Kindergarten Kid

Katrina started kindergarten on Tuesday. She's attending the same Montessori school she has for the last two years, but kindergarten is a full day, from 9 to 3. She was very excited to start school, to be the "big kid" helping the little ones--one of the characteristics of the Montessori multi-age approach.

And she does look big. An early-summer growth spurt took her right out of "little girl" sizes and into the next size bracket. The one with styles geared more to precocious preteens than to giggly 5-year-old princesses.

I didn't think I was going to be all emotional. After all, she's been going to preschool since age three. But I did get a little teary--after she gave me a cheery peck on the cheek and hurried into the classroom to see her friends. Because time is getting short. Those long days with a baby or toddler at home, the ones that stretched forever (often not in a good way)...those are over. The long afternoons at the playground, walking in the woods, staying just a few minutes longer...those will be more rare. She skipped into class with a smile, and just like that, 13 years of schooling began.

I read somewhere that for parents (particularly stay-at-home ones) with young children at home, the days are long but the years are short. I understand that now. Now, we are entering a time when the days are short--my time with Katrina per day just got cut by three hours. But somehow, I don't think the years will be any longer.

Five Years Old

Dear Katrina,

You turned 5 on Sunday, a day that must have seemed anticlimactic to you after your birthday party on Saturday. Papa mentioned that you actually, truly didn't turn 5 until sometime shortly after midnight here, since you were born round about 6 pm Eastern Standard Time five years ago. I had to laugh at his detail-oriented brain. But I think you also have his attention to detail, so maybe you'll be interested in that bit of trivia if you ever read this.




Yesterday afternoon, you wanted to sit on my lap as you watched TV. Your head rested just below my chin, and your legs stretched almost the length of mine. Your feet reached the top of my feet. I told you that, once upon a time, your whole body fit on my chest and stomach. Even I find that hard to believe, and I'm the one who remembers it.

At five, your personality is already well-established. Looking back, I can say with certainty that it was established when you came into the world. Determined, gregarious, energetic, enthusiastic, confident, observent.

I've told you so many times, "You have a sharp eye," that you now say it about yourself. It's true: we recently went to Rheinland-Pfalz State Fair, and while walking down the street, with a parade going on beside us and people all around us, you pointed upwards and said, "Look! Somebody lost a balloon!" At least a block ahead of us, high up in a tree, a blue balloon was indeed caught. It took us a good few minutes to see it ourselves.



What I often think, but don't say, is that you are a force of nature. When I watch you run, full-out, I think that nothing can stop you. When you demand something, and jump up and down and scream when denied, it's just "the dark side" of the determination and passion that marks your character. And I pray that your Papa and I can help you channel those intense feelings in positive ways. Because if we can, with God's help (and only with God's help), you could truly be a force for good when you grow up.



We've had some difficult months this year, you and I (and sometimes Papa, too). As you've gotten more articulate, you're also more capable of talking back, of taking on a tone of disrespect, of being outright defiant, and usually about what I think are small things. And yet, you're also still young enough to go into a full-on tantrum when pushed too hard or when you're tired. Our personalities clash, sometimes, my darling, but not in the way you probably think. Because in the moment you think I'm the meanest mom in the world and you the most put-upon child. But I feel my wavering, my wish to give in to you to keep the peace. And my secret admiration that you have the gumption to stand eye-to-eye with an angry adult and stand your ground. I don't have that kind of natural determination, dear heart. You are teaching it to me. You probably wish you weren't, though (for despite my wish for peace and quiet, giving in could be disasterous, for both of us).

Ah, but when you're happy, the world lights up. You've taken to saying "Mama, I love you," at random times, out of the blue. I think it's your way of maintaining a connection when you're unsure of yourself or me, or when you want to talk but have nothing much to say. You've also become more physically affectionate since you've gotten older. Now that you know how to sit still once in a while, you're more amenable to hugs and kisses. I'm certainly enjoying more cuddle time.



Maybe it's just mother's bias, but there is something about you...some spark that I don't see in most other children. When you're at your best, you draw others in...adults as well as children. You want to share your enthusiasm with everyone around you. I suppose that is a mark of your outgoing personality, but you do seem to end up leading your friends (and random kids you introduce yourself to on the playground) into whatever pretend adventure your creative mind dreams up.



And you do have a creative mind. Your current obsession is Star Wars, with a healthy dose of princesses thrown in for good measure. You are Princess Leia or Queen Amidala or Aurora. When you're not a cat or a mouse, that is. You love to be read to, and ever since I made a story up to kill time waiting for you to finish in the bathroom, you periodically ask me to "read me a story from your MIND, Mama."

And how can I forget the sheer number and variety of questions you ask in a day? You may not want to narrate what you did at school, but you sure want to know where the water goes when you flush the toilet, why God is a spirit, how sausage or houses or flour or paper is made, what animal the meat on your plate is from, why Rapunzel would marry "the bad guy" in the newest Shrek movie, why bad guys are bad, and why and how people die. Both practical and philosophical, you have demanded to know on a number of occasions exactly when Jesus is coming back and why doesn't God talk to us like he talked to Moses in "The Prince of Egypt."

Your teacher says you're a happy child, and a confident one. I hope that confidence stays with you. I think it will, for I recognize the same combination of optimism and confidence in your Papa. Your teacher also says you have a "boy brain," which I found hard to believe given your refusal to wear anything but skirts and dresses, perferably pink. But looking closer, I agree that you are a girl of action, much preferring hands-on experience to sitting still at a desk. You also seem to have an affinity for numbers over letters. You're already beginning addition and subtraction, and asking you to count something is a sure-fire way to capture your interest. And your many questions about how things work sound like a little scientist in the making.



In the fall, you start kindergarten, which is all day here. I worry that it will tire you out, that all day is too much. But you will probably thrive, as the oldest in your Montessori school and eager to help your younger friends. September is just the start of your all-day school experience, and the end of weekday afternoons spent on the playground or at the library or at a friend's house. We'll still do those things, but time will be shorter.

I remember little about my own younger childhood, but I think you will remember much more. I hope you'll remember a few of those long, sunny afternoons running around the playground. I hope you'll remember the picnics, the pool, the hugs, the strawberry patch, the dinosaur park. I hope your preschool memories are hazy in that wonderful way summer afternoons are hazy. I hope you'll forget the times I'm impatient with you or lose my temper. I want your memories to be good.



Just after we moved here, when you were three, we walked a trail through the woods near our house. You broke into a run, and I watched your ponytail bobbing and your little arms pumping as you ran ahead, eager to see what was coming up next. I thought then that that sight would become a familiar one, and I was right.

Mama and Papa will always be behind you on your life's trail. Just don't run too far or too fast, baby. I'm not quite ready to let that little ponytail bounce out of sight.

Busy, Busy, Busy

This is what our week looked like.

Tuesday: "Goin' to the zoo, zoo, zoo. How about you, you, you?"





After the zoo, a quick wash-down and then dress rehersal for Katrina's dance recital. They didn't turn on the stage lights for the rehearsal so the pictures aren't great. They're dancing to "Monster Mash," hence the orange costumes.





Wednesday afternoon we spent at the pool. We were there about four hours, and still Katrina didn't want to leave.

Thursday afternoon was at the playground. We were there about two-and-a-half hours, and still Katrina didn't want to leave. I'm sensing a theme here.

Friday morning was "Promotion and Graduation" at the preschool. You know, I generally think the whole "kindergarten graduation" is kind of stupid. But darn if those little graduates weren't the cutest in their little caps and gowns. All the kids got little sashes and diplomas, and the teacher got teary-eyed talking about what a great year they've all had. She called this year's class a "gold year" and said it was the best class she'd ever had. It's certainly one of the best-looking groups of kids I've seen (but then, I might be a little biased).






Today at one is Katrina's dance recital. We're taking the video camera and the regular camera, and probably jockey for position with the other parents. We've turned into the stereotypical doting parents. But, hey, everyone here has relatives living thousands of miles away. The videos are for them, not us, right?

Happy Mother's Day

I woke up this morning with a pretty bad headache, the first in a long time. Katrina and I both slept late and then snuggled up on the couch watching "Lady and the Tramp II" on the Disney channel, while Jon went to church. Then Jon took Katrina to the Chuck E. Cheese-like place on base this afternoon. Tonight if I feel better we'll go out to eat, probably at the little Italian place here in Kindsbach.

I got flowers from Jon on Friday, and Katrina made a little vase with a rose at school. And it is enough. That little vase with its handwritten tag is pure joy.

For what seemed like such a long time, Mother's Day brought sadness and a sense of failure to me. Now it brings a profound gratefulness, and a wish to do better, to be more grateful for my beautiful, bright, kind, curious, imaginative, but sometimes difficult, little girl. And also? It brings wishes that time would just slow down a little, that I could replay moments in our lives together and keep them in vivid memory forever.

At lunch today, Katrina said she wanted a sister, and that we should ask God for one. And tears came to my eyes, and I thought of a blog post I read yesterday, and how well it captured the thoughts and emotions of those of us who have experienced infertility and motherhood:

"I look at his face and know that he is enough. He is more than enough. And yet because he is enough, more than enough, to fill my heart and life with such mind-boggling amounts of joy, I cannot help but wonder what it must be like to have that joy times two.

I cannot help but to take his face in my hands and cover it with kisses, while silently praying gimme baby. Please."

Yes, Katrina is enough. More than I dared hope for. But, oh, I wonder. I wonder.

Welcome, Spring

Plans Called on Account of the Plague

We're dealing with illness here, so I haven't had much time to write. Katrina missed out on the horrible rotavirus that decimated her preschool class about a month ago (thank goodness! one stomach virus a year is enough).

Instead, our girl had her first-ever bout with strep throat last week. She came home from a birthday party last Sunday and within an hour became lethargic. Katrina asking to go to bed at 6 p.m. means only one thing--fever. And so it was, 102 degrees. Next day, she complained of a sore throat and a sore ear. To the doctor we went. The very kind receptionist noted that the "infectious disease" waiting room was already taken (the doc's office was more crowded than I'd ever seen it), so maybe we should just go have a coffee and come back in half an hour. There's a bakery/cafe downstairs. Much better than a doctor's waiting room.

Anyway, we waited another 20 minutes when we got back. (This is entirely unusual for this doctor. On occasion we have been in and out in under 20 minutes.) The nurse walked in and immediately swabbed Katrina's mouth for strep. No gag-inducing tonsil swab! Just the inside of the cheek, and results in a few minutes. The miracles of modern medicine!

So, yes, strep. Over to the apotheke for penicillin. No school until Wednesday, as the doc said she'd still be contagious Tuesday. Let's see, about 60 euro for the doctor's visit (which included 10 or 15 euros for the cool strep test) and 30 or so euro for the medicine.

Fast forward a week. She was fine Sunday. Yesterday morning, "Owwie! My ear hurts!" while clutching the offending appendage. We talked about it a bit, as I couldn't believe she could get an ear infection or have one get worse while still on antibiotics. "Are you sure, honey? Because we'll have to go to the doctor if you stay home from school." (This is not much of an disincentive. She loves the doctor's office.) Plus, she also said her toe hurt. So it started to sound like a random, "last time my ear hurt I got to stay home and watch TV" kind of thing. Until I tried to take her temperature with the ear thermometer and she clutched her ear again and refused to let me take it on that side. She's never done that.

So back to the doctor. A bit of a wait again. Doc confirmed that she had an ear infection. Actually, he walked in, looked at her record on the computer, said "Oh, nein!" loudly, and kind of laughed with the nurse. Apparently, the antibiotic he prescribed was only for strep. It was not strong enough for an ear infection. And apparently, Katrina was not the first child to come back with another infection.

So, back to the apotheke. 75 euros for TWO bottles of Augmentin (the nastiest stuff she's ever had to take), a small bottle of probiotics, and a bottle of stool softener, because these antibiotics are wreaking havoc with her little tummy. The doc only charged 25 euros because it was a "follow-up visit."

Another two days at home. And poor Katrina trying to get down a teaspoon and a half of Augmentin twice a day. After only a day of her second round of this stuff in as many months, she started to gag involuntarily this morning as soon as she got a whiff. She managed to get it down, though, with me using a medicine syringe and her holding her nose. There's not enough candy in the world to reward her for that.

Why There's a Plastic Cup, a Paper Towel, and a Piece of Cardboard in my Backyard

Ah, the peace and quiet after the girl child is fast asleep. Lovely. Calm.

I walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Something high up on the wall catches my eye.





What is that? I look again.

Now, here's what usually happens when I see a bug in the house: I call "Jon!" in a very sweet voice and then beseech him to take care of it. He looks at me in disgust for my disgust and giant-bug-induced paralysis, and then he gets the vacuum and poof! no more bug.

Jon left on a business trip this morning.

And, I really don't want to wake my sleeping child with the sound of the vacuum.

I confess to you that I seriously thought about just turning off the light, closing the door, and going upstairs, trusting that the GIANT SPIDER in my kitchen could NOT go under three doors and up onto my daughter's bed to crawl across her while she's sleeping. Or, not climb up a flight of stairs, go through two doors, and get up on MY bed. Did I mention that the notion of bugs crawling on me while I'm asleep gives me the heebie-jeebies? Well, actually, bugs crawling on me at all. But in bed while asleep is the stuff of nightmares. [To get totally off the subject, I believe there was a scene in The Poisenwood Biblethat pushed all of these buttons. Wave after wave of bugs, and the family had to flee its home in the dead of night. At least, I think it was bugs. Great book, nasty, scary chapter.]

Anyway, so I realized I would have to deal with the GIANT SPIDER by myself, with no vacuum. Oh, and did I tell you about the extreme ookiness of squishing an insect? When you can feel the exoskeleton crunch between your fingers, even if said insect is deep within some sort of tissue? EW. And? If I hit that thing with something? HUGE nasty stain on the wall.

Hence, the plastic cup. Of course, I had to drag a chair over to stand on because the GIANT SPIDER was too high up for me to reach. Then, I tried to catch it under the cup. But it DROPS onto my KITCHEN COUNTER and scuttles back beside the coffee grinder.

Again, I contemplate just walking away, quietly.

But no. So I move the coffee grinder and gingerly look behind it. With a piece of cardboard torn from a pizza box, I block the GIANT SPIDER's only avenue of escape into the wires coiled in the corner of the counter, and it moves fast as lightning toward me. I must admit I uh, backed away. And maybe made a slightly terrified sound. And shuddered. But it stopped under the shade of a paper towel. So, me with the cup. I got it. It made the ooky rattling noise as it tried to get out. I slid the cardboard under the cup, taking the paper towel with it, and deposited everything in the backyard. Then I came inside and shut the door, tight. Never to enter the yard again.

Well, ok, I'll probably go out tomorrow and knock the cup over from a distance and then throw out the cup and the cardboard. But it's dark out now! How would I know if the GIANT KILLER SPIDER came at me if I lifted the cup now?

P.S. This post brought to you by Jen's irrational fears and vivid imagination. But really, did you SEE that thing?

P.P.S. Hi, dear! Hope you had a nice flight. Everything's fine here, other than the big giant bug. Can you get home before the angry one in the backyard sneaks its way back in and brings its friends? Love you!

Love Is... (holiday edition)

Love is...

• your husband saying "Go back to bed, I'll get up with her," at 4 am the morning after a transatlantic flight.
• visiting with a friend you haven't seen in a long time and picking up exactly where you left off.
• two little girls shrieking and hugging each other. And then picking up exactly where they left off.
• leaving the house by 7:30 am on your day off and taking the car to the tire-repair shop so your son and daughter-in-law can drive it for a few weeks.
• buying a bunk bed in order to fit the maximum number of children and grandchildren into your house at one time.
• 14 kinds of Christmas cookies.
• saying "You two go to the movies. We'll make cookies with Katrina while you're gone."
• no, wait, 15 kinds of Christmas cookies.
• an 11-year-old girl spending over an hour crawling around on her hands and knees because her 4-year-old cousin wants to play "secret agent."
• listening to your sister sing "I Will Survive" on her niece's karaoke machine and only pointing and laughing a wee little bit.
• watching two blonde heads and one redhead huddled together around one microphone.
• seeing pure wonder on your daughter's face as she carefully holds a candle at the end of the Christmas Eve service.
• witnessing a couple quietly renewing their wedding vows after 40 years together, in the presence of the family their union created.
• watching your daughter twirl and whirl in the sunshine after seeing "The Nutcracker."

and finally, love is...

• gluten-free Chex Mix. Oh, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving? (or, the pros and cons of being sick in a hotel room)

Warning: This post contains strong (smelling) content. Proceed with caution. Wendy, this means you!

Pro: When your four-year-old daughter wakes up puking at midnight Thanksgiving night, there are only 3 steps from her bed to the bathroom.
Con: You are highly likely to bruise yourself (or her) on some wooden corner along the way. Every. Single. Time. (Oh, number of times? I stopped counting at five, but I think there was more. That's between midnight and about 6:30 am.)

Pro: You won't have to wash her soiled linen in the middle of the night.
Con: You won't have readily available clean linen in the middle of the night, so she will sleep with you. And by "sleep," I mean she falls asleep immediately after each, um, episode and you sit bolt upright every time she moves, in anticipation of another episode.

Pro: You can leave the soiled towels from cleaning up on the floor of the bathroom. And you don't have to wash those, either.
Con: You will worry about running out of toilet paper before the maids appear with more in the morning. (But you will make it.)

Pro: You don't have to clean the toilet or the bathroom floor.
Con: You will be washing out pajamas (yours and hers) with hotel shampoo in the sink in an attempt to cut down on the smell. You will fail and deposit said pajamas on the balcony. Plus, no clean pajamas.

Pro: You don't have to cook breakfast for self or others.
Con: The hotel doesn't serve lunch, so you will go out foraging late in the afternoon and end up with peanut butter and jelly on the GF bread you packed. Husband will make do with a soft pretzel. Daughter, now alternating between wonderfully chipper and pathetically whiny, will refuse to eat anything but bagged popcorn. Which you will dole out in handfuls of approximately 10 kernels every 10 minutes, no matter how pathetically she whines "I'm hungweeeee."

Pro: You return to your room after breakfast to find clean linens on daughter's bed, a sparkling bathroom, clean towels, and freshly made beds.
Con: With no good way to get cross-ventilation, a miasma of ...well, you can imagine the smell well enough yourself.

Pro: Since you're on vacation, you have nowhere you need to be.
Con: Three exhausted people sitting in a hotel room that's approximately the size of our bathroom at home. All day. Jon did take Katrina out for a few hours when it was clear she was feeling better enough to ransack the room. They even found a playground. I tried to sleep off a splitting headache that had begun around 2 am. And failed. Tylenol helped, though.

What I'm Thankful For This Thanksgiving
That we left Austria a day early, making the 6-hour drive yesterday and getting in about 7 pm. Katrina started eating again at lunchtime yesterday (half a McDonald's cheeseburger and a strawberry shake). At 3 am this morning, I was awakened by the most wretched sounds I had heard since...well, since Thanksgiving night. Jon had succumbed.

Two down, one to go. What does one do when it seems certain the dreaded Stomach Bug has you in its sights? Laundry. Lots of laundry. Oh, and a blog update.