For the Record - Naptime

PJ can totally follow instructions. For Naptime they are:

You must stay in bed.

You must stay quiet. 

He did.  

He just moved his bed - while staying in it! - so he wouldn't miss any possible action. 

XO

For the Record: Sibling Support

Be still my heart. This is PJ helping Bean get dressed for bed. 

Xo

For the Record: Adorable Moments

For the record, my kids are damn adorable.

xo

For the Record, Nail Polish

For the record, little boys also like nail polish.

Well, on one nail anyways.

xo

For the Record: Christmas Socks

For the record, the size of Christmas socks does not reflect the specific family member's importance within the family.

Really, it doesn't. I swear!


xo

Appreciating the Little Moments

PJ was born in July 2011. It is now September 2011. Between then and now – and unlike the mythology of motherhood – there have been more dark moments than moments of joy. Going into pregnancy I knew that I was at high risk for postpartum depression but what I did not know was that the support I thought I would need was far from what I really needed. I was also ignorant that breastfeeding, something I had planned on doing since I watched my mother breastfeed my sister, was a learned skill for both myself and my son and it is a difficult skill for us both to learn at that. There were other things I had failed to understand: the power and the pain of short bursts of sleep; what colic is; how much a new mother needs her mommy.

To say we struggled would be an understatement not unlike saying the Grand Canyon is „big“ and German „a little tough to learn at first“.

Thankfully, my husband was also able and willing to take the first month of our little boy's life off of work. I'm not sure what would have happened had I been alone. With him in the house, cooking, cleaning, shopping, encouraging, reassuring me and PJ (often literally at the same time), I could yell at him, slam doors at him, cry at him, and – most importantly – blame him for all this insanity instead of our little boy, just days and then weeks old.

Not that our son remained untouched by all of this. Breastfeeding was so difficult and so painful that I exuded fear every time he cried and every time I held him in my arms. Infants, like animals, react to our feelings and PJ's reaction was natural: my arms were not a safe place and he screamed for safety. Based on the bad advice we got during his first few weeks, I'm pretty sure he was also screaming out of hunger but that's another story.

I cried on the phone, I cried on skype, I cried going to the bathroom. Everything was too much and my world was wrapped in dark fog, a fog I hadn't seen in years since my last true depressive episode. I got scared and so did my husband.

"What do you need? How can I help you?" he kept asking over and over again, desperately ready to do anything to help Fix This.

"I don't know," I kept answering in many vague ways. Like so much, I didn't know what I needed or what would help.

Time crept past and after four weeks my husband went back to work. I learned about the La Leche league and got the patience, understanding, support, and expert guidance I needed for breastfeeding to become successful. I went onto Facebook and asked for support between 12 and 5, when my son was the most upset and I was alone. People - some of them surprising - started coming. I got up the courage to go to mommy groups. My mommy came for a visit. I went to my first MOPS meeting. My sister arrived to help.

And things got and are getting better. Breastfeeding is established and going well. My son has almost doubled his weight, grown out of his 0-3 month clothing, and had learned to smile and coo. And I have proven to him that my arms are the safest place to be. We all sleep a little more. The colic is basically gone. My husband is and continues to be an outstanding husband and father. I see and feel now that I am not alone.

Which brings us to a recent morning, 11 weeks into this adventure. After a rocky night, my husband, son, and I all laid down for an early morning nap. I nursed our little man to sleep and then I gently rocked onto my back, placing one hand on my husband's thigh. My right arm was wrapped around my son and my left hand was resting on my husband. Both of my men were peacefully, deeply breathing in their sleep in our dark bedroom and I looked at them both and tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought, "This. I really like this moment."

Here's to appreciating more of these moments. 

 xo

For the Record – Mr’s Spargelcremesuppe

Spargelzeit continues and with ever increasing rewards: it turns out that the Mr. makes a hell of a Spargelcremesuppe (white asparagus cream soup). The first important step is to cook too many Spargel for us to eat alone:

And then add lots of wonderful things and let it simmer. Then serve it to the Mrs. and watch her get happy, happy.

Yummy, yummy, yummy! We've got a few left-over Spargel in the fridge, lets hope we enjoy a repeat soon!





xo

Thank God for Carnival

Its carnival!

For the non-initiated, carnival is a week of last-minute partying before Ash Wednesday arrives bringing along weeks of party-free Lent. Although most people don’t celebrate (is that the right word? I’m sure my nana will let me know) Lent anymore, few who grew up with carnival allow this opportunity to pass by without joining in on the costumes (some clever and some bizarre); the small and large parades with or without floats but always with drunken participants and by-standers; and the wild parties that last until…well, I don’t know because I’ve always left before they were anywhere near the end.

For the Record: The Mr. grew up with carnival and he’s been known to complain when more than a handful of the parties tried to end when he was still going strong. Opposites attract, right?

Which brings us to the point – thank God for carnival because it gives us pictures of the Mr. dressed up as none other than Captain America.

Does it get any better?




xo

For the Record: Cher Got It Wrong

Its January, we’re in Moscow visiting a friend and – surprise, surprise – its freezing cold. Free-zee-ing cold (and that is the nice version). When we leave the apartment each day, I’m wearing at least thick wool tights with feet, jeans, t-shirt, sweater, winter coat, scarf, hat, gloves and wool lined boots. Most days I have another layer on top, like a second jacket under my thick winter coat, as well as an additional pair of socks. Yet, I still find myself shivering within ten minutes of being outside. 

This picture was taken 5 steps away from the apartment. Yes, I’m already cold. Yes, my dear friend - lets just call her the Cold Snob - is laughing AT me.

But I plead basic sanity in my defense. It is cold here and I offer four pieces of evidence to prove my argument.

A - This is a city that clears its snow with a digger. A digger.

B - This is also a city that has an army of men who spend their entire day cleaning snow off of the top of buildings. 

C - This is a city covered in ice for a good part of each year. There is so much of it, that the sidewalks would be better purposed as skating rings.*  

D – This is a city that has to cordon off parts of sidewalks to protect pedestrians from getting killed by the “small” icicles hanging around in the city. 

So its free-zee-ing cold here. 

Which brings me to: For the record – Cher got it wrong. Love isn’t in his kiss – its in his willingness to swap his much warmer hat for your far too thin one just because your head is cold. That’s love.  

xo

*The women of Moscow have the incredible talent of bucking basic physics and walking on ice in stiletto boots. This was just one of many, many woman who gracefully and quickly tour around the city balancing on….what exactly are they balancing on?

For the Record: Lovely Surprises

The Mr. recently surprised me with my absolute, hands-down, favorite flowers. Don't ask me how he got a hold of tulips at this time of year but he did. For the record, the view of spring flowers while snow is still on the ground has a multiplying effect on my personal joy. In short, it goes from super awesome to super, super awesome.

And since there are now two of us in this body of mine - goofy picture included - I (we?) got TWO bunches of tulips!

 
 
 
xo

Goodbye 2010 - You Were Good to Us

2010 is coming to an end and I, for one, cannot believe that it has already been one complete year since we celebrated the beginning of 2010. So much happened this year, most of it really good and some of it, eh, well, not so good. But like all good personal historians and people who chose to remain sane, I find myself concentrating on the positive.

The Steinbach Clan celebrated our first year of happy matrimony as well as many small moments of shared happiness like this one, this one, and this one. The Mr. also finally revealed to the world his dance moves.

2010 brought some pretty significant changes to how I view myself:

• I started responding to “Frau Steinbach” with the understanding that its me.
• I finally got unlimited German visa, more than seven years into this adventure.
• I started writing again – even trying some new stuff like fiction and attending two excellent workshops one in Scotland with Joanna Paterson and one in Ireland with Irene Graham
• I started growing towards the role of mother.

2010 did include a few sad moments. I lost a dear friend and faithful writing fan. The Mr. and I also said goodbye to our little Peewee. Happily, I reached 30 and finally broke the curse of crappy even birthdays. Thanks again to everyone who helped celebrate my new decade!

But we sure did travel a heck of a lot this year:

• Ireland
• Italy (where we came home with a little bun in the oven)
• Vancouver and unlimited Sushi (yes, it turns out this was my highlight looking back)
• Our honeymoon in New Zealand – there are so many blogs, but I chose the one that remained in my heart at the highlight
• London
• Scotland

xo

A Reminder

xo

Ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba ba-ba-ba-ba

We've been married for 18 months today.

18 months - it feels like a decade based on everything that has happened to both of us since May 9, 2009. Its been a hell of a ride and I wouldn't exchange it for anything. We are many things and one of them is Happy Together. The song is from the 60s; somethings never get old.

The pictures of the special day are here.




xo

Happily Married - 17 Months

One of us mentions that we are running out of toilet paper, and we both buy a package. Sure, we have far more toilet paper than we will need in the next six to eight weeks, but we also have something to laugh about, together.

The Other Side

I was in Ireland this past weekend for a very intensive creative writing course. When I stepped into my rental car in Dublin, I saw this reflection on my windscreen:

The reflection is a clever reminder to drive on the left side of the road. For me, an American living in Germany, the left side is the “wrong” side to drive on, so I need the reminder, as silly as I found it at first.

Then I started to reflect upon the past few weeks. I am currently going through a personal change process, in which I’m working on changing certain thought and behavior patterns both personally and professionally. It is an exciting time and also a challenging time. I’m quite tired a lot of time because I’m questioning and moving deep, deep down within my heart and soul. Change is tough and change is draining.

Suddenly the reflection in my windscreen wasn’t so silly anymore. Instead, I found myself wishing I had something like this as a constant reminder for all of the other changes as well.

Mr. Detroit

Over this past week I've been a little surprised at how often I've defended poor little Detroit - okay, outside of Detroit. Really, people, it isn't that bad. Actually, it was quite nice. Some of it even made me smile.


For example, Mr. Detroit – who rivals Captain Pittsburgh – and is a Detroit native showed me a good time. He is the roommate of the good friend I was visiting and his second possible nickname for this blog was “Male Me”. We’ve got a lot in common, including posing for super silly pictures.

For example, THIS is how one enjoys a real s’more.

And a game of pool.


So, see Detroit isn't so bad.



xo

Be Loud

Greetings from Vancouver, Canada! I’m here for a little while for work and (I hope) to eat my weight in sushi. I was hoping to blog while over here, but I had no idea how quickly I would have something to blog about.


If you are too busy to read the whole blog, here is the message: if you or someone else is in danger, be loud. Forget polite and well-behaved. Get and be loud.

If you’ve got some more time, enjoy the rest of the blog.

As is standard operating procedure for me these days, I had a seat almost at the very back of the plane. This usually means that the airline runs out of cabin food before they get to me, so I end up with a first class meal (this time lamb) and I have a shorter walk to the bathroom and generally easier access to water throughout the flight. As is also usual, I took a short nap at take off and then settled into watching a movie (this one was Date Night - good comedy). As to be expected the airline issue earphones had two settings: loud enough to get a massive headache and quiet enough to hear everything going on around me. I chose the quiet enough to hear everything going on around me setting. And thank goodness.

About twenty minutes into the movie and about three hours in our flight, an older gentleman sitting just one row back from me started to have some sort of breathing and/or heart issue. I only noticed because I heard a half-whispered, half-statement of “Help” from a weak female voice. The call for help was respectful, decent, and the all holy “well behaved”. It was just loud enough to carry across a few seats. Yet as quiet as the voice was, it carried an undertone of panic and fear. Otherwise, the very small group of people wouldn’t have turned around to look at its source; one of those people was me.

I‘m not a doctor - obviously - but the gentleman sitting next to the well behaved passenger did not look good. His skin was pale, almost grey. It was that shade of grey is described in many books, especially those written in the late 1800s with an ailing heroine. It was also the color I saw in my papa’s face in the days leading up to his death. It wasn’t a healthy color and it was obvious that this guy was not in a healthy moment. It was also obvious that Ms. Well-Raised wasn’t going to get the help that was required. The man looked as if he could die - no exaggeration - and a polite call for help wasn’t what he needed.

Without much thought, I turned around to face forward into the cabin and channeled my inner cheerleader, my inner Sue Sylvester, opened my mouth, filled my lungs, and powered out the call to action, “HELP!”

A number of people turned but no one moved; I knocked it up another level and yelled out another “HELP!”

Suddenly it was as if the cabin had been rocked: passengers stood up, turned around, and stared. Air stewards sped in our direction. Soon the man was surround by professionals and breathing from some sort of tank with his shirt unbuttoned. Within minutes a very calm - but also very loud - announcement went out for a medical professional, which was answered by a calm, yet loud professional who gave short, clear directives for care.

The obviously extremely ill man was taken to the back of the cabin - one row away - and a few hours later he returned to his seat, still obviously not doing well. The heat of the moment passed and the doctor as well as the stewards continued to monitor him. Upon leaving the plane he was more than weak and was carefully taken off to customs.

The experience was scary. We were up in the air, far enough into the journey not to turn around but very far away from our destination. I don’t know how these things work and really it didn’t matter because the man looked like he was going to die. Going. To. Die. That is just scary. And it isn’t the kind of scary in with manners matter.

For me what was the scariest about the whole experience was not that the man was obviously ill. It wasn’t that we were in a plane, although that didn’t make it pleasant. What scared and scares the shit out of me is that the person next to him seemed to put being well behaved above getting a fellow human being help. I’m positive the man would have gotten help with my call or not. Sure, maybe fewer people would have realized what was happening. Maybe no one would have stared. Maybe a call for a medical professional could have been done in a less public manner. Maybe the entire experience would have been less embarrassing and less public. Maybe it would have ended just as well.

Maybe.

In cases like these, I suggest not doing the “maybe“. I suggest skipping the lessons we all got drilled into our souls about being well behaved. Instead, I suggest you get loud. Then you stay loud until the danger has passed. Sure, be calm if you can - I wasn’t - but be loud. With capital letters: LOUD. Make a scene because if you are calling for help, if you feel that you are in danger, what you need is noise and a scene.

BE LOUD.

If you think that you will hesitate when that moment comes, if you think that you will limit yourself or be limited by being “well behaved” when the moment comes, start practicing. Start being loud when you don’t need to be. Practice yelling “help!” and making a scene. There is a reason why this is the first lesson in every self-defense course out there. It is critically, crucially, life-saving important that you are LOUD.

So don’t worry about being a fool or looking like a fool or making a mistake or pissing people off or getting stared at or anything of those foolish limitations: practice being loud. It might save a life, and that life might be yours.

BE LOUD.



xo

Ice Hockey!

Recently a few of my colleagues and the Mr. enjoyed a night of ice hockey* during the world championships, which for whatever reason were being held in Germany. We got to watch the Swiss play Canada. We were rooting for Canada, and the Mr. was super prepared with the appropriate mittens and attitude:

I got to sit next to one of the best watch-a-live-game-with fans ever, the delightful P-lady who made the game far more exciting than it really was.

Unfortunately the Swiss had far more to celebrate than the Canadians, and they did it in Super Size.

In the end, the night totally got a thumbs-up

As always, if you'd like a pic taken down, just pop me a line.



xo
*before we get into the hockey vs. ice hockey conversation: Its on ice. Therefore it is ice hockey. And this is my blog anyway.

For the Record

This is the picture of a European eating a hamburger with a knife and fork.



A hamburger. With a knife and fork. Really. This is not photo shopped.

To protect the guilty*, no names will be used.



xo
*as wonderful as the guilty may be.

Definition of "Happily Married" – Month Nine

Happily Married is sitting in a not-so-great funky Chinese restaurant that is too warm, with my belly uncomfortably full, and looking across the table at a baby-faced young man who is wearing a goofy shirt, and laughing with a full mouth at a joke that wasn’t a joke and thinking, “I should really marry this one”.

And then realizing I already did.





xo