Oh, that first field trip.

It was a Saturday, the jet lag had mostly passed, and we decided it was high time we headed into the real world and saw a little more than the commissary.

We opted for Heidelberg, since it was the first place we ventured to seven years ago. There’s a castle, a tram, and a really good creperie that I haven’t been able to get out of my head for over half a decade.

Despite having to trick June into fastening her seat belt and fighting with Rex over which of his beloved stuffed creatures would be allowed on the trip, the ride there was quite pleasant. She got candy and he chose Mouse, a rather detestable white rat he recently earned at Ikea; Mouse has lots to say to us about everything.

Rex loves his animals. They’re real people with real feelings and they go everywhere with him. They’ve been especially important to him these past few weeks, providing a much needed sense of security and friendship.

We parked the car at the base of the hill, hiked the 303 steps to the castle ruins, and spent a leisurely hour roaming around the grounds. The kids were great, no one urinated on the bushes and the girls loved the backpacks.

Of course, life is like a popsicle; it’s meant to melt down. We descended from the castle mount and so did the children’s blood sugar. In the blink of an eye they were starving and I? I didn’t even have a fuzzy breath mint to offer anyone.

After a rather loud and obnoxious public display of hunger, we finally dosed the children with Nutella filled crepes and soda pop and began herding them back to the car just in time to make a fourth bathroom stop.

June and I emerged from the ladies room and waited patiently for the boys so we could head to the car and get ourselves home.

And that’s when it happened.

I looked up and saw Jason and Rex walking toward me and instantly my heart broke. Rex was sobbing. Sobbing like a boy who had just lost his best friend.

Mouse had fallen in the urinal, and much to Rex’s utter horror, Daddy had plucked him out and threw him in the trash.

Daddy killed Mouse.

I have never seen a child cry such a devastated, soul crushing cry. It was as if his world had collapsed and there was nothing left for him but buckets of tears.

He obviously needed the emotional outlet with so much going on, and boy did he let it all out. For two hours in the car we heard, “Daddy killed mouse! Daddy, you’re just a big jerk!! Oh, my beautiful beautiful mouse, he’s gone, he’s gone! sob sob sob!”

Watching Rex mourn his animal was extremely hard for me, even though I knew he would be fine in a day or so. That knowledge didn’t make his sorrow less, and it didn’t stop his pain from bleeding into my own heart. His problem was so teensy in the big scheem of things, but at that moment it was enough to suck all the happy from his little universe.

I bet God feels a lot like that watching us struggle with work and life and family trials. Things that take up months and years of our emotional strength will someday show as nothing more than a personal stepping stone, an opportunity for long-term growth.

It hurt me to watch him hurt like that, even if it was only a little mouse.

I need my things.

We’ve been pushing around the same 12 suitcases since the first week of June and I frequently want to throw them all on the compost heap (Germans are big on recycling).

I have managed to keep up with the laundry (since there’s nothing else to do) but every time I bring up a basket of clean clothes I’m faced, once again, with the realization that THERE IS NO PLACE TO PUT THEM. I used to put them back in the suitcases, but now  simply pull a June–I dump the basket out in the middle of the bedroom and kick the clothes around a little so we can “see them better”.

But at the same time that I dream and watch and wait with baited breath for that lovely moving truck to pull up in front of my house, I tremble and whimper at the thought of them leaving me here, alone, with all that crap to unpack.

I’m bored and busy and don’t seem to accomplish much of anything worth value (with the exception of some homemade applesauce from the eternal apple droppings in the back yard. It was fun for the first two buckets of apples but now I’m feeling a little panicked). There is nothing to do to here and yet I never sit down.

This might be due to the fact that sitting on the couch is kind of like sitting on a sand dune, except here your butt sticks to the plastic. It’s lovely. I find my day is filled with things like sweeping the eternal tile floors and putting away the same basket of toys that the kids routinely dump out and reject.

I don’t know that I’m going to be any happier when it all gets here, but hopefully I’ll at least have a place to sit my weary behind and make a phone call.

Here is this week’s column, it was a painful write.

“Last week we let our German landlords schedule an appointment for Rex (6) and me at the local village elementary school. Despite the language barrier (or because of it), our landlords have convinced us that the German school system here is “super” and we need to put Rex into their version of kindergarten.

Out of curiosity, I agreed to give it a look.

You know that unseen Heavenly forces must be shoving you right along you when all it takes is a short conversation where the only word you understand is “schule” before you find yourself John Hancocking seventeen foreign documents and signing away your child’s educational future.

Your American child. The one who does not speak German.

A few days later my landlord managed to explain that Rex had a doctor’s appointment scheduled with the school’s physician. The part of the conversation that I did not understand was the bit about kindergarten screening.

Apparently Germans like to make sure that kids attending their schools are far enough advanced to refrain from peeing on the tables. Too bad I couldn’t prep Rex for that one.

(For the record, Rex has anxiety. Sometimes it’s debilitating, sometimes it’s hysterical, and we never know what will trigger it.)

The gal in charge of his processing started out by whisking us into a room to wait for the doctor–she spoke very little English. When the doctor came in and told Rex in choppy, halting English to take off all of his clothes and stand in the middle of the room, well…you know that movie Jurassic Park? It was kind of like that; I think Rex thought they were going to eat him.

“MAMA! MAMA! MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!” That seemed to be the only word he could scream. Also I don’t think I’ve ever hated my name more.

The doctor and the nurse sat and stared at us like we were some kind of American lunatics. Between the language barrier and the phenomenal screaming I couldn’t even stumble through an explanation about his anxiety troubles.

Rex managed to keep his clothing on and the doctor tried to get close enough to listen to his heart (which was obviously beating just fine). Right when the man put the cold stethoscope on his chest Rex let out the most ear splitting wail I have ever heard. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! What is he DOING to me Mommy?!”

I tried to calm him down, “Rex, it’s okay, he’s just listening to your heart–”

“HE BROKE IT! HE BROKE MY HEART! OH, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAMA MAMA MAMA!!!!” In actuality, I think the only thing broken was the poor doctor’s ear drums.

The moment we were away from the doctor (and thanks to a little successful good behavior bribery) Rex calmed down. I was anxious to get out of there, but alas we were herded into another room. And thus commenced the unexpected testing.

It would have been one thing for them to ask my worried little boy–in English–to perform a few simple tricks, but she had to ask him in German. I could feel the sweat trickle down my neck as I watched her bark orders at him. He was trying so hard to understand her and keep it together, my heart broke just watching him.

Oh, how I wanted to run to his rescue. It would have been simple to whisk him into my arms and out to the car, away from the strange words and instructions and harsh looks. I sat on my hands and bit my lip, feeling compelled to let the moment play itself out uninterrupted.

Despite the odds, it worked. I sat and watched my son fumble through the process with unexpected success, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed with one of my children. By the time we left, I could tell he felt pretty proud of himself as well. He had proven to both myself and the German taskmaster that he was both smart and capable; it gave me courage that we’re doing the right thing for him.”

As parents, sometimes we want nothing more than to save our children from the struggle and heartache Life is so determined to inflict on them. I guess, in those rare moments when we get it right, our kids aren’t the only ones who grow.

Hallelujah and glory on high, Jesus loves Rex.

To be honest, every day I wait on the balcony for my little Rex to come up the street from the taxi with tears streaming down his face because some mean German kid slapped him.

So far I’m always greeted by Puppy Rex who runs to the house on all fours (too much Tarzan?) and proceeds to bark and lick my face, which is kind of gross.

The other day he casually mentioned something about “the most beautiful girl in the world” and how he’s “going to marry her”. I chalked it up to his trip to the pool this summer when he spent an afternoon trying to woo a red-headed 13-year-old girl by telling her repeatedly that she was beautiful and that he wanted to marry her.

Frankly, if some little kid would have told me that when I was a zit-riddled 13-year-old it probably would have changed my life. Go Rex.

Rex takes the taxi to school with five other little outer village children. One of the girls is Julianna, who I noticed on the first day of school. For starters she’s absolutely beautiful. Secondly, her father is American so she’s the only other kid in his class that speaks English.

The moment she laid eyes on Rex I could see that he had found his second mother. She was so sweet and kind to him on that first day, and every time he gets in the bus she gives him a beautiful smile and says hello. (Jason said that she helped him buckle his seatbelt yesterday as well, so cute.)

And so today when the doors opened and Rex stepped inside, he said, “See Mom? That’s her, the most beautiful girl in the world! I’m going to marry her.” Then he proceeded to sit down and buckle up like his declaration of love was no big deal. Julianna kind of couldn’t keep the abashed grin off her sweet little face.

So now we know why my little puppy loves shulle.

(And as far as his peers go, it was probably a good thing for his social status that none of the kids speak English or he might have gotten teased something fierce. Just saying.)

I have to confess. I have recently discovered that I do, in fact, have an addiction to Diet Coke. (Actually I will happily take any version of sugar water loaded with caffeine, especially if it comes with an IV option.)

This is a particularly horrific confession for me. I grew up in a strictly non-caffeinated household, and in fact never even tasted cola in all it’s wickedness until I went to BYU and got corrupted by my southern, DP drinking roommate.

Thank you Jessica. No really, thank you. I had no idea what I was missing.

My addiction started two years ago during my last pregnancy. Like all intelligent knocked-up blondes, I spent the last six, headache riddled months sipping my Mickey Dee’s super sized dollar Dr. Peppers to make the pain go away (because we all know pregnant women should avoid too much over-the-counter medication).

They may or may not have contributed to my 50 pound weight gain.

Once the baby came I switched to diet, because we all know drinking diet pop makes you skinny.

And that’s when we found out about the move to Germany. From November on, every time I passed a McDonalds I would break out in a cold sweat–I’m sure it had nothing to do with my caffeine addiction–at the very thought of losing access to my cheap fountain drinks. “Just one more,” I’d say, or “I should take advantage of my blessings like a nice Christian girl.”

Three weeks before the move I decided to quit cold turkey. I think they call it cold turkey because everytime I’d try to snitch a drink from a family member and they would turn me down, I would in turn yell, “You’re a cruel, cold turkey for not sharing!”

It took five days for the headaches and the nausea to subside.

The worst part? I’m the world’s most obnoxious reformed whore. Not only do I routinely preach against the evils of that horrible, addictive cola, but every now and then I’ll secretly suck down 42 oz and spend the afternoon deep cleaning the house, while I simultaneously learn German and put up a two-year supply of applesauce.

I guess for every cola there is a season.

Let me tell you, no one does First Day of School like the Germans.

Thanks to a little prodding and encouraging and sign language from our non-English speaking German landlords (and the Spirit), we decided to put Rex into the village school system. He’s at the age where learning a language is easy, their version of kindergarten is only half a day, and it’s five minutes from my house (versus all day on base with an hour bus ride home at night).

The day before school started I had a sit down with Rex’s new teacher, Frau Schneider. Probably the sweetest lady I’ve ever met, the moment I met her I felt like this would be a good thing.

Unfortunately she speaks no English.

It took an entire hour for me to figure out that on the first day, I was to come to the school at 7:45, walk with the class to the local church, then return to the school for a short program in the gymnasium, drop off Rex for an hour while I left to “drink coffee” with the parents and talk to the “taxi driver,” then finally head home at 11:00.

Thinking it was no big deal, I took Rex and Georgia and started out. By the time we got to the church I realized that this was no small event. Half the village turns out for the first day of school, there were at least five adults to every child.

We sang a few songs, including “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” in German, then watched as all the first-graders proceeded to the front of the church for the annual “blessing” where they “get a little angel” on their shoulder to help them through school.

All I have to say is that I’d love to see some American school try that. Honestly, if a group of Christians tried to bless our children with guardian angels and sing them songs about Jesus, it would cost them in law suits and bomb threats. We Americans are so screwed up.

When we finally got back to the school, we met in the gym. The older kids then proceeded to sing to all the new children. This was no casual music here, I’m talking ten-year-olds playing full drum sets and guitars, kids belting out raps in the microphone. Here we are back home, banishing music from our schools like it was some kind of pointless frivolity, while the rest of the world rocks the house. Seeing those kids perform with so much confidence and skill made me wonder if I should really keep Harrison in American schools while we’re here.

By the time I finally dropped Rex off in his classroom (much to his horror and dismay) and made my way to the caffeteria, I was exhausted.

That’s when I met Rosie (you roll the R in the back of your throat). She drives the little “taxi” bus that picks up Rex and five other little children in a cozy little black van loaded with half a dozen booster seats. The woman drives like a bat out of you know where; we tried to follow her this morning but I don’t think my car goes that fast.

All in all it was a full day. Rex did better than expected and I managed befriend a handful of the parents in his class (none of them speak English so that was fun).

Today was his first time on his own. He cried when he had to get on the bus and it almost broke my heart, but he came home with smiles and art work so I think we’re going to be okay. Fingers crossed, it’s a long road between now and whenever. This will be hard for him, especially at first while he’s trying to learn the language.

I don’t think I’ve ever prayed so earnestly for one of my children before, here’s hoping my little egg is in the right basket.

Standing outside with "Baby Kevin" the snipe just before the meeting let out.

This is the house where Annie lives.

Here's the front door and our extremely expensive rental car that we finally turned in yesterday.

The backyard goes all the way to the playset, with a large garden behind the tree. There are tons of apple and plum trees that are dripping with fruit. Too bad all my domestic equipment is cruising around the Atlantic on vacation.

[Read more…]

Here is this week’s column.

There are two things in life that do not frighten me.

I’m not afraid of bugs, and I’m not afraid of blood–but only when the two don’t meet.

The other day they came together with a creepy crawly vengeance. Holy freaked out mother of Rex.

I was up in the bathroom fixing my hair when Rex (5) came in.

“Mommy?” he said, “There’s something in my hair.”

I casually looked at his head and saw a little bur; I tried to grab it.

It stuck. Like, screwed into his scalp stuck. In one horrible split second, I realized that my son was the victim of the world’s most terrifying, disease carrying, killer insect.

“AAHHH!!!” I said, “JASON!!! HELP, HE’S GOT A TIC! A TIC A TIC A TIC! SOMEBODY, HELP US!!! HE’S GOING TO GET A DISEASE AND DIE!”

Okay, maybe I watch too much television.

I swooped him up and took the stairs two at a time. Rex started to scream.

The moment I laid eyes on that nasty little bug I became instantly unaware of Rex. I am a mother. A deadly predator had entered my world and latched itself onto one of my offspring. I was determined to kill it, and no screaming child was going to stand in my way.

Now my little Rexy has some very real anxiety issues about the world in general. Perhaps this wasn’t the best response for a child who would already like to live in his bedroom for the next seventeen years.

Amid the poor child’s screaming terror, I dumped him in Jason’s lap and grabbed the computer. “We’ve got to get this thing out NOW!”

“No Mommy!” Rex sobbed, “I’m okay! I just need a bandaid! Daddy, help me!!!”

I pulled up YouTube and clicked on the “How To Remove a Tic” demonstration. “Okay,” I said, “it says here to grab it by the neck and try not to break off it’s head…”

“No!” he yelled, “Daddy, please don’t let Mommy break my head off!!!”

“Honey,” Jason said, “Just take a deep breath–”

“Lime disease!” I yelled, “We have to make sure he doesn’t have lime disease! Someone, I need to call the hospital, give me the phone–”

“No Daddy!” he cried, “Don’t let Mommy take me to the hospital! I just need a bandaid and I can go watch a movie! Please don’t let her take me!”

Finishing my tic-killing tutorial, I quickly rifled through a nearby drawer and found the appropriate tweezers. Turning to Rex, I slowly approached him with a crazy, bug killing gleam in my eye.

“Okay,” I said with way too much control, “I’ve just got to pinch the neck and pull slowly until it lets go without snapping the head off the body–”

“Daddy, HELP ME! Please don’t let her pinch my head off, please! Somebody, help me!!”

“I need people to hold him down!” I said, looming over his head with the tweezers.

“ARGH!” he yelled, “Don’t let her do it, Daddy! Don’t let her get me!”

Seven seconds later he was tic-free.

In all honesty, nothing, and I mean nothing, has ever freaked me out like that disgusting little bug did. It had screwed itself into my five-year-old’s head and was hanging on for dear life. When I finally pried it out, it took a little chunk of Rex with it.

The moment the bug had been disarmed I reengaged as Loving Mother and threw my arms around my sweet boy.

“You were so brave!” I said, hugging him.

“No I wasn’t!” he sobbed, “I was very scared! You almost broke my head off, Mommy! Why did you do that to me?”

“Broke your head off?” I looked at my husband who was trying not to laugh. “What is he talking about?”

In the future, I shall try to remember that semantics are everything when dealing with the destruction of deadly insects.

I am zestfully trying to get a toenail hold on the German language. Now that the kids are both in school, I find myself interacting with Germans every single day, what a perfect way to get some real life practice.

Sometimes this works out, and sometimes it doesn’t. For instance, I find that when I totally don’t understand something someone says to me in German by the third try, the very best thing to do is simply repeat back to them what I heard them say, in my very best German accent, while smiling and nodding vigorously. Then they totally think I’m all smart and call me a fast learner.

So this week I came up with a fantastic Annie Can Learn German and Prove that She’s Not a Complete Dummy training program. I would like to take credit for this program, but I think that would be like saying that I was the person who discovered prayer.

I decided to go around the house and label common household objects. Sounds simple, right? But when I pulled out my dictionary and started looking up words like “floor,” the dictionary was so confusing and gave me three dozen different meanings for each word that I only got as far as “door”, “toilet” and “oven”.

Then I realized that objects aren’t really that important anyway. What I really need to learn are Things To Yell At My Kids. Today my lesson plan includes putting up sayings in German like, “Put your shoes on before I run over your feet,” or “No, you are not hungry.” “Get your sorry tails in the car,” and “I will now wash your mouth out with soap,” are two that I plan to learn pronto.

Really, I plan to be fluent in German within the year. And I’m not kidding about forcing all the Germans to be friends and talk to me. Yesterday I learned how to say, “A quarter to five.” That’s right, for all German based meetings scheduled at 4:45, I will never be late again.