adults. I could get through it because I knew it would pass (today, and in some months).

For tonight, though, we're going to go see What You Didn't Expect You'd Be Expecting, or something like that. And, hopefully, it will be good for a few laughs.

A change in the weather

Well, at least I hope it is coming. It has been a cold, cloudy, wet summer here in Zurich, and this coming week is supposed to finally be getting above 70 F. And after all that low-sugar drama last week (which I am still trying to keep up a bit, while M joins in for his own reasons), I realized last night while I was doing dishes that...I was doing dishes. While M gave A her bath. I wasn't on the bed, just trying to recover for 10 minutes enough energy to put her to bed without all my body screaming to go to sleep. That I had enough energy and was just feeling, well, normal.

And again today. I'm not exhausted by the time we try to put her down for a nap, and although I do sleep for an hour, I haven't been feeling like it is all I can do to make it through the day. How long has it been since I've felt this way? Not even noticing the doing of a load of laundry because my back feels ok and I'm not so tired. Or that I decide to get some dishes done because there is some energy left just after I've had A for a while.

It feels good to feel this normal. Life has not been this normal for a while. My body definitely hasn't. And I haven't given myself a break for that. Until now, when I've realized that I just wasn't up to many daily tasks and I was doing my best to do what I could. I don't know if it somewhat due to the sugar I've stopped eating so much of, but it is also because my back is doing better. I'm still trying to not look at my iPhone constantly when I'm on a bus or tram, and to move around more. And my reproductive system seems to finally be calming down a bit from the miscarriage. I didn't realize how long that could take, either.

 I'm the last one up tonight, as the only member of the family to have had a nap (well, ok, the dog always takes the nap and the early bedtime), and I feel awake. I've started a new book (The Foremost Good Fortune) about a woman who moves with her husband and two small kids to China for a year. And has great doubts about it all, and talks very early on in the book about how she has a place she goes to in her head when she gets overwhelmed by her extremely active 4 and 6 year old boys. So she doesn't yell as much. And the world feels like a smaller place to me again as I hear from someone else telling me her struggles with motherhood.

A is continuing to talk more and more, and as she is really getting good at this potty training thing, she has decided to name her poops according to size. There was a Mama, Papa, Baby and puppy poop tonight. And then after dinner she decided we should all go into the living room and dance to the NPR music broadcast by wiggling, spinning, and shaking our heads yelling "No!" as loud as possible.

It is enchanting to see her own ideas and personality coming out. Her imagination, if you let her have it and just go along with it, and her ideas. A few weeks ago, during some meal, I told her to close her eyes to really taste something we were eating. Probably after a trip to a farmer's market, or in Amsterdam. And she took to it. And completely got on board with the idea. She tell us now sometimes to close our eyes. We all sit there, actually tasting cherry tomatoes as sweet as cherries, or a great cucumber or plum.

Oh! Plum season is back and once again I am in love. I've never liked the plums we got in the US. The purple, sour ones. But here, they are magnificent, and the purple ones are only one of 10 varieties you see for a few months each summer.

It is getting cold on the balcony, and dark. Time to think about going to bed. After all, the old lady who seems to be accompanying her cats (or someone else's cats) on a walk down the street is headed to the little plot of grass at the end of the block where the old man who used to let his dog poop on the sidewalk will be waiting for their evening canoodle (as M puts it), is on her way to the rendesvous. Closing time.

The beast within

Turns out that turning on the air conditioner (yet another concession to increasing age and decreasing ability to sleep off a rough night well into the morning) was the way to sleep in Istanbul. It continued to be a gorgeous city, although never that well suited to travel with a toddler in the near 90 F sunny days. Not enough playgrounds nearby. And I think M was more than a bit worried in a big, new city, and wound up trying to constantly establish a 6 ft circumference safety circle around A. Good luck with that in a city where even the mosque guards can be found cooing to a baby, giving him their walkie talkies to chew and slam on the carpets, and later young women take the same baby for a walk always within sight of his parents. The people were so lovely and kind, and loooooooove children. Their own, yours, that one over there, all of them. There was not much personal space for A to inhabit when everyone wanted to pinch her cheeks. She declared in the middle of the trip "I no like Esstanbul," which I'm sure was not referring to all the gelato she ate, the birds she chased or the food she happily gobbled up. M and A and Aunt P had a tour guide show them around for a few days while I was at the conference.

I finally hit my stride at said academic gathering. My poster was moderately attended, I chatted with a handful of attendees, at coffee breaks and lunches, I hung out with the Brazilians. It was okay. I had time to think about my own research and where to take it from here, and went a few steps forward during the meeting, listening to the various English-as-a-second-language speakers' presentations. Know what? In a meeting like that, where even the native English speakers are working hard to keep up with the galloping change in accents that roam the span of each session, more text on slides is a good thing. As is reading directly from a slide. I'm a convert of the extreme context specificity of the "little text; no direct reading" rule.

Once I got home, work is again slow, and so I feel the same. And in an ill-advised google search of Candida Diet (something I might at some point need to consider, due to a combination of the d&c after the miscarriage and probably the cortisone shots), I am once again reminded of why "we don't do google searches on medical problems", children. Ugh. Look it up - you can eat beef, eggs, macadamia nuts, and peppermint tea. Oh, and eventually work your way up to yogurt. It is depressing, but not as creepy as all the folks discussing it on the forums (children, if you didn't obey, and actually did the google search, for the love of Pete at least don't read the forums...). They are busy writing things about the Candida Die-Off in which the candida is described as being angry at you, who are not offering sugar on its altar of gut and other parts destruction and attacks you. And you feel like crap.

So guess who tried a mini-version of no caffeine (coffee beans and tea leaves are moldy, apparently), sugar or carbs today? Someone with a death wish who really should have known better, but thankfully had daycare for both child and dog at midday. And then drank black tea finally. And then had a pizza and ibuprofen for dinner in hopes that the sudden flu symptoms (huge headache, aches, nausea, and I kid you not, even leg pain from my back) would go away. They did. I'm chalking it up to either caffeine/sugar withdrawl, or the ability of ibuprofen to handle flu symptoms. And pretending I didn't read anything about angry microbes.

In either case, I will most likely be offering white bread and jam and coffee to "the beast" tomorrow for breakfast. M replied to my texts about how horrible this felt by telling me to "feed my Trill." Nerd.

Lots and lots of rich, lush, glorious photos...and I have no idea how to make paragraphs that match photos!

Time for some photos. Of Mallorca, which, outside the city of Palma, and near the lovely town of Pollenca, was really relaxing and family friendly. We rented a house, for me, A, her aunt L, and her Bobute (my mom). We rented a car. There was a pool, visiting cats, nearby miniature horses to visit every day, country quiet and stars at night, and a 10 min ride to the town.
M had a conference in the US, so it was three women vs. one very excited and attracted to water Beibis (that's A). It was an even match. First order of business on the trip was to change into a newly arrived purple pajama and check about size restrictions for overhead luggage. Luckily, I think A forgot about the overhead thing once we'd boarded the plane so I didn't have to forbid her from riding in the bin.

A week with very few toys, and no playgrounds. And it went...just fine.
Each morning, no matter if she got to bed at 8:30pm or 11pm, A woke up at 7:30am. Ungh. We'd climb out of our beds, wander into the kitchen, open all the windows, put on some coffee, grab a yogurt from the fridge and head into the backyard. The baby chair wasn't all that stable against a pushy, flicky leg toddler, but we had some great conversations about what exactly was the table (where feet are not allowed) and what was the chair (where, on the usual parental, last-second decision in favor of peace and a chance in hell of actually making some coffee, I decided was ok).


Seafood was on many menus. It was all over this restaurant's menu, in fact. Monkfish, lobster, cuttlefish (sorry smart animal I didn't really like the taste of!), fish, more fish, clams, and fish.



The streets of many towns in the Northwest part of the island were preparing for a festival, and thin strips of flags fluttered above many of them.
There was a jacuzzi with the pool. Not a hot tub, really, since the water wasn't heated. But a great place, 5 feet above the pool level, to try escaping from.
We spent the whole day at this cove. With a rented beach umbrella space and chairs, snorkelling, swimming, eating, napping, and sifting through all sorts of shells, sea glass and rocks.

Ah, the pool.
Someone had a great time running around and around and around the post box near the placa where we were having dinner. Enclosed public spaces, where parents can sit and eat, and kids can run around, were one of the things that made this trip so toddler friendly.

Aunt L and A skip down the streets of Alcudia, new bags in hand. Or, arm.

To the mountains

This time the dog came with. For 4 days of sniffing and walking and hanging out in the mountains, near St. Moritz. And friends came with, with their kids who helped A have a great time. I ate a lot more hiking food than actually hiking (I meant to hike, really I did), but just being away was nice. The cows in their summer pastures with their bells clinking, the pretty buildings with the corners all embellished, fondue and hot cocoa and Father's Day French Toast made with a pulverized cookie coating. It was all good.

We stayed in Celerina, about a mile away from St. Moritz, much smaller, quainter, quieter, no Chanel or Jimmy Choo shops.

Ok, almost all was good. It seems the Alps open this coming (not last) weekend. All but one chairlift/gondola was closed, as were all the restaurants on the hikes. So leaving that bag of sandwiches on the dining table when we each thought someone else would bring them? Bad idea. Luckily the carrot sticks, apples, chocolate croissants, nuts and raisins made it, and we survived quite happily.

Now we're home again, and this is one of those uninspired, but I really need to start writing again, blog posts. My work life is picking up quite strongly, mostly with meetings with people which beats trying to stay awake working at my computer at home. I'm also looking for a decent (well, it is my first try), aesthetically pleasing RSS feed reader to consolidate all those blogs I stop by at each morning, so it is more like reading the morning paper than like desperately trying to find one more thing to read before being productive. Seems like Reeder for the Mac gets god reviews, and looks much nicer than the Google reader. We'll see.

Amsterdam with a toddler

With all trips I've planned or just dreamt about recently, to moderately large towns, I start at the New York Times. They have a travel section called "36 Hours in _____" and I just Google that with the name of the city. This tends to give me a good overview of some things to try, and I usually find at least one restaurant recommendation or the like to try out. The toddler in our lives means I tend to skip all of their suggestions for after 6pm, but I like having one recommended thing to start with. This time, it was a restaurant called Pancakes Amsterdam! I think that it was actually called something different in the 2007 article from the NYT, but we found it and it was perfect.

It is in a charming area called the "9 streets", full of cute little boutique shops that furnished me with a beautiful pair of earrings and 2 dresses, too. Tiny place, lots of traffic, so we had to go down the street, found some coffee (that gift from the Northern European gods is discussed below), and came back 40 minutes later. They have crepe type pancakes, American style one, and all sorts of yumminess in between. We had one with bacon, leek and cheese, and one with coconut milk, bananas and coconut shavings.



That's Baby A happily decimating the bacon one. She then went on to pick the coconut shavings of the sweet one, which shows you how much her father loves her, given that he's likely to do the same. Very baby friendly, complete with IKEA plastic utensils, plastic baby eating tarps, and some kid books. The waiter kept cooing at Baby A, too. We liked it so much, that she and I went back there the day we were on our own before flying home.


Speaking of the coffee we went to get while waiting to have pancakes...There is the toddler, having a great time trying to catch pidgeons outside the best coffee I've had in years at the Dutch chain Coffee Company. This was actually our second Coffee Company visit, the next day, but the coffee happiness was pretty constant at all 3 shops we went to. The shops are all in bold colors and the place might look too corporate at first, but these lattes could hold a spoon upright while the espresso shots slowly dissolve it.



So, most important things (food and coffee) covered, next I'll touch on accomodations. A lot of the B&B's in the city were booked, or had a 2-night minimum. The hotels were wither really pricey or had so-so reviews on Trip Advisor (another site I rely on very heavily for planning trips. I spend a lot of time looking at the reviews). So my other new favorite travel site, AirBnB came to the rescue. I love this site. It is full of individuals renting out a room or whole apartment/house they own. Usually cheaper than a hotel. And the best part, as far as traveling with a kid, you can find a place with a living room space (for a little person to stretch her legs and unwind after hours in the stroller) and a kitchen. Some even have a washer/dryer in the unit! We stayed at one in Chicago over the holidays and loved it. The one in Amsterdam, from Mia, was also great. I was looking for a place in the Leidseplein area of Amsterdam after reading a review that it was surrounded by great little streets and shops, etc. Loved the place. There was a grocery store around the corner (also great for travel with kids, and the sort of thing people tell you about on their AirBnB listing), as well as a tram stop from the train station. So, try out AirBnB - I stick to listings that have gotten at least a few reviews and are good reviews. I stay away from listings (just like with TripAdvisor) that have mention of crazy landlords who flip out. For me, no amount of great reviews can buffer the potential of an unstable personality. Even more so when I'm traveling with my kid.



Ok. Those were the basics of a good trip. I just happen to love the architecture and vibe of Amsterdam, too. And just to be extra confusing, let me put the first part last. When we got out of the train station and I knew from Mia's text message (ooh, having a local cell phone, with a working Google Maps is really really really nice - I have a horrible sense of direction, and I like it better than pulling out a huge map that screams "tourist!" At least in Northern Europe I can fake it sometimes. Especially in tall-person Netherlands.) to grab the 1, 2 or 5 tram. I went into the tourist office across the street from the train station and bought a map (just because I don't like using them doesn't mean I won't), a TimeOut Amsterdam magazine in English full of food suggestions (I like food. Can you tell? Like, a lot. And I like finding restaurant gems even more), a transport card for trams and buses, and tickets for the following day to the Van Gogh museum. All before heading to our place for the night.





Turned out to be a great thing. I went to get take-out from a delicious Thai restaurant that was reviewed that month, for dinner that night in the apartment. We didn't have to bother with change for the trams. And best of all, the next day when we were trying to visit the Van Gogh museum quickly enough (in an hour, pick a few rooms and not try to see the whole thing) to get Baby A down for her noon nap, we went straight in without waiting in line to buy tickets. Fabulous. The museum itself was pretty roomy, even with a crowd so Baby A wandered and pushed her stroller while we took turns seeing the paintings in a room. She even practiced her new hands-folded-across-chest art critic pose once, which got a bunch of smiles. And the restaurant there had a decent selection of food for lunch for us. Sorry, no photos allowed in the museum, so none here.


And there you have it. Amsterdam with a toddler. In 24 hours, even. Oh, last thing, trains run to and from the airport every 15 minutes or so, many Dutch speak fantastic English, and M's bag got stolen on the train into Amsterdam a few days later, from the above-head luggage rack so although it is a charming town, it isn't crime free.