Happy Halloween!

The beginning of the evening...




After trick-or-treating...



A good time was had by all...except maybe the pumpkins.

This Is Why I Read Blogs

Katrina is not the easiest child to parent. She is not easy-going. She is not particularly flexible. Like Jon, she has clear, detailed expectations of how things should be. Like me, she is impatient and easily frustrated. Don't get me wrong, she's also got a lot of stellar qualities. When she's good, she's very, very good...but you know the rest.

But you know, sometimes I get impatient and frustrated (see above) that tears, whining, and even screaming ensue if some little detail does not live up to her expectations. In fact, managing Katrina's expectations is an essential part of parenting her effectively (or, really, of surviving the day without tearing out my hair).

Unfortunately, one cannot always predict the unpredictable. Last night, Jon made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. One of Katrina's favorite meals (mine, too). The gravy didn't get as thick as usual, though. After Katrina took her first bite of mashed potatoes, the gravy spilled out of the little well in the middle of the potatoes. It spread across part of her plate. Mind you, it didn't actually flood adjoining food. It just escaped its bounds. The crying, it began. And the annoyance, it began. We had to talk her down so that she could eat HER FAVORITE DINNER.

The best part is, she ate everything on her plate and then asked for more potatoes and gravy. And when the gravy AGAIN did not remain where she wanted it? More tears. Followed by eating that helping and again asking for more.

And about that time, I flashed back to this post on Dooce's blog, which I read mere hours before the Great Gravy Flood of 2007. Skip the first few paragraphs if you're in a hurry, but do not miss the lollipop story. I laughed and laughed, because I have been there. I've felt the tension as I wondered if some small change of plans would be accepted or lamented with a wailing that would put professional mourners to shame.
You know the cliche...it's funny 'cause it's true. Not for every kid, but certainly for mine. And Dooce's. And THAT, ladies and gentleman, is why I read mommy blogs.

Shifting Gears

Jon taught me how to drive a car with manual transmission when we were in college. We've owned manual transmissions ever since.

There's a moment when you shift from one gear to the next--clutch in, shift gears, let clutch out while pressing the gas pedal--when the car seems to pause. You can feel it in automatics, too. When the car isn't in one gear or the other. The engine is still going, of course, but the momentum is lost, just for a split second. You could be preparing to speed up or slow down, but you haven't done it yet.

That's about where I am right now. In the middle of shifting gears. In the space between.

When Katrina was born, everything else fell away. This hungry, demanding, squalling creature took over both day and night. I gladly let everything go except the imperative to love and care for her. Because of her nature and mine, I found the job all-consuming for a long time, perhaps longer than high-energy, highly organized moms would. For a while, I fit in editing and writing projects here and there, but my rose-colored vision of mommy writing on the computer while a quiet, contented child played at my feet never came to pass. (Go ahead and chuckle; I'll wait.)

When Katrina started preschool, I started to try to lose weight. I went to the gym at least three times a week, and that combined with the peace of doing various errands by myself (plus a little blog writing) filled up those three hours a day.

I'm still going to the gym, and all of those other things to keep the household running. And if I let it, I can fill even those additional hours with this and that. In my time-management-challenged world, tasks truly do expand to fill the time I have. I can take a long time to peruse labels in the commissary, take an extra half-hour during lunch to finish reading just one more page, and stay on the Internet long enough to read "just one more" thing. And then it is time to go pick up Katrina.

But I do not want my days to be aimless, idle. I now have the gift of time, and I want to use in purposefully. I've thought of re-starting my freelance business (which would be a bit more complicated to manage here in Germany than it was in the U.S.), or of trying to write a novel, or any of a dozen things. But what keeps coming to the top is a desire to help. I'm not sure with what, though. I have a few ideas, too many, really. There's a crisis pregnancy center here. There's Fisher House. There's a score of things I could start up at church.

I haven't made a decision yet. It feels more important than it should, I think. It has the feel of remaking my life...or even starting anew. My prior life fell away naturally, easily, while I held my daughter close to my heart for hours at a time. Not so easy is figuring out what to to with my hands--and time--now that they are free.

How My Week Has Gone

"D" is for Disconcerting

Every week or so, Katrina brings home a bunch of papers from school, all of the worksheets she's completed. I was going through them this morning, and one of them reminded me of how, uh, unique my little girl is.

Oh. look, they worked on "D" last week.




Wait, what's that?



I wonder what the teacher said when Katrina came up with that. More importantly, I wonder what she thought. Or maybe I don't want to know.

Our conference in November might be interesting.

Just Trippin'

I didn't mean for that Angry Whopper commercial to stand at the top so long, but life got in the way. The weather has been outstanding the past two weeks, and we have taken advantage of it.

The Friday before Columbus Day weekend, we decided on the spur of the moment to join some friends on their long-planned weekend trip to Disneyland Paris. Jon secured a hotel room for us at noon on Friday, I quickly packed, we picked Katrina up from school at 3, and drove off. It was a good decision. The weather was beautiful, much better than when we visited in July.

And the park was all decked out for Halloween.






As you can see above, we traveled with some seriously cute children. Katrina and three boys. They all got along well, for the most part, and the three families separated and came together as our interests crossed. The boys were all much more into the rides than Katrina was, but she managed to visit her old favorites and even try a few rides she refused last time.



And at Disney Studios, we found something that highlighted one of Katrina's true talents.



Yes, the "scream machine" from Monsters Inc. It kept both her and her friend M amused for about a half hour. She outscreamed the mild-mannered M, though. No one was surprised.

And, this past weekend, I went on a girls trip to Cheb, in the Czech Republic. Well, at least that was the original plan. One of us (not me, thanks to an early-morning reminder from Jon) forgot her passport. We tried to get her through with her military ID, but just got turned around for our troubles. The Czech border guard was very friendly, but matter-of-fact. "No passport, no come into Czech," he said sympathetically, before he motioned us to turn around.

The German border guard on the way back into Germany was not so friendly. "Passport into Czech is normal," he said. My friend, in the driver's seat, answered yes, she knew, we just forgot it. And we thought that was the end of it. But no, the guard apparently needed to bully three American women that day. "I could call the military police and make a report! You need your passport!" he ranted. Later, all of three of us agreed that at that point, we wanted to see him call the American MPs and make a report. Because all that happened was that someone forgot her passport. It's not like we made a run for it. We tried, on the off-chance that the military ID would suffice. When told it wouldn't, we just turned around. Ah, well, hopefully the guard relieved his power-trip needs and was more civil with the next car.

But the adventure didn't end there! No indeedy, when it rains, it pours. Our forgetful friend urged us to drop her off at the hotel and head back to Cheb to shop at the Asian Market there, as we had planned. We decided to do just that, if only to see if it was worth it to our friend to try to come back. After about an hour strolling through booths of near-identical knock-offs of various designer labels, we headed back. We pulled out our passports at the German border. My friend handed them to me, I took mine and handed hers back. And that's the last we saw of my friend's passport.

We spent Sunday morning searching the car and retracing our steps to find the missing passport. Now WE were the ones calling the MPs. But no luck. So we headed back home.

And I checked my purse about every hour to make sure my passport was still there.

Because Someone Said I Was Getting "Too Literary"

For your viewing pleasure, the terribly high-brow use of English for a new product here in Germany.





You don't really need a translation, do you?

Songs of Lament

There's a song we hear a lot, but only on German radio. On German radio, it's currently in relatively heavy rotation. I haven't heard it at all on AFN (American Forces Network). It's not hard to figure out why.

Dear Mr. President,
Come take a walk with me. ...
I'd like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly.

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?
Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep?
What do you feel when you look in the mirror?
Are you proud?

How do you sleep while the rest of us cry?
How do you dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Can you even look me in the eye
And tell me why?

Dear Mr. President,
Were you a lonely boy?
Are you a lonely boy?
How can you say
No child is left behind?
We're not dumb and we're not blind.
They're all sitting in your cells
While you pave the road to hell.

What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away?
And what kind of father might hate his own daughter if she were gay?
I can only imagine what the first lady has to say
You've come a long way from whiskey and cocaine.

Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Minimum wage with a baby on the way
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Rebuilding your house after the bombs took them away
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Building a bed out of a cardboard box
Let me tell you 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
You don't know nothing 'bout hard work
Hard work
Hard work
Oh

How do you sleep at night?
How do you walk with your head held high?
Dear Mr. President,
You'd never take a walk with me.
Would you?

--"Dear Mr. President," by Pink (feat. The Indigo Girls)


It's no secret that I vote Republican and voted for the president. Some of the lyrics in this song are cheap shots (what, Clinton had no homeless under his watch?), including pretty much all of the second verse. And needless to say, I don't agree with many of the things Pink is so angry about.

But every time I hear this song my heart hurts and tears come to my eyes. Partly because the melody is beautiful and mournful. It's simply a lovely song. But also because you can feel the pain and heartbreak in the refrain. People are crying out for justice, for help, for someone to listen to them. Mothers are crying at night. Families are broken. The world seems so very dark.

But the question to the president in this song, and I think, to the leaders of the nation in general, is not "What is your plan for getting us out of this?" At least, that's not what I hear when I listen. The questions this song really ask are: Do you care? Does injustice trouble you? Do you know what we're going through?

It's obvious that Pink believes the answers to these questions are "no." No, the president doesn't care. No, he'd never take a walk with her (of course, I wouldn't want to take a walk with someone who just wrote a song insulting me, either).

But would any other political leaders and presidential wannabes walk with her or answer those underlying questions differently? Of course, many would say they would, at least during election season. But I'm not convinced that very many of those who call themselves "public servants" truly would listen to someone who's not powerful or in a position to donate to their campaigns. Despite her harsh words, I think Pink asks some valid questions, not just of Bush but of those who are and who would like to become our leaders.

------------------------------------------------

Perhaps you'll find this an odd juxtaposition, but "Dear Mr. President" reminds me of another song. The context is different, but the underlying questions are the same.

You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt
Do you remember when You lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread
Did You forget about us after You had flown away
Well I memorized every word You said
Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While You're up there just playing hard to get

You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then
Did You ever know loneliness
Did You ever know need
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fall asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in Your sweat
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You're up there just playing hard to get?

And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow
All I really need to know
Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can't see how You're leading me unless You've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led

And so You've been here all along I guess
It's just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get.

--"Hard to Get" by Rich Mullins


My favorite Rich Mullins song, as I've mentioned before. In a crisis of the soul, what does the singer want to know about God? Do you care? Does injustice trouble you? Do you know what I'm going through?

Songs of lament, both of them. Songs of angry questions, shaking your fist: Do you see? Do you know? Do you care? Wrong is being done! People are dying and you stand by, seemingly unmoved! Help us!

---------------------------------------------

When I was in college, I took a course on religion and modern culture. I was fairly outspoken as one of the few practicing Christians (or admitted ones, anyway) in the class. One of my classmates did a presentation on some song that she deemed was anti-God--or anti-religion, anyway. She nervously warned that some might find the lyrics offensive. I did not. I found them to be strikingly similar to some of the Psalms, and said as much. (I remember the speaker being shocked that I wasn't offended, and me being shocked that she thought I would BE offended. I don't, however, remember what the song was.)

The format, the questions, even the anger and cries for justice--from Pink as well as from Rich Mullins--I find strikingly similar to some of the less-quoted Scripture passages.

How long, O LORD, must I call for help,

but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, "Violence!"

but you do not save?

Why do you make me look at injustice?
Why do you tolerate wrong?
Destruction and violence are before me;
there is strife, and conflict abounds.

Therefore the law is paralyzed,
and justice never prevails.
The wicked hem in the righteous,
so that justice is perverted.

--Habakkuk 1:2-4

It's the question of evil. Why does God allow evil? Why does he allow good people to suffer? The standard Christian answers have to do with free will, original sin, and the devil. And those answers may somewhat satisfy us intellectually. Until we actually face suffering, until we are exposed to war, to poverty, to injustice. And then all of the theology in the world does not mend our broken hearts. And so we cry out. We cry out for justice, for understanding, for help. We cry out to a seemingly unmoved Power: Do you see? Do you know? Do you care?

One of the reasons I am suspicious of pat, tidy answers, especially within the Christian church, is books like Habbakkuk, like Job, like parts of the Psalms. I believe the Bible holds the truth, and with C.S. Lewis I believe that Christianity offers the best explanation for why the world is the way it is. But the Bible doesn't hold all of the answers. Sometimes, it just asks the right questions.

Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?

We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
redeem us because of your unfailing love.

--Psalm 44:23-26

Why I Never Needed to Use Drugs

My dad used to yell at me. Frequently. I could never figure out why. There I was, just reading a book, and all of a sudden, someone's screaming at me.

At least, that's how it seemed to me. To my poor dad, I had been ignoring all of his reasonably-toned attempts to get my attention. Yelling my name from just a few feet away was the last resort.

I'm not sure he really believed I didn't hear him the first 10 times. So, Dad, the truth: I really didn't hear you. Because I wasn't actually sitting in the living room. I was inside that book (whatever the book was at the moment), and everything around me had long ago faded away.

Because that's how it is with me. If a book is engaging, well-written, and tells a good story, I just climb right in. I lose any sense of my eyes taking in the words. I'm just there, wherever there might be. (And truthfully? It doesn't even have to be that well-written. It does have to better written than Dan Brown, though. I just can't get more than a few pages into The Da Vinci Code, no matter what the best-sellers list says.)

Sometimes people who don't read much say admiring things to me about my reading, like reading is some virtue I have cultivated. It's not. It's just a thing that grips me. That lets me escape. That relaxes me. That gives me something to do when I'm bored. That brings excitement to an ordinary day. That shows me beauty, or darkness, or humor.

I've just finished re-reading Diana Gabaldon's Outlander books. There are six of them, each the size of large doorstops. And as sometimes happens when I'm in the grip of a fictional world, the narrator's voice seems to run in the background, even when I'm not reading. Not like someone's narrating my life, I'm not as quirky as all that. No, it's more like a murmur, like I'm half in my world and half in the book. Like the book is going on without me. I can see why some writers either don't read similar works or don't read at all when they're in the midst of a writing project. After a good six weeks or so in Gabaldon's world, I could probably write in her voice.

The escapism part is why I mostly read fiction, and why I don't read a lot of highly literary, er, literature. I can and do enjoy nonfiction, but if I can't get lost in a book, if the world doesn't fade away within a few minutes, I don't feel like I've had my reading fix.

If I don't have a book in progress for a few days, I get jittery. Something's missing. I read magazines, but they're just not the same. If I can't get to the library, I start looking at the books on the shelf. Are there any I haven't read yet? Any I wish to revisit? Because I need a book, and I need it now.

Sometimes my reading interferes with my life and my relationships. I run late to places because I just needed to finish a few more pages. I'm annoyed with my daughter or my husband because they have the gall to want my attention just as I hit a particularly good part. Dinner is late and the ironing undone because "just a few minutes" stretched out to...well, till I could drag myself away.

And it does feel like dragging. Or waking up suddenly from a particularly vivid dream. I'm groggy, and my mind moves slowly, still half caught up in another time and place, and coming back to reality only gradually.

So people who know me well know better than to admire the fact that I read a lot. They know how this addiction affects me, and they're not impressed.

In fact, sometimes they even yell at me.

Of Mitochondria, Tesseracts, and Nephilim

Madeleine L'Engle died last week, at age 88. I don't remember the first time I read "A Wrinkle in Time," probably because I've read it so many times. But I followed the adventures of Meg and Charles Murry through the "A Wind in the Door" and "A Swiftly Tilting Planet." I actually liked the latter two better than "Wrinkle." I didn't find "Many Waters" until I was older--it was an unexpected treasure.

As an adult, I've dipped into a few of Madeleine L'Engle's memoirs, and her book about writing is simply beautiful.

But hearing of her death reminded me of her Murry books. I identified with both Meg and Charles Wallace, feeling myself rather a misfit, not quite being able to figure out the social complexities of my peers. Quite apart from the intriguing mix of fantasy, science, and spirituality in the books' plots, the Wrinkle in Time books showed the younger me that not fitting in was survivable. Poor, misunderstood genius Charles Wallace had it much worse than me...and Meg grew from wild hair, braces, and spectacles into a beautiful, confident woman with a husband who adored her.

Plus, you know, between the two of them, they saved their father, each other, and the world. Pretty good for a couple of social outcasts.

I think I'll see if the library has the L'Engle books. I'd like to visit with the Murrys--and with Madeleine L'Engle--once again. If you haven't read L'Engle, I invite you to do the same.

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.

No Greater Love Has a Man Than This...

I was talking to the mom of one of Katrina's friends at the playground this week. Her husband is getting ready to deploy to a not-so-dangerous place. For the first time, he'll be gone over the holidays. But, she said, considering the number of years they've been in the military, this being the first holiday seperation is pretty good.

"But, listen," she said, "how this deployment happened."

Her husband sits side-by-side with another officer at work. One day, their commander came around. "We need one person to deploy to [a not-so-dangerous place] for about four months," he said.

The co-worker looked at the husband. "He has a wife and kids and I'm single," he said. "I'll go."

A few days later, another announcement. "We need a guy to deploy to Baghdad."

The single officer looked at the husband. "He has a wife and kids. He can go to [the not-so-dangerous place]. Send me to Baghdad."


You know, the sheer repetition of "support our troops" can get old. Until you have contact with them and their families every day. Both of these men deploy in the next month. Whatever you think of the war, pray for them, and all of the others. These are quality people.

Mom's Decision Trees

When Grandpa was visiting last month, Katrina and he were "doing art" at the kitchen table. Katrina wanted to write letters and then play post office and deliver them, and somewhere along the line, she wanted Grandpa to draw her something. Fresh from teaching a class on business practices in Frankfurt, Grandpa gave a lively explanation of a decision tree, sketching the boxes and arrows on brown construction paper as he talked. And Katrina listened to every word.

Recently, that construction paper decision tree came to mind. If I had the technical and graphic skills, I'd put this entry into a real flow chart, but alas, I do not know how. So you'll have to use your imagination.

Decision Tree #1: Mama, My Tummy Hurts!

Question from Mom no. 1: Does it feel like you have to throw up?
Answer: No ==> Go on to next question
Answer: Yes ==> Let's get to the bathroom--QUICK!

Question no. 2: Do you have to go potty?
Answer: No ==> Go to next question.
Answer: Yes ==> Then go potty, please.

Questions no. 3, 4, 5: Are you sure you don't have to go potty? When was the last time you went? This morning when you woke up?
Answer: (Answer doesn't matter) => Go sit on the potty and just try, please. (and the really savvy mom acts surprised when this solves the problem.)

If tummy still hurts:

Question no. 6: Are you hungry?
Answer: No ==> Go back to question 2.
Answer: Yes ==> Let's go get a snack (or breakfast/lunch/dinner).

If none of the above helps, try to remember the last occasion and quality of child's poop. Then push fiber-rich foods and/or give Metamucil-type medicine prescribed by doctor. Distract child from tummy, if possible, and breathe sigh of relief when she stays in bathroom for more than two minutes.


Decision Tree #2: Mama, My Ear Hurts!

Question no. 1: Are you sure?
Answer: Yes ==> Call doctor, get appointment, get antibiotics.
Answer: No ==> Wait until she complains about it again, usually within a few hours. Then call doctor, get appointment, get antibiotics.


Katrina is now taking Zithromax. Again.

The End.

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.

She's Big in Japan

Katrina's Favorite Part of the Louvre







Well, that and the mummy.

About ten seconds after Jon took that last photo, two Asian ladies literally RAN across the courtyard toward Katrina. One knelt and took Katrina's hand, smiling. The other lifted her camera and took pictures of her friend with Katrina. Then they reversed positions, smiling all the time, and talking gently to Katrina in, we think, Japanese. Katrina was a bit bewildered, but smiled for their cameras all the same. Then they said "sank you," giggled a bit, and walked away.

I've told people before that random Asian tourists take pictures of Katrina whenever we're in tourist areas here in Europe. I'm sure that others think I'm exaggerating, until they see it happen. It's a little disconcerting, but the picture-takers are usually women, and Katrina is usually confused but not shy or frightened. I assume the attention is due to her long blonde hair, but, as my mother-in-law said in this case, if these women had traveled all the way to Paris, you would think that they'd have seen blonde-haired children before. Who knows? Perhaps they had just arrived.

So, Katrina is probably in several vacation photo albums across Japan or other parts of Asia. "Here's the Eiffel Tower, and here's the Arc d'Triumphe. Here's the Venus de Milo, and here's a Leonardo di Vinci painting. And look at this girl outside the Louvre, feeding the pigeons. Imagine! Blonde hair! We just had to take her picture. No, we don't know her name or where she's from. Look! There I am, holding her hand!"

Katrina and the Venus de Milo. Both renowned the world over.

15 Things About My Husband

1. He's an incredibly loyal friend. He chooses his friends carefully, and he considers them friends for life. Even if he hasn't seen them for awhile, even years. Even if he doesn't keep in touch as often as he'd like. If friends are in need, he will be there.

2. Same with family.

3. He has a tender heart. It's well-hidden, and sometimes I blunder into piercing it, thinking he is invincible. He's not.

4. He has this innate sense of self-confidence and optimism. Even when things look bad, he knows that everything will work out one way or another. I envy this.

5. When I'm with a group of women, talk sometimes turns to husbands. And human nature being what it is, often the stories are negative. And I sit there, with little to offer. Except this:

6. He hates cheese. Except on pizza. And sometimes on enchiladas. But other than that, no cheese. Also? He has a myriad of other food rules. I just learned a new one this year, by violating the rule with a new recipe. I blame his mother. :) Unfortunately, his little food quirks get me exactly zero sympathy from other women on the continuum of "things my husband does that drive me crazy."

7. He thinks very logically. He looks at many angles of an issue before making a decision. Often, he has thought about something for a while before he even mentions it to me. Nevertheless, he always asks for my input, and sometimes I even come up with something he hasn't thought of. (He, of course, usually comes up with about three things I haven't thought of.) We make all big decisions together, and most of the little ones, too. We were married for some time before I realized that this is not always the norm.

8. Last week, he cleaned out and vacuumed the interior of my car. He even wiped down the dashboard. And he takes out the trash every week, which is a much nastier and more complicated endeavor here in Germany, especially in the summer. (Rotting food and maggots and flies, oh, my!) That? Is true love.

9. He is the strong, silent type. But when he talks, I listen. Because he always has something valuable to say.

10. He is a spectacular gift-giver. Me? Not so much. Poor guy.

11. Sometimes we can crack each other up in the middle of a fight. I love that. It tells me that even when we disagree, even if we hurt each other, we can find our way back. We're in it together.

12. He gets up at 7 am on Saturdays and Sundays with Katrina and lets me sleep in. In a way, he has no choice, because Katrina considers weekend mornings to be Papa time. In fact, she's been waking up earlier on Saturdays than on weekdays, so she can have more time with Papa. When I get up with her on the weekends to try to let him sleep, Katrina cries. That's because:

13. He is an amazing father. Patient where I am not. Gentle where I am edgy. And what little girl wouldn't adore being swept up in those strong arms, especially when Mom can barely lift her now?

14. He is hard-working, at home as well as work. He keeps our finances in line, and is careful about saving for the future, giving to others, and having a little fun now. Plus did I mention he cleaned out my car?

15. He has unshakeable integrity. He doesn't make promises he doesn't intend to keep. He tells the truth, even if others don't want to hear it. When he makes a commitment, he keeps it.

We've been married 15 years today. With the divorce rate in America so high, one might wonder what it takes to maintain a marriage that long. You know the secret? Choose a good man, and then appreciate, love, and respect him. I know I don't always love Jon as well as I should. It's easy to get into a rut when life gets busy.

But I did do one thing right: I chose well.

Let's Play!

Mama, I'm a puppy, and you be my owna! A puppy doesn't know how to wash its hands. You have to help me. A puppy can't brush its teef, Mama! You bwush my teef. OK, I can climb in bed. Tomowwow when I wake up, I'm still gonna be a puppy, OK?

Mama! Let's play with this (Polly Pockets riding horses)! Mama! You be the blue one and I'll be the pink one. AWWW! Her hat won't stay on!!! Mama, can you help me? Mama, I can't get this dwess on, you put it on her. Mama! It's your biwthday pawty and you'we my sistew and I'm going to go buy your pwesent. Ding-dong! Open the doow, Mama! Happy Biwthday! Hewe's your pwesent! Now I'm going to make your cake.

Mama! Fiwst we have to eat what's good for us. I'll have pizza and you can have a cheeseburger. Our fwiends (she lined up about seven small stuffed animals complete with plates, tea cups, and a single piece of hard candy on each plate) can just eat that candy. OK! Time for cake! Blow out the candles! Oh, they'we the candles that light back up. Blow again! No, they'we still lighted. Let's both blow on them! No, they still came back. Let me do it. OK, they're out. Want a piece of cake? Oh, that piece is too big for your plate. That's bettew. Now my cake. The amimals don't need cake. They just eat their candy.

Now it's time for our sleepovew pawty! Mama, move this table! There's not enough woom for our sleeping bags. OK! Time to sleep! I need these amimals to sleep with. Which ones do you want, Mama? OK, now it's time to sleep. Sssh! Don't open your eyes!

BOO! Wake up!

(Later) Mama! I'm a secwet agent looking for a lost kitty. A WEAL lost kitty, not a stuffed one. Kitty! Kitty!

Look, Mama, I found the kitty (cradling a stuffed cat)! I'm a secwet agent, and I have to keep the kitty safe fwom the bad guys. No, I don't want to take a bath because I'm a secwet agent.

Mama! Keep watching that kitty! The bad guys want to TAKE it! And they want to take its collar, too.

Mama, I'm a gekecktive! I look for lost kitties and lost PEOPLE. I'm a, a, kee-gec-tive.

Oh, no! I forgot the kitty! Come hewe, kitty.

Mama, why did Wapunzel mawwy the bad pwince? (I took her to see Shrek 3 today) Why did hew haiw fall off? Was she weally a boy? What happened to hew haiw?

OK, Mama. Good-night. I love you.

Lyrical Friday: Moving On

Make new friends
But keep the old
One is silver
And the other's gold

A circle is round
It has no end
That's how long
I will be your friend

Across the land
Across the sea
Friends forever
We will always be



The kids sang "Make New Friends" at the preschool promotion ceremony last week. In the context of military life (and all of her classmates are connected to the military in some way), that last verse is especially appropriate.

Today is Katrina's last day of preschool for the year. In September, she will start kindergarten at the same Montessori school she's attending now. Many of her current classmates will not, however. Some are moving, in the inevitable round of PCS-ing that is part of military life. (PCS is short for Permanent Change of Station and is usually used as a verb "We're PCS-ing to Japan".) Most of her PCS-ing classmates this year will be moving back to the States, to DC, to Colorado, to Alaska, to Washington state, to Illinois. Some of her classmates will start at the Department of Defense schools on one of the bases here.

Only a few of the kids Katrina's age will continue into kindergarten with her next year. (Many of the younger kids will stay on, and there will be a few new kindergarteners thrown into the mix.) A number of kids will remain in the area, though, so I'm hoping that I can foster some ongoing friendships despite the school changes.

As someone who spent nearly all of her growing-up years in one town, in one house, in one school district, and with basically the same group of kids from elementary school through high school, I'm not sure how to handle the inevitable comings and goings among Katrina's friends.

Even if we were back in the States, changes would be common. The DC area--perhaps any metropolitan area--is prone to more transience. People move in and out all the time. Rural areas seem to be the only places where people tend to stay put. But there are not a lot of computer consulting jobs in rural areas.

Of course, Katrina handles making new friends far better than I ever did. She is just naturally confident and friendly. Put her on a playground full of strange kids (if they're near her age and speak English, that is), and on a good day she will be directing the play within minutes. A few weeks ago, she did just that. She ended up playing with two girls who were a head taller than she was, which tells me they must have been at least a year older. But Katrina was definitely the leader, and the other two were happily running along after her. She has a knack for either joining others in play or drawing others to her.

Which makes me think that all this ruminating about friends moving on is more about my own fears from my own decidedly less people-friendly personality. In any case, I'm sad about the school year ending, even as I look forward to not having to roust us both out of the house every morning for the next few months.

Plus, next year she's in school every day from 9 to 3. My miracle baby is growing up. She's looking forward to being the oldest at school, and she's already been helping some of the younger ones. No, it's me who wants time to slow down. Just a little.

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?

Lyrical Friday: Influence

I can taste the fruit of Eve.

I'm aware of sickness, death, and disease.

The results of her choices were vast.

Eve was the first but she wasn't the last.

If I were honest with myself,

Had I been standing at that tree,

My mouth and my hands would be covered with fruit.

Things I shouldn't know and things I shouldn't see.

Remind me of this with every decision.

Generations will reap what I sow.

I can pass on a curse or a blessing to those I will never know. ...

To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace.

To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace.

--Generations, by Sara Groves

I could write about more than one song on this CD. I listened to it over and over when I first got it, in 2001. Some other time, I'll tell you about "Painting Pictures of Egypt," which practically became my theme song that year.

But in the midst of the hardest time in my life, "Generations" inexplicably gave me hope. I was mourning my miscarriage and our preceding years of infertility. I was losing hope that I would ever bear a child.

And then this song would play, and I would sing along to the repeated bridge: "To my great-great-great-granddaughter, live in peace. To my great-great-great-grandson, live in peace." And a spark of hope ignited.

I listened to this album almost at random yesterday, and some of the other songs threw me right back to 2001. I am not in that emotional place anymore, and I'm glad of it. But "Generations," well. Here I am in the midst of it. Every decision I make...every knee-jerk reaction to criticize, every complaint, every spontaneous hug, every silly face...they are all imprinted in my little daughter's memory. And, God willing, someday she will have children, and my mothering will most certainly influence hers.

Parenting also gives you more insight about your family of origin. Both Jon and I grew up in (more-or-less) intact families with parents who did their level best to love us well. So many others did not. The two of us started out with this advantage, and that influences so much about who we are and how we parent, what we expect from family life and from each other.

I hope that we can give Katrina the very best of our families' legacies, and the very best of ourselves. I hope that Katrina will give any children she mothers the best of us, and the best of herself. And I always want to remember...despite the routine, the bad days, the sometime-sense that I am not accomplishing anything, that generations could reap what I sow. What do I want that harvest to be?

To my great-great-great grandchildren...live in peace.