Parenting for dummies

Titus is going to kindergarten for the last time ever today.  This means no more Fierce Devout Teacher, but if you think I'm sighing with relief, think again.  For last night I attended the first of many parents' evenings with his new school teacher, and just five minutes in her company was enough to confirm that she will outdo her kindergarten colleague in every way.  She kicked off the fun with a list of 'tips' for us parents, which were actually thinly disguised rules, and had she given us a copy I'd gladly reproduce it for you here.  Sadly, we had to rely on taking notes.  My heart sank lower with every rule - sorry, I mean tip - in fact, by the time I went home it had dropped through the floor into the girls' toilets on the floor below.  So.  We parents must be models of good behaviour.  We must read regularly, not only aloud to our children, but be seen reading a variety of literature around the house.  We must seem to be enjoying said literature, the aim being that Junior thinks hey! Mom and Pop are reading and having so much fun.  I must learn how to as soon as possible, then I can have that much fun too!
Next, we never jump red lights, even when we are in a hurry.  We don't swear.  While Junior is doing his homework, we stay within earshot, but not too close.  We keep distractions at bay and make ourselves available to our child at all times, engaging ourselves in tasks that can be easily broken off at any time.  Then came my personal favourite - the snack, or Pausenbrot as it's known here.  Specific rules apply; two slices of thick wholegrain bread, spread with butter, filled with cheese, ham or sausage and at least one kind of vegetable.  Sugar is strictly forbidden.  And let's not forget TV.  Teacher's preference would be that her pupils watch none at all, but even she, oh paragon of virtue and mother of two well-adjusted high-achieving daughters, had to admit that a minute number of programmes could be of educational value.  Preferably, parents select TV shows in advance after a mature discussion with their partner.  They watch with the child and then analyse the content afterwards, to ensure Junior has learned something.  If not, that particular programme is no longer in the running for future viewing.

And so it went on.  And on.  Parents' evening is compulsory, Teacher notes each and every no-show.  Even one of these can have a negative influence on the child.  Don't buy cheap arts and craft materials - children are quick to notice when their glue, or brush, or pinking shears, are of a lower calibre than others.  Practise the journey to school with your child.  Make sure they wear the right clothes, shoes, hat. Last but not least, the sheep were separated from the goats: all Catholic parents were handed a letter of welcome from the Bishop.  The Protestants were left empty-handed. I guess we have to find our own spiritual guidance.

When Teacher had finally finished, I surveyed the dismal ring of parents and felt their pain.  It was easy to distinguish the keen, eager-beaver types from the God-help-me I've got three other children, a full-time job and six dogs at home types.  The former had glittering eyes and were leaning forward in their dwarf-sized chairs.  They will strive to please Teacher at all costs.  The latter leant back with an air of exhausted resignation,  foreseeing many struggles ahead.

We filed out into the driving rain.  I put my foot in a pothole and got a wet sock.  Once home, I ate three slices of toast and marmite out of pure frustration.  Rang my mother for comfort.  It's still raining.  Maybe it will rain a bit more this afternoon, too.

Play hookey, pay the price

Maybe I'm just paranoid (surely not), but why is it that there have been THREE funerals in as many days this week?  Am I missing something?  The church bells have been clanging non-stop, and throngs of black-clad, bedirndled and lederhosened mourners have been blocking traffic and eating post-funereal schnitzel in equal proportions.  Naturally my heart goes out to the bereaved, but still, one has to consider the already small number of people residing in this village and hope that some more stork deliveries are pending, before it's just us and the neighbours and a lame duck left. CG and I ran past a little procession yesterday, a cluster of acolytes and a priesty-looking person, swinging incense and looking very serious.  I felt disrespectful in my blue nylon shorts and zebra t-shirt.  Comforted, though, that Herr and Frau NN seemed not to be acquaintances of the deceased; they have remained stolidly at home, going about their daily business of polishing geraniums, snipping at the lawn with nail scissors and checking that the world is going by at an appropriate pace.

Quick change of tack to lighten the tone.  Well, sort of.  The summer holidays are about to commence, and tomorrow is therefore the last day of school until mid-September.  As you can imagine, the roads and airways will be packed (ha - get it?) on Saturday, so some wily holiday-makers will no doubt have attempted to evade the rush and slipped off this afternoon.  Woe betide them if they are travelling with their school age children!!! I heard on the radio this morning that it is a criminal offence to miss the last day of term, even though the kids are only in school for one hour.  My trusty source - I glean a lot of information from this channel - went on to say that there are even police waiting at the airports to catch potential offenders.  If the unfortunates are unable to provide proof of permission from the school, they may be liable for a fine of up to one thousand euros!!!!   I nearly crashed the car when I heard this.  Apparently, though, one might be lucky, if one's headteacher is of a particularly lenient, kind nature, and if one has a suitable excuse, for example, Grandma's 80th birthday party.  (How convenient that her birthday falls on this very day!  Don't forget to supply birth certificate.) Mostly, however, schools take a very dim view of this kind of behaviour, and in a way I can understand this, while finding the fine a little extreme.  There always has to be a last day, for if they were continually removed the result would be, in this case, that nobody goes to school at all.  And then what would happen?  The country would go to the dogs.  German Shepherds, naturally.

How fascinating! Do tell me more....

I was too busy to blog at the weekend.  Too busy doing... housework.  How ironic.  Not only that, but recently it's been just one long whirligig of scintillating social events, all, strangely, connected with school or kindergarten and all involving the same people every single time.  Well, I guess they are as bored with my face as I am with theirs.

Talking of faces, I had always thought that I had a good 'listening' face.  You know - interested and animated, no matter what dull facts I am being bombarded with.  Then, several years ago, I spotted my listening face in a mirror.  I was at a party and desperately wishing I was somewhere else. For that split second before I recognised myself I thought, who on earth is that woman?  She looks so fed up. And realised it was me, and that actually, I looked far from interested or animated.  So I took it upon myself to smarten up my image and try to be a more avid listener.  As you know, this isn't always easy, and we have all experienced that drifting-off look in our fellow conversationalist's eye which means we've gone on too long.  My aim is never to give someone that feeling, and it would seem I have largely achieved this, as people will rattle on for hours about the most tedious of things and not sense, in any way, that I am silently willing them to shut up. (Note of clarification to friends, family and regular conversation partners of mine: you genuinely are interesting; please exclude yourselves from this rather scathing analysis! I refer mainly to the dubious pleasure of smalltalk.)

Now back to the housework.  Rather unwisely, I recently told a new pal of mine that I keep my kitchen squeaky clean, to a standard of hygiene otherwise only found in an operating theatre.  Even more unwisely, I then invited her round to eat here.  Got home and panicked.  Kitchen full of unidentifiable streaks and stains, plus scary cobwebs that wisp against my arms in the early morning when I stumble for the kettle.  My eyes turned to other things, like my dustball farms under the cupboards and the peanuts under the sofa cushions. All have now been eradicated.  Please feel free to drop round at your earliest convenience, but make sure you phone me a couple of days beforehand, just in case.  Dust re-accumulates horribly quickly in Bavaria.

An itch to scratch

I haven't blurbed on about the wonders of nature for ages, so permit me to share with you my delight at encountering a family of foxes during my run today.  I use the term 'encountering' lightly - actually, they legged it as I approached, but I had the satisfaction of seeing them tiptoe over a stream on a log and disappear into the undergrowth, brushes twitching in irritation.  Next attraction was a stork; not unusual for this area, but I don't often see them at such close quarters.

These wonders were blitzed momentarily from my mind, however, as I jogged past our local lake and, lo and behold, there stood the nightmare of all prudish Brits, a naked man.  A naked, OLD, FAT man, and if that were not bad enough, he was staring straight at me, holding his bicycle up with one hand and slowly scratching his private parts with the other.  Mortified, I looked in the other direction (hoping he hadn't brought a couple of friends).  To his cheery 'Grüß Gott!' all I could manage was 'hi!' through gritted teeth.  I mean please.  It was four o'clock in the afternoon, a time when most people are decently attired and sipping tea on their balconies.  Or coffee, or Jägermeister. But clothed.

I recovered myself quickly and ran on, mildly comforted by the sight of some cows galloping round a field - this spectacle never fails to amuse me, they are so ungainly - and reached our front gate just as the heavens opened and the umpteenth thunderstorm so far this year started with a fanfare.  Only time for a few press-ups before I start baking for CG's work sports day tomorrow (aren't they a bit old for that?).  In a moment of weakness I agreed to make a giant quiche.  As I always say, there's no rest for the wicked.  Speaking of which, I hope the old guy is back home by now, in a warm jumper and pair of corduroys, and that his wife gives him a right old rollicking for exhibitionism.

A handmade gift I actually LIKE

Typical.  How often do children come home from school and present you with something handmade - you aren't quite sure what it's supposed to be, but you can't ask - uttering the words "this is for you, Mummy".  The little loves.  You say "thank you - aren't you clever!", simultaneously wondering where on earth you can display the item for it to be on view, yet not too much, in case a visitor to the house thinks you bought it for yourself.  I have accumulated hundreds of such items over the years.  But today, Hedda came home with an object that was both identifiable and attractive, a kind of clay hedgehog trinket box, to which I took an instant fancy.  Is that for me, I asked hopefully.  Presumptuously, even.  Hedda looked embarrassed.  Actually, she said, I was sort of going to keep it for myself.  Oh, I said, disappointed.  Then she drifted away in the direction of the TV, so I swiftly took the hedgehog and put it on the bookshelf, where it looks most fine and as good as anything you could get in a shop.  A shop selling pottery animals, that is. She hasn't noticed - yet.  Of course, as soon as she does, I'll give it back.  I can always pretend it's mine while she's at school!

The future's bright. The future's... maroon

CG, or VOD, as I should now call him, has never enthused much about his relatives.  It would be fair to say that he's kept most of them firmly under his hat.  This would explain why it took me ten years to realise that his aunt is.... a fortune teller.  I was entranced by this piece of information.  Perhaps I've led a sheltered life, but I have had little, if not nothing, to do with this mysterious breed of people.  The whole business is shrouded in secrecy and, as fortune tellers normally sit inside tents or old gypsy caravans I've never really seen one.  So when I finally met Tante Rose Lee, or Karin as she's actually called, I was both curious and cautious at the same time.  I couldn't find anything remotely spiritual or unusual about her, however, except for her thinning maroon hair, which had been coaxed into a bouffant style that would resist any force 10 gale.  I guess she keeps her professional and private lives firmly separate, thank goodness.  But I do know that when she wants to irk my mother-in-law - her sister - she terminates their phone calls with the words "I've looked at your cards.  You take good care of yourself, now" which, let's face it, would unnerve people of weaker stuff than my mother-in-law.

So why am I telling you about her?  It's the maroon hair.  Gaia decided to dye hers last week - you've guessed it, maroon - and as she thought her roots were showing, she dyed it again today, just for good measure.  I am not sure if Tante Rose Lee was her inspiration, but they now look cut from the same cloth.  I suppose dyeing hair is part of the teenage rebellion list; try smoking - check.  Steal parents' ancient violet liqueur - check.  Threaten to get piercing in weird part of body - check.  Dye beautiful chestnut hair a garish colour - check.  Sigh.  Been there, done that.  Where did it get me?  Nowhere.  Do I tell her that?  Yes.  Does it stop her?  No.  One day the butterfly will emerge from the cocoon and all will be well. But I do hope she doesn't want to be a fortune teller when she's older. Now that really is a profession that doesn't thrive in an economic crisis.

My melons are just fine, thanks

Just home from work today, CG asked me how my melons were.  For a moment I thought he was making a pass at me, but no, he meant the watermelon plants that are gradually taking over the greenhouse.  Oh well.  I was able to say that they were blooming, thank you very much.  We went into said greenhouse to take a look.  CG disappeared from view as he was still wearing his camouflage, but I could smell where he was as he'd had onions for lunch.

So you're au fait with the state of my melons.  What else can I tell you - it's Friday, probably where you are, too, and the roads are crawling with the three evil Ts - tourists, tractors and trucks, a deadly combination that makes any journey twice as long as it should be. I have completed another week at my state-funded training course, where I learned absolutely nothing except how to look busy when I'm not.  I was pretty good at this already to be honest, but as it is an essential lifeskill I am not averse to perfecting it.  The course participants are disappearing daily as more and more of them find employment or call in sick.  Those who are left hang around eating cake and playing with MS Office.

I'd like to describe my garden in greater detail but find myself unable to without boring people to tears.  One of my favourite books is 'Elizabeth and her German Garden' by Elizabeth von Arnim - I urge you to read it.  There's more to it than gardening - it's a sort of late 19th century blog and packed with cutting edge humour.  Anyway, the writer manages to convey her passion for flowers and shrubs without being dull.  I didn't have to skip a single page. How did she manage it?  Even a paragraph of my horticultural musings sends me to sleep, let alone anyone else who might read it.  I can sum up the current state of affairs for you though.  The melons, as you already know, are coming along nicely.  There are also some flowers, loads of slugs and millions of weeds.  But my pride and joy is my pumpkin patch.  By September I'll have at least thirty juicy orange-fleshed Hokkaido fruits.  We're going to have to invest in another freezer.

Back to Elizabeth and her garden.  She also uses pseudonyms for her family, and I just love the name she chose for her husband - the Man of Wrath.  As soon as I read it, I regretted using the rather floppy and pathetic CG for mine.  You know what I really wanted to call him?  My (shortly to be no more) secret nickname, the Voice of Doom.  This suits him far better, though he is cuddly too, most of the time.  VOD can cut through the most jolly of situations with his booming tones and, with his prophecies of doom and gloom, makes a wet blanket look bone-dry.  It isn't all bad though.  We need someone like him to remind us that life is not a bowl of cherries.  Or melons.

All's well that ends well

If the tale of Rumpelstiltskin hadn't been penned several hundred years ago, I'd claim to know exactly who was the character's inspiration.  My son, the kicking, screaming psycho six-year-old, who I picked up from kindergarten an hour or so ago.  Such was his ire that I was forced to film a couple of scenes for posterity, or perhaps YouTube if I am feeling particularly mean later.  One of CG's regiments took a battering from a sofa cushion.  (Miniature tin bayonets are not much defence against ten kilograms of Ikea soft furnishings.)  Luckily no injuries were sustained and peace was restored among the ranks.  Not so in the real world, where Titus is still growling and gesticulating from one end of the dining table.  Gaia, Hedda and I have retreated to the other end, and a kind of impasse has been reached, except now I have to go to the supermarket - one of life's great pleasures - and leave him to Gaia, and I am still deciding whether this is a wise decision or not.  The police are most probably on their way by now, as the screams that pierced the air jolted Herr NN from his afternoon nap and it would be MOST unlike him not to act in a responsible manner and stick his nose in.  Oh dear, oh dear, and I'd thought we'd have a quiet afternoon baking cakes.  I blame the weather.  Lots of people do in Germany, and it comes in really handy as the weather is, as a rule, doing something that someone, somewhere, doesn't like and can then pinpoint as the reason for their adverse behaviour.  Another thunderstorm is brewing and the air is thick as peasoup fog in 1950s London.

(Some hours later - torrential rain falling)

Returned from exotic local supermarket - pah - to find apologetic psycho son on doorstep, dressed in German football kit.  He fell to his knees and begged for my forgiveness.  I handed him two cartons of apple juice and told him to stop being a drama king.  You might as well ask Michelle Obama to wear skinny jeans - it's just never going to happen.

Re: the supermarket.  Nobody from outside Germany, and possibly many from within, could find a trip to Penny Markt inspiring in any way.  Rather than let this get me down, I approach my trips there as I would a jumble sale.  You know - you expect little and usually that is all you get, but occasionally, if you rummage around enough, you find the odd treasure that makes the whole outing worthwhile.  Then you can boast to everyone where you found it (they will all say "No! Really?") and what a bargain it was.  One of my favourite products is the moist toilet paper, not for its soothing properties, but its name.  Happy End.  Does this refer to the fate of the paper, or to the part of the body for which it is intended?  Answers on a recycled postcard please.

              

You'll never guess what....

The unthinkable has happened.  I, the ultimate reluctant housewife and extraordinaire, have found a job.  That is to say, a paid job.  Now you might think me a bit of a fraud, continuing to write under the old name, but as any of you working mothers out there will testify, a woman remains a housewife to some degree, whether she works 8 or 80 hours a week.  Yes!  Such is life.  Please don't think me ungrateful, for I am truly over the Bavarian moon about having found gainful employment - what's left of the salary after 50% income tax will come in most useful.  I can upgrade my mop and buy more expensive furniture polish, amongst other things.  Buying myself an authentic dirndl, for the rare occasions when I might wish to mingle with the good burgers of Bovinia, is now an obtainable goal (they cost as much as a mini-break in Venice). All this is well and good.  It's just that, as a working housewife, you don't get less housework - only fewer hours to complete the existing amount in.  But let's look on the bright side.  I won't be here so much to notice the housework I don't do.

I had thought that blogging about a job would be boring, particularly a clerical kind of job, but then I'm the one who managed to write about housework and countryside for nine whole months and people still read it.  I thus have faith that I might find some interesting snippets to impart about my new life.  And never mind the future.  I've really missed writing this blog over the last few weeks.  Not a day has passed without some gem of an observation, that I would previously have relayed, faithfully, to you via this medium.  None of them springs to mind at this very instant, apart from a lady I was sitting next to at a recent parents' evening. She had on a pair of fine, black velvet shoes - most inappropriate for a sweaty June evening, but smart nevertheless - and I was idly admiring them while the headmaster droned on about I don't know what up front.  I suddenly realised that the shoe-wearer had excessive foot hair.  How unfortunate.  The hairs were blonde, all smoothed in the same direction (probably brushed) and overlapped onto the black velvet, giving the air of a fine golden rim to the shoe.  In other circumstances, it would have been quite beautiful.  I couldn't stop staring at them, and as a result left the meeting little more informed than I had been at the start.

I start my new life on 1st August.  Until then I remain reliant on the German government to keep my head above water, which I must say it has done so quite well for the last ten months.  Bovinia, as it transpires, comes into its own in the summer - there are no end of wacky things going on - so have no fear, life will not be dull, and even if it were, I'd try and liven it up a bit.