It’s a funny thing about moving across the world. You’re all prepared to step off the plane and inhale the foreign smelling air, but instead you land on an Air Base loaded to the hilt with soldiers and pilgrims, grab a quick lunch at Chilie’s, and settle into a hotel with 110 voltage plugs.

Our first week here at Ramstein Air Force Base (aka Little America), located somewhere in the German countryside, has been as comfortable as seven days in Mayberry. Today we decided it was time to zoom ourselves and our four little children into the German economy for a taste of foreign living.

We decided to go to Ikea. Yeah, we’re brave like that.

For those of you who have never shopped at this veritable Disneyland of home goods, it’s filled to the brim with enough products and storage solutions to take up an entire Saturday afternoon while obliterating the balance on your Visa. Also, they have free babysitting.

And hey, I was certain that it wouldn’t matter what language the instructions came in because home furnishings speak directly to my soul.

(For the record, my soul doesn’t speak German.)

Our list was simple, we needed bedding. We headed down to the sheet section and found stacks of sheets in a rainbow of colors. I quickly scanned the first package for something similar to our American markings: twin, full/queen, or kin.

I looked. I looked again. The only thing I could see were a set of nonsensical numbers written at the top–numbers that obviously belong to some magical European measuring system that I’m too thick-headed to comprehend.

I looked around me, the panic rising. I had absolutely no idea which sheets were which. 900? What does 900 mean? Is that the thread count or the length? And why is the little picture exactly the same on all the sheets? Can’t they just show a big bed and a little bed?

Had I been able to sit down and put my head between my knees for a moment I might have managed to deduce that the smallest numbers were for a twin sized sheet then work my way back up to the king, but we all know that would have been like trying to tell a drowning person to do the backstroke.

Finally, with beads of sweat coating my brow, I looked in vain for an employee. Like all misplaced Americans we have learned the importance of that simple phrase, “Sprechen Sie Englisch, bitte?” Of course, there wasn’t a yellow shirted bilingual to be had.

I took a breath, smoothed down my shirt and turned to a young couple two aisles down.

“Entschuldigen…” I said, using one of the seven German words I know. They ignored me. I tried again with my butchered version of “excuse me,” and again failed miserably. But by then I was committed, so I sucked in my stomach for courage, marched myself over and tapped the girl on the shoulder.

“Sprechen Sie Englisch?” I asked.

“Ya,” she said, turning to her husband. They could probably hear my sigh of relief in Poland, I was so happy to find someone who could help me.

In no time at all I had my cart loaded with the appropriate bedding and was zipping through the check-out line. Collecting the children, I realized with a sinking heart that we had one more stop to make before the car; the concession stand. Because of course, the kids were hungry. That meant I was about to have my first encounter with ordering food in German and paying for it with Euros (only if my palms would stop sweating long enough to peel the bills from my clammy hands).

The children wanted donuts and ice cream. I did a quick count and figured I needed four donuts and two ice cream cones. Knowing that they Germans appreciate any attempt to communicate in their native tongue, I practiced the German numbers in my head while standing in line, holding on to my soggy Euros for all I was worth, “Vier donuts und zwei ice creams…”

Just as I stepped to the register to order, Harrison (8) yelled out, “I want an ice cream too!”

I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing came out. The lady stared at me. What to do? The weight of the line and the German math was crushing down on my stupid blond head like some kind of nuclear physics problem. It was too much! I couldn’t take it! There was no possible–

“Four donuts and three ice creams, please.” I thrust my crumpled bills at her and she casually gave me my food.

So much for mingling with the natives.

If frau is even the right word. I wouldn’t know because I don’t speak any freaking German.

You know how you think you know something, like German, because your kids watched the BBC German “Muzzy” video fourteen times? How that should make you proficient enough to recognize basic German, since German and English are practically the same language? I mean, we all come from Adam and Eve, the Spirit will fill in the blanks, right?

Not so much.

We have the greatest landlords on the planet. They’re mid-fifties, they make sure the house is in pristine condition at all times, and they absolutely adore our children.

Gerta is probably the nicest lady in Germany. Seriously, “dote” doesn’t even come close to describing how good they’ve been to our kids this past week. Yesterday (move in day) we showed up and there they were with super nice presents for all the kids just because. And they have single-handedly set up and escorted us to meetings with the preschool and village elementary schools so I could meet the teachers for Rex and June.

And they don’t speak a word of English.

Trying to talk to Gerta is possibly the most stupidifying thing I have ever experienced. Honestly, she talks so slowly for me and points and gesticulates and all I hear is this voice in my head screaming, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE SAYING!! QUICK, SMILE AND NOD AND SAY “YAH” SO SHE WON’T KNOW HOW STUPID WE REALLY ARE!”

And so I do. Smile and nod like the single-lingoed bobble head that I am.

And the whole “fake it till you make it” line? I have the feeling that I can only say, “Guten tag!” so many times before they figure out that no, I really don’t speak any German. At all.

Who knows what I’ve agreed to thus far? For all I know we’ve invited them over for Christmas, or offered to trade our kids for the house.

There has got to be a way for me to learn this language. Oh why does it have to sound so…foreign?

(I have to add that when she speaks to Rex in German, he counts back to her in Spanish.)

I’m looking to trade my three-year-old for a colicky baby, any takers?

Here’s the thing about dragging your family halfway around the world and relocating. While it sounds fun and exciting and adventurous, it’s also nerve wracking and confusing and scary.

Most of us are dealing with the typical emotional glitches in a stereotypical manner (except for baby Gigi who is practically as perfect as Mary Poppins). A bout of sadness here, a mini meltdown there–sometimes the kids act out as well.

But then there’s June. June has discovered that there is one place in this world where she holds all the power: buckled into her seatbelt. While she’s there she can torture and torment the other five car passengers in a way that would drive even Mother Teresa to the basement of the convent.

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” she screeches with obnoxious delight over and over and over. “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“June,” I say over the banshee wail, “Would you mind making another noise? How about a song? ‘I want to be kind‘ –”

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“Okay,” I try again in a not-angry voice, “How about we read a story from ‘The Friend’? ‘Jill stepped out of her front door’–”

“NOOOOOO! WHAAAAAAAAAA! STOP READING! ME NO LIKEY READING!!! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Did I fail to mention that this noise is usually paired with wild kicking? The kicks usually land on the back of Harrison’s seat, or in the worst case scenario in Rex’s face.

The kicking almost always makes Harrison cry. “I can’t take it anymore!” He sobs, “She’s making me crazy! I just want out of this car!! I’m getting sick of June being in this FAMILY!!”

I can’t begin to describe to you the total loss of power I feel when this happens. We’ve tried pulling the car over and not moving until she stops. She. Never. Stops. We’ve tried giving her a time-out when we get to our destination. Apparently, it’s worth three minutes in the corner for the twenty minute power thrill she gets in the car.

Yesterday I tried calling Santa Clause. “Hello, Santa? Yes, this is Miss Annie–”

“That’s not Santa!” she yelled, “You’re just pretending, Mommy. You can’t call Santa!” I couldn’t even fake it well after that.

The worst part? When we reach our destination, she hops out of her seat and comes right up to  me. “I want to give you a hug and a kiss, Mommy!”

I’ve tried explaining to her that when she does that, it makes me not want to kiss her. I’ve tried reasoning, disciplining, ignoring and screaming back. This is parenting Hell.

Tomorrow I’m trying a new tactic. Every time she starts with the wailing we’re going to pull the car over and everyone but June gets to jump out and have a road party. That’s right, we’ll laugh and tickle and dance in a circle, and she can sit in the car and “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” as long and as loud as she wants.

Wish me luck. If this doesn’t work we just might put her on the next train to Frankfurt.

Tonight I am overwhelmed. Like, sit in the car and talk to my mother on my cell phone for an hour overwhelmed.

I guess somewhere along the way I forgot that moving to Germany was going to take a little more work than the average “across town” relocation program. We’ve been here over a week and my kids haven’t seen a castle. We’ve been here over a week and I have yet to register the boys for school. We’ve been here over a week and apparently I missed soccer sign-ups.

We’ve been here over a week and the only thing I’ve managed to stay on top of is the laundry. (Okay, I’m kind of proud of that one.)

We want to travel, but when we start asking other families questions, I feel like what we get is an encyclopedia of “good ideas” that fly past at light speed. Can’t someone hand me a piece of paper and say, “Here, take this trip on Saturday. Your family will love it. Afterwards, please report back for your next assignment.”

As civilians, we know next to nothing about military living. The resources (which are available aplenty) and opportunities that all the good mothers are already on top of–I’m overwhelmed and slightly frightened that I’m going to miss the boat and end up homeschooling my children in the German countryside.

Oh gosh, that was a really bad visual.

I know we’re going to be fine. I know this will take time and patience and trial and error. I know we’ll screw up and get it right and hit all the colorful areas in between. And I guess the good stuff is worth working for.

So this is me, rolling up my sleeves. Bring it on, Germany.

You only scare me slightly.

We left more than family behind with this move. Much to my husband’s dismay, we also had to leave the big screen. Frankly, our lovely television just couldn’t take the voltage over here.

Due to the mass expense that comes with this kind of move (seriously, it’s kind of killing us right now–don’t believe all the rumors about getting rich off moving with the government, not true at least for us) we’re having to carefully plan where the money goes. Frankly, we could really use some lamps.

(Yeah, I didn’t find out until AFTER I sent seventeen of them into storage that lamps are one thing you can plug in with a converter and a euro bulb. I kind of wanted to stick my finger in a light socket when I realized my mistake.)

And so we’ve decided that until October, we will be living without a television. No videos, no DVD’s, no PBS–just us and the kids and our old German house (and the neighbors and their tramp and, hopefully, their television). We’ve talked to the kids about it and they are perfectly willing to go TV-free for a while. Harrison has decided he’s going on a “tv diet.”

So last night we went out to drop off some groceries and spend an hour or two chilling on our stick furniture. The house is equipped with the barest of necessities: a couch, a dining set, four beds and mattresses (no linens), six armoirs and a few night stands. It is emp-ty.

But would you believe those kids played hide and seek in our sparse selection of furniture for an entire hour? I don’t want to get my hopes up, but at one point it almost appeared that they were enjoying themselves. (Then again, Rex did punch June in the tooth once when she found him.)

I’m sure we’ll be breaking out the mini-DVD player as much as the battery will allow, and I’m sure that our ten pieces of furniture will get really old really fast. But I’m also feeling more and more sure all the time that this is the beginning of a really, really good time for my family.

I want my kids to try something different, be a little less plugged in and a little more aware of each other and just how great their relationships can be.

Something with a little less punching, you know?

We’re in Germany. The grocery store is foreign, the yellow lines on the road have disappeared, everyone has a red tile roof, and the biggest thing freaking me out is my new iPhone.

See, I should have paid attention when people started calling them “smart phones.” Apparently you have to be smarter than the phone to use it–or in my case, you have to speak German.

In order to be a Good Wife, I let Jason and his jet lag hit the hay early last week and took it upon myself to “surprise” him by programming both our new iPhones.

Unfortunately, I told our phones that we live in Germany. Since people in Germany speak German and my phone is too stupid to know that I’m a recent transplant, it welcomed me with a very German salutation. (Then again, it might have been swearing; it was all Greek to me.)

For the first four days all my texts came and went in German, my browser was in German, my facebook account? German. I would have loved to get in on all that “app” business but it’s ALL IN GERMAN.

Determined to fix this problem myself (since Jason has been kind of busy), I went to two different places and all they could do was stare and ply me with subtle answers like, “Seriously? If you can’t figure this out then you’re not worthy of a smart phone.”

I am, by the way. Worthy. I’ve stood by my broken Motorola for way longer than my contract asked me to.

After four days of confusion, my husband finally came to my rescue last night and rebaptised our phones.

The worst part? I spent thirty minutes of driving through beautiful German countryside trying to figure out how to use my new camera app so I could take pictures of the beautiful German countryside.

Sometimes technology really defeats the purpose.

It’s three am and I should be sleeping. We’ve got church tomorrow and I have clothes to iron. Oh wait, I should probably do that right now.

I can’t sleep because today we met our home. It’s old, it’s German, and I think it’s been waiting half a century for us to come find it. Like any other talented obsesser, I have been laying in bed for the past two hours putting my things away in my head; couch here, picutures there–no wait, there…yeah, it’s going to be a long six weeks before our crap arrives.

But the best part (if that’s even possible) is how incredibly efficient Heavenly Father is at answering my prayers. Seriously, you should all get in on this praying business because let me tell you, He’s kind of amazing.

For example, I’ve had a number of quiet concerns. I’m worried about finding a friend close by. I’m worried about how I’ll ever locate a decent babysitter in this little village. I’m worried about friends for my kids. I’m worried about being a civilian and needing to locate a pediatrician, and then trying to work out getting the insurance to pay them back. This, honestly, is about my list.

Apparently, God is listening.

Today we met a Mormon family that flew in on the Rotator with us. They have five children; their oldest is a beautiful 12-year-old who loves to babysit. Their second is a nine-year-old boy who needs a friend (like Harrison), then they have three daughters, ages six, four and one.

If I don’t frighten her off with my overbearing “let me help clean your bathroom” ways, the mom seems incredibly down to earth and just my type (since I’m not necessarily heavy on the down to earth business and am routinely in need of such a friend). And not only is the dad the nicest, coolest guy ever (next to Jason), he’s a PE-DE-A-TRI-CIAN.

Cha-ching. Oh yeah, ’cause Jesus loves us.

Now I need to repent for all my evilness and seek to be worthy of such miraculous, rocking blessings.

(We. Love. Germany.)

We. Are. Here.

I know, it doesn’t seem real to me either. Perhaps that’s because we spent our first 48 hours of Germany confined to a three block radius on base, surrounded by super American Americans.

The flights over were, in some ways, too easy. There were moments when I could practically feel the chariots of angels escorting us, keeping the kids safe and meltdown free. The glitches were few but potent. Most of them involved me.

For example, after a full day of traveling from Salt Lake to Baltimore, they finally started boarding the Rotator (aka Patriot Express) just before ten pm. In order to avoid multiple trips to the loo, I decided to run to the restroom thirty seconds before taking the plunge. Unfortunately, I ran into everyone’s least favorite Aunt in the bathroom. Talk about unprepared, it’s been two solid years since she and I have been in touch.

With over a hundred soldiers all watching and waiting for me and the circus to get on with the pre-boarding already, I had to make quick friends with one of the small handful of other mom’s on the flight.

Did I mention that the plane was full of men? Have you ever tried to casually ask a total stranger for a tampon with an audience of 194 curious boys standing seven inches away? Could anything be more my life than that right there?

The good news is that within ten minutes of boarding all four of my dumplings were zonked out like a bunch of little snorty pugs. It was a good thing. With a plane filled with soldiers heading out into the field of battle, we ended up sitting right there at the gate for over four hours because two of the idiots on board decided to get sloshed just prior to take off. They were both so drunk and so sick that the captain finally kicked them off.

It took the ground crew an hour and a half to locate all 14 of their bags, then another hour and a half to re-ticket and reboard the airplane. The captain was kind enough to let my babies stay aboard during all the chaos (also I might have threatened him with super death by mother bear if anyone even attempted to dislodge them). The kids all slept a full 8 hours of that 12 hour ordeal, Georgia ten.

So here we are and I don’t know what to do with myself. Since I’ve only had seven hours of sleep in the past two days, I really should try to get some rest.

Good thing I brought the laundry to keep me company.

It’s a funny thing about jumping; no matter how prepared you think you are, the fall always knocks the brevity right out of you.

The summer before my 18th birthday was a hot one–in more ways than one. Being from the wet side of Washington State, it wasn’t uncommon for most of us to come from non-air-conditioned homes/cars/work places. When the temperatures hit the nineties, kids with weak, western Washington blood running through their veins got desperate. We did the only intelligent thing, bridge jumping. Because obviously throwing yourself off a large structure and falling tens of feet to the rapid cold water beneath was so much more refreshing than, oh say, swimming.

Perhaps I’m using the term “we” a little too inclusively here. My cousins and friends would go bridge jumping while I sat on the river’s edge, dipped my toes in the current, and clapped at their bravery. This would be because I’m the world’s biggest wimp (according to my cousins). I spent most of the heat wave that summer listening to chicken calls and trying to defend my intelligent terror.

But temperature has a funny effect on people who are bored and overheated. It only took a week or two of peer pressure before I found myself, one hot July afternoon, standing at the railing of a very high, very industrial looking bridge.

 And they said I wouldn’t jump.

Honestly, I think the only thing that actually got me out on the ledge was watching my skinny little 14-year-old cousin shimmy over the railing, step two feet out onto the large metal beam that ran suspended beneath the bridge by some sort of engineering magic, and plunge to his (not quite) death without so much as a whimper.

I remember putting my cold hands on that sun-hot railing and swinging my right leg over to straddle it. Getting the other leg to agree to this move was more of an effort, since it seemed to think that we shouldn’t mess with dry land. Once I finally had my entire body on the unsecured side of the bridge, it was just a matter of forcing my rubbery legs to step down to the lower beam. (And yes, I probably should have used the restroom before I got up there.)

Longest. Step. Of. My. Life.

Finally there I stood, seventy (okay thirty) feet from the rushing water below with nothing to stop me from going back but my pride. I had no idea how the fall would feel; exciting? Elating? Terrifying? Would I hit that one rock everyone warned me about and die? Would I feel like a bird or a stone, and which one was better? A breath, a whisper, a step and…

SMACK!!

 No one told me I should jump feet first, straight like the arrow. By the time I landed I was in a sitting position, and holy moly but that river spanked me like a naughty school girl. That was, inevitably, my one and only plunge.

We fly to Germany in 72 hours and I feel once again like that girl on the bridge. I can look down and see the water, cool and refreshing and exciting and scary. But standing here I’m still a world away from the fall.

What about the language? The food? My children’s happiness? Will there be friends, or decent grocery stores, or English movie theaters? Will we miss The Office and college football and Sunday dinners with the family?

Some of the answers will be yes and some will be no, but still I feel compelled that this jump is exactly what my family needs right now.

Here’s hoping this time I land on my feet.

We are 72 hours from go and already I feel compeltely cut off from everyone I know and love. Cause that’s what happens when someone takes away your cell phone. Bye bye world.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been hanging onto the most detestable, ghetto cellular device on the planet. The back is gone and the battery is held in with double stick tape, the glass is cracked, and half the time I can’t hear anything when I answer it.

But that darn phone is loaded with people I love, losing it means losing my life lines.

It was supposed to last until Tuesday. On Tuesday the thing can flip open and die for all I care, but not until then. We’ve made it this long, can’t it charge through just three more days?

Apparently fate has decided to give me a little taste of what being cut off from everyone I know and love feels like. Yesterday the phone fell on the pavement once, cracked in half, I made a desperate attempt to retrieve it, but alas it jumped from my hands and plunged head first to the pavement, cracking into irreparable pieces.

And here I sit. My laptop is dead. My phone is dead. It feels like I’m being kicked out of my world three days early.

Fine, if that’s the way fate’s going to treat me I might as well go and move to Germany after all.

72 hours. I’m feeling slightly dizzy…