Schneefrei... SAY WHAT?

Thursday. Roughly zero degrees and a handful of snow, and the local schooling system collapses and all schools close. Seeeeriously. Of course, I work for a school, so HA HA HA, I'm off too, and cuase no busses run, Jose gets stuck with us all at home. Brilliant! We're a family on a mission! Or rather, a few missions. "Mummy, FISRT we go on MY mission, which is a park mission, and a snowman mission. THEN we have coffee. THEN we can go on any mission you choose, which is going to be a house mission."
My, what a clued up daughter I have! So we wrap The Baby warmly into his pushchair and trot off into winter wonderland. Leo doesn't look too impressed, but really, he's just extremely displeased with being tucked away and patiently awaits his turn.


Mission one, The Park! Very idyllic, all of it, rather cold and luckily the snow is so flakey it's no good for rolling up a proper tall and abominable snowman, as I'm quick to explain to Tara. Suits me - I really want to get to Mission Three, which is a) all that interests me these days, and b) somewhat crucial gievn that we plan on moving in 9 days, and still have no kitchen, no bathroom and no paint on the walls in the one house, and not a single box packed in the other.


Unsnowmanable snow does, of course, say nothing about the potential quality of snow angels, and Tara plops down anywhere. Trodden down snow: fine. Head stuck under a bench: great! Flip flip, wave wave... and daddy's pretty good at it too!

Snow angels... whooooaaaa!!!

Leo is being kept happy with a now ball. Nice, cold and a novelty. Aaaah, that's a happy baby! I turn my attention to The Snowman and seconds later Leo begins to cry. Bitterly. Loudly. Inexplicably. Only daddy can explain: Mummy left Baby with The Snowball, completely forgot all about it, and Baby's poor little hands are freezing cold and hurting. Who wouldn't cry?! (Did I say I'm slightly distracted? That I want to be at The House?)

The Snowman (not that he really deserves the caputal letters...)

Mission one accomplished, I say, and we slither off into town on our coffee mission. Just a pit-stop really before the house mission, which deserves an entry in its own right another day, if I ever find the time.

Tara is happy enough with her mission. Also, there's plenty of things to do at the house. Talking to the builders, writing and drawing, dancing to the radio, singing along... All is a bit better still at home where my singing flapping angel can don her fairy wings and wave her wand, and where there's a choice of lots of pens in lots of colours, and a separate set for Leo when Big Sister doesn't fancy sharing hers.

"Mummy, Miss Flower says I sing like the radio!"

After Dinner Drawing, At Home

But then, "At Home" is about to change its meaning radically. The countdown is on, the boxes are still all up in the loft (flat, empty, ahem....), the kitchen is still at the shops und not yet paid for... What can I say, other than STAY TUNED!*

*(And, of course,חג שמח! , Nirite ;-)

My Family, by Tara

"This is me. That is daddy. They boys have spikey hair, don't they. Leo is teeny-weeny, like when he just came out of the hospital. You had long hair then, Mummy. I miss your long hair."

Signed, in her best attempt at writing her name in cursive script. The up-and-back-down of the 'a' doesn't quite flow right yet, so the 'r' gets lost... a proper signature is what that is!

I'm glad that Tara still sees us as a smiley bunch, mostly - if truth be told, I think of the two grown-ups, she's captured the mood right for daddy, not for her tense nervous tired and shouty mother. This house is doing us in and all we can do is remind ourselves that it's only for another just-under-four-weeks running from one errand to another, not eating right cause nobody has the time to cook, and not even reading Tara's little books with her each night (homework!). But hey - I'm glad to say that our bathroom (FUTURE bathroom) no longer looks like this:


It feels like sorting a house out takes a lot longer than growing long hair back! We're moving in on December 12. By then it will look just lovely. Of course. Everybody will be smiling, and Tara won't even notice that she didn't get a pink carpet, nor pink wallpaper. Hopefully.

Has it really been THIS long?

Who, gorgeous? Me? Thanks, Mummy!

Once upon a time, exactly one year ago, little Leo hopped onto my bed naked and voila, there he was: The most gorgeous baby boy I ever laid eyes on!
Well. Not quite. And in the same vein, one year down, still the most gorgeous baby boy I ever laid eyes on, he is still a bundle of joy and (a teeny weeny bit* of) trouble. Today, after a nappy changing struggle that, in its level of difficulty, resembles labour, the naked babe takes off with a giggle and pees straight onto my cushion. There it is: The liquid damage to the bed, anticipated one year ago - but, luckily, all absorbed by the shredded content of one box of tissues. We've come full circle, once. Thanks, Leo; and thanks, Leo! And, happy birthday, darling!

(and that pink thing on his head is not really ON his head...)

It's a regular day. I'm back at work, first week, day five, and already utterly exhausted by it. a school day for Tara, another day at nursery for Leo, and Jose got up before six and left before my alarm even rang. Cuddles and pee on the bed - plus a bit of Barbie for breakfast - got us a bit late, so - because I'm rushed and generally bad at judging where my car starts and ends, I scrape and scratch the neighbour's car (panic and tears), which is followed ten minutes later by a massive meltdown on Tara's part, thanks to the discovery of a packet of pink biscuits that were not for her but for Leo's friends at nursery. It's all a bit like homebirth gone wrong all over.
Maybe I should be a bit more grateful it's not all on the same day the bathstore delivery guy called me cheerily to let me know he was on the way to our current address with 3000 Pounds worth of new bathroom stuff and wouldn't take an address correction from me?
But wait, I'm losing direction - I was writing about Leo's birthday!

We have a tiny party for our tiny boy at home, after we've all made it back. Mummy has slipped into pyjamas (boobs-in-boobs-out at baby's convenience), Leo is in his dirty nursery outfit (he "ate well," as they call it ;-), Jose in reflective cycle wear and tight cycling pants and Tara in a very dis-sheveled school uniform. We're a bit of a mess really. To this we add cake (but only after Tara has finished watching Barbie. Priorities!), popcorn, cause Leo adores the stuff and scoffs it like a pro, a few balloons and one present. Yes, one. It's a mix of (1) 'we finally accept that less is more', (2) 'we're swamped and seriously depressed by the mess around us' and (3) 'didn't actually have time to even think of another present, much less go and buy one.' Jeez. Baby boy, I'd be sorry for you if I didn't know that our love for you knows no limits.

Leo loves balloons. Leo loves popcorn. Leo loves it when daddy comes home. Leo loves it when Tara hops and jumps. Leo loves Mummy. Leo loves his present cause it's balls and a hammer. And Leo loves walking up and down holding Mummy's hands. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Leo, I think, had a good day.




And at the end of a long day, he's out so quick after dinner I don't even manage to get a new nappy on him, nor a pyjama, and haven't taken his mismatched socks off him either. That is fine though - a nappy and clothing battle with a tired Leo is tenfold worse, and I'm way. too. tired.


Tara says: "Mummy, I don't understand it: How come Leo has a birthday, but he's not a different number now?" - "But he is a different number now. He's a number one now." - "WOW! That means that now he can walk!"
Well, he's nearly there. Just like we're nearly back to normal, I hope. The last months have been a stressful and tiring mess and I can't wait for that renovating business to be over. I do wish, however, Leo's first year had lasted longer.

Happy birthday, Little Man, and many many happy returns. You've been my number one all along.** I'd love to keep you small like this forever but it's time you work on turning into my "number two"!

* Just the nappy changing wars, and a spot of bother with a sleep association problem. Good as gold otherwise.
** Not fair but true. That's a whole other story which won't be written due to lack of time and energy, and because short changing one child for a whole long year is not something I should really want to admit to. (<-- The smalles possible small print.)

Nearly There!

Little Man is nearly one! What a journey it has been.

Tiny thing in the background...

...catching up...

Give us a cuddle!

But really, this baby can't be stopped

Schulkind

Und plötzlich war er da, der große Tag: Der Alarm klingelte um 7 Uhr, nachdem Jose um 6:30 schon behauptet hatte es sei "Viertel vor 7" - aber angesichts dessen, dass ich bis gestern verlässlich bis 9 Uhr verweigert hatte anzuerkennen, dass der neue Tag angefangen habe, war das eine zulässige Lüge.
Tara stand begeistert auf, und voller Vorfreude auf ihre Schultüten, die sie aber zuerst nur "für die Fotos" festhalten durfte (Fotos, die sie mir gar nicht zugestehen wollte). Zur Schule durfte sie nur die kleine von Tante Claudia mitnehmen, denn schließlich gibt es hier weder Zuckertüten noch Erstklässlerfeierlichkeiten, und wenn wir schon am ersten Tag fremdkulturell auffallen, dann doch bitte nicht gleich mit Karacho.
Zweieinhalb Stunden später durfte ich eine zufriedene Tochter mit entzauberter Zuckertüte abholen: "Everybody said, 'look, there's something lovely. Let's look at it!' So we all looked at it at snack time." Und die Lehrerin musste auch aufgeklärt werden, denn "We didn't know what it was, whether a birthday present or just a general gift?"

In den Klassenraum, am ersten Tag, haben Leo und Mama das Schulkind Tara bis zum Haken begleitet, Jäckchen und book bag aufhängen, und dann zu ihrer besten Freundin Sophie an den Knettisch gebracht. Blaue Knete mit Glitzer. Die Lehrerin half den Mädchen in einen Riesenpullover, mindestens Größe XL, damit die Uniform auch schön sauber bleibt (gegen Rotzspuren am Ärmel hat das leider nicht geholfen), und dann haben Leo und ich uns aus dem Staub gemacht, denn gebraucht wurden wir nicht mehr.
Hurra. Zu den Müttern, die sich heulend um die Ecke flüchten, gehört Taras Mama nicht.

Schulkind (deutsch-englisch!)

Schultüte

Schulweg

PS.: Dass Tara an ihrer Schultüte am meisten das Zuckerzeug interressiert hat, muss ja nicht extra erwähnt werden. Wir bleiben dabei: Schokolade, auch Smarties, sind out; lollies sind der Hit. Gleich danach: Die echt scharfe Kinderschere, mit der sie sicham nächsten Tag mal eben so zum Jux ein Loch ins neue Schulkleid schneidet. Schulkind und schlau, aber eben doch noch keine 18.

New Life (Preview)

School uniform, grey/red, one full set.


One heap of paperwork to sign and return to solicitor in the morning.

One baby with sleep issue, lured into picture with one rattling box of mini smarties, temporarily borrowed from a very heavy Schultüte. To his right: School dress, grey, Tara's choice.

One little girl, 4 years and 6 weeks, asleep among the treats she will receive in the morning. Braids for much coveted wavy hair. Sleeps like a baby, but is, as of tomorrow, 9am, an English Infant School Student.

And so, 7 years and 6 days after arriving in England, we are about to become house owners, and parents of a little girl at an English school. It's crazy, and we're all looking forward to every bit of it.

Oops! (We did it again)

Those blasted teeth! Seriously! Since our (read: Tara's) last visit to the dentist some 4 months ago, we have been ever so good with the sweet stuff:
We've stuck to our "juice time" deadline of 6pm / dinnertime and have usually only had water after that time. "Juice time is over," Mummy says, and all but Jose stick to it. Mostly diluted apple juice known as "fifty-fifty" or water for drinks, and milk. (How much damage can milk at night do?)
Sweets - not many at all. When we have sweets in the house I make sure I sacrifice myself and eat most of them myself... For Tara they're definately not a daily treat any more as they used to be before the discovery of The First Cavity, and the onslaught of crippling maternal guilt.
All right, we do like some cake with our coffee at the weekend, and granted, when there is ice cream in the freezer, Tara likes to get up before her lazy ass mummy* and help herself to a breakfast of an ice cream and sometimes two; and yeah, somehow we do use the word 'treat' on a more or less daily basis... Anyhow, my conscience is a lot clearer than it was ten months ago.
And still, when I had a good look at one set of tiny, 4 year old teeth last week, there was a new little cavity that should not have been there.
It's not fair. It must be genetic. Yes? No?
So, another sweet trip to the dentist for a filling for Tara, who accepted her fate cheerfully enough. Equipped with her own little bottle of rinsing water - somehow the only thing she remembered with distaste from her last horrid visit - she marched through the door with optimism, showed her special water to everyone, sat down on The Char on mummy's lap like before, and two seconds later crumbeled, cried and refused to be touched. Treatment, yes please, but not too close please!
The NHS kindly offered to desist and send her away - to a hospital for proper anesthetics for a tiny cavity that required five minutes work. They did not want to give her a lifelong fear of the dentist. Sweet. They rather give her anesthetics, and we're not talking local, we're talking all-out.
Err... sorry, not an option (Are they out of their minds???!).

We swapped mum for dad at Tara's request and bought her cooperation with promises of immediate trips to the toy shop, promises of a visit from "the little mouse" ratoncito perez (the Spanish tooth fairy, being a mouse not a fairy), a fair amount of threatening of worse things to come (see last paragraph), and lots of stickers from the nurse. "AAAAaaaaa," said mummy, for the duration of the treatment. "AaaaaAAA," said daddy for just as long. Leo looked on, and Tara sat it out, whimpering, but remembered to rinse with her special water at the end.
It was well scary, but did it hurt, Tara? No, not at all.


It was awful.

Check-up in three months, and there are another three highly critical spots on her front teeth. I just hope that we can scrape by until they fall out, I'm not so sure I can make it through those doors with her again, for more than a check-up.

PS.: As I'm writing this I'm eating the toffees I'd bought her for her Schultüte.

* Lazy ass mum, you got to be kidding me. I hold a full time job in child care at night, surely I'm allowed, on occasion, and as often as said occasion might present itself - even 6 out of 7 times - to sleep for as long as possible, say, 9am?!

FOUR

My (former) baby is four, and I can hardly believe how big she's grown. Clever, original, and a right little monkey (in a very quiet way), a cuddly bed bug and a loving (if toy snatching) big sister. She takes my breath away with bouts of gratefulness and good manners, with the enthusiasm with which she makes her baby brother laugh (oh how he adores her!), and with the originality and attention with which she observes her world. (Such an eye for detail!)

Tara remains shy (outside of small familiar groups and settings, that is) and remembers her last birthday as a bit of an overwhelming experience. "There were too many people that we didn't know, did we, Mami?" is her take on the huge group of nursery friends that were / are not her "best friends." This year she requested a birthday with Oma, Opa, Tante Claudia and the rest of the family in Germany, and although it did concern her that her few and carefully selected "best friends" would not be able to come to her party, her wish was my command. (Phew!)

"Happy birthday to Taaraaaaa... happy birthday to meeeeee!"

Ummm... I've got soooo much more to say but it's near midnight and there is a long week of holidays and house buying arrangements ahead so... Fingers crossed I'll find the time to come back and rewrite this pitiful little entry that's so unworthy of my pink princess girl :-(

Happy birthday, my love. (No guests other than family, and the day was utterly exhausting anyway. But I think you enjoyed the bit before you collapsed while Mummy went for a massage. I think; I hope; I love you.)

Princess cake, anyone?

Buying a house seems to take up as much time and energy as having another baby - twins perhaps? - and I barely remember that we even have a blog; It feels like I am about 30 entries behind, and lying awake at night writing them up in my head isn't quite the same, unfortunately.

Leo, 8 Months

Supported tentative wobbly standing boy, 8 months old

First things first: Just for the record, Leo, here's what I tell you daily: Goodness, I adore you! And then I sigh in general, to no audience in particular: Goodness me, how much I love this boy!

Now that that's off my chest and on record, black on white, and for future reference if ever there was any doubt, on to some facts about Leo at 8 months.

A piece of technology? GIMME THAT!

8 months, 4 teeth and a fifth showing. Two stubborn little legs that will refuse to bend when I want them to, so I continually find myself fighting with the little things sticking feet first in the pushchair, refusing to sit down and crying bitterly when I finally manage to wedge him in, heqad first, anyway. The same applies to the kitchen seat, the changing table and any other surface that I require him to sit on. Bribery with food works, and apples are particular popular. Or hot cross buns (Rosinenbrötchen) - he gets positively high on them (even though sugar is only listed as the 15th or so ingredient).
He still won't roll either way, continues to hate tummy time unless he's lying on my tummy, but sits long and stably when sat down although he still hasn't worked out how to sit up himself and is going about trying all the wrong way like a bug on his back.
In terms of weight and length: Weight just under average for his age, length some 10 weeks above average. Long and lean as ever.
Gone his great fascination with his mobile (of the bird variety, above his changing table); it has been replaced with an equally intense fascination with my mobile (of the electronic variety, insurance claim pending. The birds handled baby slobber better.)
Also, he is very enthusiastic about: cables, phones, plastic-button/sound/light toys, Tara's big doll Sophia (whom Tara does not like to share), balls and his weekly music class. All in all rather boy-like favourites, although Tara occasionally likes to pretend that he's a girl called "Leah" or "Lucy".
Sweet, ey?

If Leo was a girl (THANKS, Tara!)

But really, he's a BOY, going gaga over balls

Wait - really really he's His Mamma's BABY

Beautiful and Handsome

Below, a bed-time conference. What are they talking about? I don't know - future bedroom designs, perhaps, and the amount of pink that would be acceptable? Tara does most of the talking, for sure, and Leo loves being spoken to. Boy, is he happy to be spending some extra time with Big Adorable Sister!
Equally better fun together: watching Peppa Pig, or having a picnic in the garden: Leo healthy peaches, Tara tasty ice cream (what else).

Kiddie Conference

From left to right: Little Brother, Big Sister, Peppa Pig (not pictured but VERY present)

Picnic for Two, peaches and ice cream

I love seeing the two of them together! Especially when one is all dressed in pink and the other all dressed in blue. My blue baby and my pink baby, I call them. But we like them in any colour.
"AAaaah! My two beautiful things!" I say.
"One is beautiful..." says Tara, "And one is gorgeous?" I chip in, wondering who she thinks is the beautiful one, but wanting to make sure they both get praised if only one is 'beautiful' in her opinion.
"... And one is handsome!" Tara completes her sentence.
But of course. I remember learning that in school. Girl are beautiful, boys are handsome. And here's one they don't teach you in school:
Mine are especially beautiful/handsome!

Ahem, what can I say... Maybe: Above, a lot of waffle about how much I like seeing my kids interact in a positive manner. I can't quite find the right words, but I really do like it... *sigh*

House Hunting: Offer Accepted

Saturday morning. Pancakes with nutella for mum and dad, pancakes with sugar for Tara, and pancakes plain for Leo who wipes his face with them in an attempt at getting as much as possible into his mounth.
Also, one phone call from the agency to tell us that our offer has been accepted and that we are on our way to owning a house. YAY!


Well, YAY, says Jose. Tara seems to be saying OUCH, although why, we do not know. (Yes, Leo is wearing pink hand-me-down bibs from his sister. Ho doesn't mind, and now that we are looking forward to buying a new kitchen and a new bath along with the house I'm certainly not shopping around for blue. All Leo cares for is pancake.)

I've spent a week stressing over the great choice of solicitors (online somewhere in England, cheaper vs. local, more expensive but more direct and possibly faster), then agonised some more over mortgages (fixed rate? 5 years? 3 years? which provider?), and I've also made it back to the house to take detailed photos of every piece of furniture, floor, wall, and other pieces of equipment. I can't possibly post any of those interior pictures. They would give my father a heart attack. So here are just a few: Front room (note: 'SOLD' sign outside), back of house, and garden - currently lawnless, but that represents a huge improvement over the child-swallowing jungle of weeds it still was a week ago.

"SOLD" (subject to contract and excluding curtains and that arm chair!)

Bedroom, bedroom, (tiny) lean-to 'conservatory' , kitchen (left to right, top to bottom)

Garden: South-West facing. Aaaah, sunny!

We're about to grow roots in England, and this of all places. I'm thinking: My kids will possibly look back at this house later as the house they grew up in. They won't have any memories of living in any of the other houses, and living in England will be normal to them, 'home' and all they know. For me, it's totally weird. Possibly in a nice kind of way, but mostly bewildering and baffling.

All going well, we're on a 4-8 week countdown to getting the keys. It's weird.

House Hunting: We're Placing an Offer

I've not even gotten round to posting any of our many house hunting pictures, and I'd actually decided to give the hunt a bit of a rest for a little while, but then, well: I walked past this street, and that house had a For Sale sign up that wasn't there before, and I though I'd just ring about the price for this handsome little piece of property, and it turned out to be affordable and in need of modernisation just like I'd come round to wantin; so before I knew it I was walking round the house a few days later, thinking, Oh isn't this just right!
South-West facing garden, 4 bedrooms, plenty of light around the house, and just the right size between being too squishy and so big I feel out of my depth. It needs a new kitchen and bathroom as well as floors and heating (which is reflected in the price), so we would get a house finished to our liking, which is much better than buying something done up to other people's tastes but being unable to replace it because it's new and you exhausted your funds buying it new, never mind having to have builders in for a few months! Location: a central tiny cul-de-sac, no thrugh-traffic and everything in walking distance, busses, (classy) supermarket, city centre and shops, harbour and beach, park and playground the other direction, gym, nursery and library all between 2 (library) and ten minutes (park or beach).
The only downside is that there is only on-street parking, but then that's pretty normal for a central location.
We saw it on Saturday, I've slept badly since cause I've been planning kitchens and bathrooms in my head at night, and come Monday morning (that being today), I've placed an offer just a tiny bit above the asking price (as there are other offers as well). We hope to hear back this week.
Bet I wasn't much fun to be around for the kids this morning, spending most of it on the phone, ignoring Tara and her half-assembled scooter, Leo dangling from my arm.
But Tara is concerned with lots of other issues anyway: Mummy, can I scooter to nursery? Mami, my legs are tired. Come on, Mummy! Mami, I want to take my knee pads off. And my helmet! Mami, if I was Father Christmas I wouldn't want to get stuck down the chimney.
Where ever did that come from?!
Well, it's a while to Christmas. Fingers crossed we have good news about the house (or another one if this one's not meant to be) before then, and then I'm all for seeing Father Christmas stuck in a chimney if only it's mine.

Left half of the semi-D at the end: Is it meant to be? (And have we offered enough?)

Across the street, or: View from front room (nice ey?)

And a bit further up the street, going up towards the park at the end

I used to have - and I used to treasure - a tape that my parents recorded when I was about 5. On it were some random little snippets like me, in my little voice, naming my favourite colour (blue). Also, there was a conversation between my parents about houses they'd been looking at. So, one of them said, which of the houses that we've seen do you think it is then, said one to the other. The house on what's-it-called street, the other voice replied, sounding not quite so sure but hopeful. And the house on what's-it-called street is indeed the house I grew up in.
I look at my children and I think: It's time we stopped paying other people's mortgages. Thanks to my parents there is enough for a deposit on a house, and by the time my sweet little poppets will need money for their education, we could be done with the mortgage and able to pay for it, or put some aside for a deposit for their future homes perhaps. Or both. (Or, given the state of the nation, keep our dear old selves in food despite some minimal pension, instead of having to move in with one kid or the other.)
Look at them. What comes to mind is a pink room, and a blue one. One for the future engineer, the other for the future musician. *Grins*

"Look Mami, I'm making Leo laugh!"