Friday

On Fridays we go swimming. I'm still learning it. We have a swimming teacher called Malcolm. He's really nice but he looks a bit funny because he's got three eyebrows on his face. Mummy says the bottom one is called a mustache but it looks exactly like the ones over his eyes. Honest it does. We read a story once in kindergarten about Yetis. I think Malcolm looks like a yeti who shaved but forgot a bit on his mouth. Emily says it's to keep his lip warm when he gets out of the water.

Swimming is brill. I used to have arm bands like orange balloons but Malcolm says I don't need them anymore. It's scary without arm bands. You're not allowed to stop moving your arms or your legs or you sink under the water. That's bad because you can't breathe under water. Unless you're a fish. Or an octopus.

Roughly pronounced "choos" (as in Jimmy), and weirdly aesthetically pleasing, I never expected the word Tschüß to set me off on a life muse. It's North German slang and basically an amalgam of adieu, ciao, adios, cheerio, toodleoo ect. It's a cool word, but last week it caused somewhat of a ruckus as I picked Finje up from Kindergarten.

Lulling me into a false sense of security, she appeared rather chipper despite her customary disgruntlement at being removed from the House of Fun. A short stroll to the car, cheerfully chatting about the events of the day, which apparently charmingly included Mikael sneezing snot "right across the dinner table", up into the kiddy seat and seat belt on. Starting the engine coincided with what can best be described as a blood-curdling shriek from the back seat. She was quite suddenly inconsolable, grief-stricken beyond words. Big fat salty tears cascaded down her little pink cheeks.

For a split second all my senses gridlocked. Oh God, had I trapped her finger in the door? Was this heart-wrenching sound a delayed reaction to the pain of amputation? If I looked down would there be a little digit lying on the tarmac? Or appendicitis maybe? Daytime terror?

Oh no.

Do I love my daughter? More than life itself. Do I like her? Well, I wasn't wildly fond of her during labour and occasionally she's such a walking disaster I wonder why they don't name a tornado after her, but yes I do. She brings me to the heights and depths of emotion and she's my baby.

The four hours she's in kindergarten though....Bliss.

Four hours that feel like four minutes. Full time pre-school care here is rare, indeed full time any school here is rare. We are well into the 21st century and the majority of German schools still finish at lunchtime! Around midday groups of hungry hormonal adolescents shuffle their way homeward. They arrive requiring sustenance, still spilling over with sickening vitality and joie de vivre and with nine hours or so to go before you can pack them off to bed. Nine hours of homework unreasonable?

It's a historical and political issue. The image of the indomitable, stalwart Hausfrau, running her home and producing future generations of well mannered citizens is a tradition dating back 250 years and is seldom frowned upon even by today's emancipated females. The traditional thinking being that no schooling can improve on a mother.

They haven't met this mother!

Friday

When you lick a slug your tongue goes all tingly and you can't feel it for ages after. Fish fingers taste better than slugs but slugs taste better than liver. Liver is the most horribliest. Emily from kindergarden says what her baby brother does in his nappy, that's worse than liver.

If something tastes really bad you can say your tummy hurts so you don't have to eat it. Or you can say you are full up but then you don't get to eat pudding either. That's not fair because you are never too full for pudding, everybody says so.

Banana ice cream with chocolate sprinklers is the best thing in the whole wide world.

Despite much reassurance to the contrary (including that from ParentDish readers for which I am truly grateful), my concerns about our approach to Finje's bilingualism are yet again raising their ugly head.

I wonder whether, in my attempt to better my own language proficiency by actively avoiding fellow English speakers, I may well be scuppering Finje's chances of becoming perfectly bilingual. One hears so many stories of "failed" efforts by well-meaning parents, resulting in a child who speaks neither language perfectly but can get by in both. Well, getting by in English or German is not an option. My theory: if we do this one job properly, even if the rest of our parental endeavours result in her coughing up grievances on the psychiatrists couch in years to come, at least she'll have the option of two languages in which to do so.

Her soul English input comes from yours truly and I simply can't communicate enough. There aren't enough hours in the day and our infrequent trips to the UK are frustrating to say the least. As she endeavours to make her German understood, tiny brow wrinkled in confusion and consternation, she clearly is of the opinion that she is dealing with half-wits.

I ponder over the alternatives.

Apparently, there's a Bavarian motto, "Smiles waste muscles". Up in North Germany, we thankfully live to the chimes of a slightly jollier bell. Despite customary opinion, I don't concur with the general consensus that Germans are lacking in the fun department, it's just, well, organised fun.

February was the month for "Fasching". The translation for this rather alarming sounding word is "Carnival" but it's also used for the somewhat tamer "fancy dress". It's an annual festivity, the commendable intention being to scare away Winter and welcome in Spring. As I struggled though mountains of snow in arctic conditions, to bring my little carnival queen to Kindergarten however, I figured Spring had decided upon a lie in this year.

On the face of it, it's all rather charming of course, dressy up day for the small people. And, by the way, as far as I'm concerned it should be legally restricted to the under-tens. The thought of adult fancy dress parties brings me out in hives (bah humbug). The point is, what do they achieve? Well, I'm here to tell you. They reduce mothers like me, who have cause to wonder whether God was having a Senior Moment when He was handing out motherhood skills, to a self-deprecating mess.

Friday


Katie next door has to wear glasses now. They are new and they're purple with butterflies on. She said she was allowed to choose which ones she wanted and she has an extra pair with fish on them. They are really cool.

I think I want glasses.

She let me try them on but everything went all swimmy and weird and I felt a bit sick so now I don't want glasses anymore.

She says she had a special test at the eye doctor's. He had a poster with lots of pictures on and she had to tell him what they were. Some were really big and some were tiny. Didn't sound very fair though because Katie said about half way down there were no pictures just splotches of black paint. Then she had to look into a machine that looked like a monster with lots of eyes!

Now I know cat lovers out there are convinced that our feline friends should be worshiped and revered for the intelligent and superior beings they are. Let it be known that I too, am CATegorically an animal lover. Nevertheless, I refuse to accept that the reason Ripley furtively slipped out of the house, disappearing into the night, not to been seen or heard of for days, was because she "heard" us talking about her impending appointment with the V.E.T.

She was, as my husband insists on saying, due to "have her femininity taken away" the next day. She'd been as fruity as a bag of Gummi Bears. It was time.

Anyway, that was immaterial as she had done a runner. Maybe off for a last chance for "lurve" before the urge was removed? She may be domestiCATed but she was still amorous. When she failed to return after a couple of days we began to worry and Finje, now upset, started to ask questions about her loCATion. I wanted to plaCATe her but I too had feelings of dread. I tried to soften the blow by saying there was a good chance Riply would return but if not we had to accept the other possibility. Finje preempted the grimness by deliCATely asking:

"Is she dead?"

Friday

Our cat has to go and see the animal doctor. Animal doctors are called vetina.....vetarin.....vetanar....vets. They work in hospitals specially for animals. She is a girl cat which means if she makes friends with a boy cat they can make babies. Baby cats are called kittens. Kittens are fluffy and cute and I want one so much but mummy says our cat is having an operation so she can't have babies. The animal doctor will take her girl bits away so kittens can't get into her tummy. I think that's mean but she says it's for the best. But why?

Emily from kindergarten says her mummy had an operation too and now she can't have babies either because she doesn't have room for one in her belly anymore. I looked really hard yesterday but you can't tell. I hope my mummy doesn't have that operation because I want a brother to tell what to do. Emily has five brothers.

My daughter was walking at ten months, clambering over her cot sides not long after and yelling "let me do it on my own" within an hour of sitting on a bicycle for the first time at the age of three. She has always had pretty good coordination.

So, when we booked a ski trip we figured we were doing her a favour by introducing her to such a fabulous sport at a young age. She'll be four in April and I had been assured that this is a good age to start. We consulted her of course and she was in raptures over the idea. We rallied the troops, English and German, and decided on Garmisch-Partenkirchen in Bavaria which has a good reputation for being child-friendly.

How could I have forgotten how recalcitrant and bull-headed Finje can be?