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.