Annie Valentine

Such a funny word. Funny and uncomfortable and hair pulling and yes, even painful. Still in the end it’s usually laced with a little bit of cotton candy.

Here’s the thing about living in Germany. We’ve been here for over a year now and in that time have finally put down some social roots. It takes time to make friends. Sure, you can do dinner with someone once or twice or see them at church socials. There are baby showers and group luncheons and MOPS and half a dozen other ways for a woman to dig in and bind herself to a place.

But those aren’t the places friendships are made. Friendships are made in the wreckage. It’s the friend who gives up half a day to come and clean before your company comes, who isn’t afraid to tell you the top of your fridge is a mess and doesn’t hesitate to lecture you on storage solutions. It’s having girlfriends who can tell you with love and honesty that yes, the comment you made last week to someone could probably use a follow-up apology.

We have no family on this continent and it’s taken a year to really bond with some families, find couples that we love to be with who have kids our kids can play with. That does not come easily. Thanks to church and a wonderful ward here in Germany we have been blessed with absolutely incredible friendships. I can think of at least ten girls from church I could call at the drop of a hat who would be there for me, and I for them. This is our family. These are the women who were there to pick up my pieces after the car accident and support me through home school and culture shock. Our ward family has provided a much appreciated net of love and safety.

So you can imagine how I felt when Jason came home last night and told me that they’ve asked us if we’d be willing to leave our ward and move to the Baumholder Branch. It’s called a branch because it’s too small to be a ward. I’ve been there, I’ve seen how empty the small chapel is and how desperately they need warm bodies and friendship.

I am being so stupid. This is what we signed up for. When we first decided to move abroad we prayed to find a place where the church actually needed members, where we could use our faith and enthusiasm to help and serve. Now here we are, a year and a half later and happily tucked into a massive military ward, and the Lord is calling us on our promise.

Long term, I’m not going to be sad about this. I refuse to whine or lament about leaving our Ramstein ward (okay, I might cry a little, like right now). Frankly, our big ward’s membership is so swollen I don’t think a single person there will even notice our absence. We’re just one more family fighting for a padded bench on Sunday.

And you know what? We aren’t even justified in drawing a comparison to those other saints who made other sacrifices, real ones that required leaving far more than a decent ward choir and two dozen friendly faces on Sunday morning. In the big scheme of things this is a small sacrifice that will bring us great blessings (I keep hearing a slightly obnoxious voice in the back of my head reminding me about the blessings bit).

But today it sucks.

And I’d really like to avoid the lectures on how glad we’re going to be about it or how lucky we are because I’ve already decided that it’s going to be awesome. We will love this transition. I am giving myself permission to be sad about leaving my friends at church right here, today, on my blog. This move is our choice. The End. More friends will quickly follow and I know my old friends aren’t dead.

Transitions come with mixed feelings and sometimes we get to feel all of them. Sadness, frustration, anticipation, joy in knowing Heavenly Father can count on us to embrace this with excitement and warmth–opposition in all things includes mixed feelings.

I know it’s going to be great, just ask me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.

Oh gosh, we did it. Actually this was a whole lot more monumental than the actual act: we told Harrison about s-e-x. Now that we’ve done it I feel like I’m finally a full-fledged parent.

I use the term “we” lightly here since I mostly sat at the table red in the face while my husband casually threw out the world’s worst object lessons. Honestly, when he started talking about wet spaghetti noodles I just about crawled under the table.

The whole thing started last week. “I think we need to talk to Harrison about sex,” I said one evening. “They’re getting it in Health this year and I’d really like him to hear it from us.” For the record, we didn’t get it until 5th grade but I guess since kids are getting pregnant at twelve it’s best to be on top of it (warning: this post is going to be full of really unfortunate puns).

“Ok,” he said, “I’ll handle it.”

What? Hello? I’m an equal partner here. I then informed him that it was something we should study up on and prepare for together. Then he snorted and asked if I wanted to go “study” in our bedroom.

After the three youngest went to bed tonight we sat at the dining room table with Harry to review his Faith in God pamphlet and check his progress. Just as I was getting ready to send him off with a prayer and a kiss, Jason says, “Hey, why don’t we talk to him about s-e-x tonight?”

For the record, 4th graders can spell.

And thus commenced the most interesting conversation I have yet to have as a parent. We must have done an okay job because he had no problem asking us questions throughout. In fact, I think the whole thing cleared up a lot of speculation for him. He even asked if he could ask us the definition of words he sometimes hears on the bus, words like “gay.”

Yeah, it was enlightening. For all of us.

Jason handled the mechanics and I tried to interject occasionally with theoretical tid bits, like how special and PRIVATE it is, that it’s not something you tell your friends about or discuss on the school bus.

As we wrapped it up and walked him up the stairs his head was full of questions. Apparently the human body is extrememly interesting to nine-year-old boys because he peppered us with follow-ups like, “What’s the deal with poop?” and “Where do boogers come from?”

All in all I’d say it was a success. One down, three to go (he asked if he could sit in when we talk to his siblings).

My seven-year-old can’t read. I know he’s young and we’re not freaking out about it but no matter how you look at the situation, it causes all of us a measurable amount of stress.

After a rough two-week start to first grade we opted to move Rex to a different teacher and classroom. It felt a little like ripping a bandaid off after the skin has started to attach. We had no idea if it was going to cause more hurt or help in the learning and healing process.

After four days we met with his new teacher and the school psychologist for yet another round of microscopic assessment. Rex trots to the beat of his own hammer so getting him to conform to classroom policies without a good reason can be like convincing a mule to run a half marathon for the health benefits.

We sat across from his teacher (60-something but you’d never guess it) and were instantly sucked into her world of magical learning. As she described her classroom environment and methods of teaching it was like being bathed in sunlight. So full of warmth and energy, high expectations balanced by absolute acceptance.

After fifteen minutes of listening to her methodology and passionate reasoning we were fast followers and instant converts. When she finally paused and asked for an opinion, all I could do was gape before finally sputtering out, “I think I love you. Can I be in your class?”

Once we had an idea of how her wheels turned she shifted her comments to Rex. This is usually the part where my palms start to sweat and I wonder what they’ll think if I run from the room screaming.

She pulled out his letter list.

“When I first tested him Rex got 19 of his upper case letters right and 22 of his lower case letters.” I cringed. It’s hard not to take it as a personal failure when your kid doesn’t even make the bottom rung of the charts.

“We moved on to reading and I explained to Rex the importance of a good fit book,” she said while pulling out a very simple paperback titled,  I Can Run. “Then it got rough.” My husband and I touched hands under the table.

Rex is plenty smart but Jason and I feel powerless to tap into it. We don’t know how to teach him. We sit in the evening going over site words and sounding out books but never seem to get anywhere. It’s been six months of total frustration, we’re like the world’s worst three-legged creature who can’t find the right gait.

“I took his first two fingers and showed him how to track underneath the words while he reads,” she said opening the book to the first page and demonstrating the most basic reading skill on the planet…one we hadn’t even thought of.

“At first,” she continued, “he tried to touch the words while he read so I kept moving his fingers. He’d touch on top of the words and I’d move his hand. He hated it, we argued and kept going over and over that same page reading, ‘I can run.’ I could see his anxiety threatening to take over,” she said.

I felt like the mother of Helen Keller as she listened to Annie Sullivan replay teaching Helen that first crucial word at the water pump.

“I finally left him with his book and decided to give him some space,” she said. “It was silent reading time so I returned to my desk and made myself busy. After a few minutes I peeked over to see how he was doing,” she paused and I considered bolting.

“I watched as he opened his book and cautiously put his two fingers together. Then he carefully began to track the words, reading them aloud to himself. ‘I can run…I can play.’ He read himself the entire book one word at a time.”

Should I admit that I cried like a child? Even Jason was red rimmed and snuffly as we listened. It sounds like such a small step but it meant more than hearing he’d conquered Mt. Kilimanjaro or swam the English Channel.

It’s been a long and painful process to get him into the hands of someone who can teach him. I think this time we’ve finally struck gold.

After a painful year in the German school system, my son, Rex (7), was recently enrolled in the American DOD elementary school first grade here in Germany.

Last year was painful. Rex’s teacher did not like him and Germans don’t mince words, especially when their English is severely limited. The language barrier was too much for both of them and after eight months we pulled him out for some much needed healing space. I brought Rex home to finish out the year at the kitchen table with me.

The damage was shocking. He had regressed in reading and writing English so badly (we’d only worked with German language basics all year) that we had to start all over again with the letter “A.” After four months we felt confident that he could enter first grade without needing too much extra catch-up.

When the class list went up and we saw he’d been chosen for the coveted German-immersion class due to his language experience my husband and I were wary. The teacher was German and we didn’t want him to feel like he was reliving last year’s nightmare. We simply wanted a teacher who could love him and help him enjoy learning.

Apparently, Germans don’t love him.

One week into school and our first sign was the repetitive  morning belly aches. Instead of getting better they increased to the point where he not only skipped breakfast, I had to physically remove him from the car for school each morning.

We finally met with his teacher and the school counselor at the end of the second week.

It’s funny, we’ve been dealing with the German school system for so long that we’re totally conditioned to hearing the worst case scenario. You can imagine our shock when the counselor smiled at us and told us how much she like our boy. She had been getting to know him during those first two weeks and gushed about his gentle nature and quick improvement.

His teacher wouldn’t make eye contact with us.

When the time came for the teacher to share her observations about Rex she handled it in a very German fashion.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I guess the good news is that Rex doesn’t cause any kind of disruptions during class. He’ll sit quietly all day and entertain himself. But unless I personally task him he mostly ignores me…”

“Which is totally understandable,” the counselor said. “He’s still adjusting to this environment and time is an important part of that.” She tried to make eye contact with his teacher who drummed her fingers on the table and looked away.

I was slightly surprised at her irritation since most educators are aware that for children with serious anxiety this behavior is a common occurrence during adjustment periods.

“Plus,” his teacher said, “My class is all above average in reading and writing. Rex isn’t. His reading and writing skills are not up to par…”

“And that is perfectly okay,” the counselor interjected, shooting death glares at the teacher. “We are here to teach all students–even in the German-immersion classes. We have wonderful reading specialists who will help Rex…”

The interview continued in this fashion. The teacher telling us in her not so subtle way that she wants our kid out of the class and the counselor trying to overcompensate for her honesty.

As we left the counselor took me aside to apologize and walked me straight to the principal’s office to talk about the awkward interview. Apparently that kind of honesty is frowned upon in American schools.

After hearing about our conference and Rex’s traumatic year here, the principal personally placed Rex with a far more appropriate teacher, one who will hopefully see all the unique and wonderful smarts that swirl around in his little brain.

This experience was uncomfortable and yes, even painful, but we wanted to know her honest feelings. Did she like him? Would she help him? If the answer was no, we’d find a better environment.

I’m grateful for her frank honesty, even if it came with a bite. Our boy is finally in the right environment and that’s all we can ask for.

I love the way my children constantly tell me that I hate them.

“Honey, you need to make your bed–”

“You hate me!”

“Sweetheart, please put your dishes in the sink–”

“You HATE me!”

“Darling, would you mind sharing your birthday cake with the guests?”

“YOU HATE ME!!”

We don’t know what to do about it, it’s not like this parenting business comes naturally. I swear I never use the word hate in my own language (unless I’m talking about the autobahn, gas prices, the school lunch menu, or Lady Gag-Me-Now Gaga). We’ve continually rinsed mouths out with soap (or at least threatened to) and I try not to fall for the “I love you” lecture they all seem so insistent upon.

With the way kids talk around here you’d think we never praised them or fed them pizza.

June (4) is the worst at this. She’s prone to monologuing the moment something goes wrong or she gets corrected. “You hate me, my family hates me! You don’t want me, I’m stupid, stupid I say! You all hate me!! Sniff sob sniff sob…” It gets. So. Old.

I try not to give her a noticeable reaction and usually just casually remark that she’s as smart as she wants to be, or I start to subtly sing “Walk Tall You’re a Daughter of God” which she routinely falls for. The girl loves to sing, you should see her sing “Loathing” from Wicked. She is so my kid.

And right when I thought we had started to move through this I was trying to get Georgia (2) ready yesterday morning. When I wouldn’t put on the winter snow suit in 82 degree weather, what do you think she said? “You…HATE…me! I stupid!”

If it wasn’t so cute I would have washed her mouth out with soap. And yes, I snuggled her and told her how much I love her and that she’s wonderful. Man, it so pays to be the baby of the family. Here are her two-year-old photos my genius girlfriend Geneva took last month.

It is 2 am and my boy, Harrison, just finally fell back asleep after trying to banish from his mind the pornographic pictures some kid kept shoving in his face on the bus this week.

I feel so…angry.

My sons have been in school for nine days. During those nine days they have ridden the bus five times. Five. That’s it. They’ve been given strict instructions to sit together on the bus due to issues last year with bullies and inappropriate iPod use of other children, but apparently since they like to play “I Spy” and talk out loud the driver sometimes separates them.

Enter pornography 101.

I have to wonder how parents who hand their 9, 10, 11, 12-year-old children iPods can automatically trust them to only access the good parts of the world wide web. Because let me tell you, kids are kids. They are curious and it only takes one or two of them to get other kids to use their media inappropriately. And hey, why not show everyone else on the bus because it’s so cool to shock the elementary schoolers?

Last year Harrison had an older kid (10 year old) shove a pornographic picture under his nose. It really upset him and affected his ability to fall asleep for a week. School has been in session for two weeks and it’s already happened again.

What are we thinking? As mother’s, we have a responsibility to protect our children from this kind of poison, and poison it is. To think that children are now spending their spare time searching for polluted images during these tender years, kids who no doubt come from nice normal families, says that parents aren’t paying attention to what’s really going on. If they were then I wouldn’t have girlfriends with small children who all share similar experiences.

There’s not a lot we can do to battle pornography with the men and women of today’s world. Once you’re of age it’s a private battle , but I can do something here.

We have a responsibility to these children to keep this kind of twisted, dirty corruption out of their lives. We have to teach them to say no and say it out loud. We have to remind them to never, ever look at a phone or iPod before they ask what kind of picture is about to be shown. We’ve told Harrison that if he ever sees any kind of pornography to tell us immediately and we’ll help him know what to do about it. I’m so glad he’s listening, we might not be able to take those pictures from his brain but we can certainly help him think of ways to bypass them.

We have to ask and ask often. It’s embarrassing for kids to talk to parents about this kind of thing so often they don’t. We didn’t know that happened to him last year until this summer when we had a talk about pornography and he told us.

But these are my cubs and so help me, I will not stand by and watch this kind of thing happen. Our generation is far less savvy about what’s going on in schools and with media than we should be because it’s all new territory for us. We didn’t have this kind of thing forced down our throats by peers twenty years ago at the touch of a finger. We had to go looking for it…now it comes after them.

Be part of the solution. Talk to your kids about media and talk often, it’s a battle they will all fight.

This morning I dropped the boys off for the first day of another school year.

I was expecting to feel a major sense of relief that half of the mess was heading off to do their art projects elsewhere, but what I really felt was complete and total terror that the women who now run my children’s lives won’t love them. I know it’s not a requirement but it sure makes their job easier.

When I roused our boys at 6:00 am this morning Rex (7) quickly pulled the covers over his head and assumed the fetal position. Last year we failed at the German school and he’s been taking Learn To Read English From Mother 101 since April. It’s been mostly successful although his teacher tends to be kind of lazy if the weather is too hot or there’s laundry to do or if it’s Wednesday.

“Rexy,” I said, “Time to get up! Today you get to meet your new teacher, Frau Von Wendel!” By sheer luck–if you could call it that–Rex was selected for the German Immersion first grade class. It’s nearly impossible to get into, they do math and science in Deutch and reading and writing in English. It’s great for kids who have an affinity for learning languages.

I would like to say that Rex has such a talent, but after eight months surrounded by German from eight to four every day, he still wasn’t speaking any of it to anyone. That said there have been a handful of moments this summer when the kid will randomly spit some German sentences out and expect me to understand him.

When I finally talked him down from the bunk bed this morning and bribed him into dressing and brushing his teeth I knew we were halfway there. He’s recently metamorphosed into Shy Guy when faced with new situations and has been worrying for the past two weeks that no one at school will like him.

“What if my teacher doesn’t like me?” he asked the other day, “What if the other kids laugh at me?” These words fell like bricks on my heart, I desperately wanted to assure him that everyone will love him and that school will be wonderful. Unfortunately, life doesn’t work like that. Even Cinderella was made fun of and look how nice she was.

We went to new student orientation last week. As we headed out on the guided tour we passed through a long hall of first grade classes. All the rooms were dark and empty, but as we neared the end of the hall we saw a teacher decorating her room in preparation for the coming onslaught of children.

She looked out the door and waved right at Rex with a big smile. He turned to me, consumed by hopeful angst. “Can I have that one, Mom? She looks really nice and I think she’ll like me!” It took every ounce of motherly control to keep myself from marching straight to the counseling office and demanding they give my child that nice, gentle lady.

As we slowly made our way to the cafeteria this morning to find Rex’s teacher and class, he walked with his head down and his feet dragging. Part of me wanted to scoop him up and take him home where he could be assured love and friendship. As we waved goodbye before he entered his new classroom I turned to the mom next to me and saw that she, too, was fighting tears. “She’s never been to school before…” she said.

“Only one way to remedy that,” I replied. I guess the only way to move forward is to actually move forward, but easier said than done. Heaven bless these little children, the world is so consuming.

Here’s Rex on the long car ride to school. If that photo doesn’t about sum it up I don’t know what does.

Our oldest boy, Harrison (9), has a best friend. She’s a girl.

Boy/girl best friendships that don’t include kissing are rare. In today’s world where so much of the elementary social scene is segregated, girls and boys who are buddies are routinely teased and pegged as romantically involved.

But the moment Harrison met Kaiyah they were like Batman and Robin, Abott and Costello, Pinky and the Brain (she’s the brain). Their friendship was initially based on an equal infatuation with Harry Potter and magic in general, but over the past year of traveling together as families they are simply two peas in a pod.

It didn’t take long for heat from their friends on the playground to test their brevity. Jake, one of Harrison’s buddies, was particularly skeptical at their breach of gender lines.

“Mom,” Harrison said last year after the first week of school, “Some of the kids on the playground are teasing me and Kaiyah about being boyfriend and girlfriend,” he said, spitting out the last three words like they were icky and covered in goobers.

“Really?” I asked, “Who?”

“Well, like Jake. He’s my friend, but when I want Kaiyah to play with us he gets all weird and teases us.”

“Well,” I said, “Sometimes you’ve got to stick up for your friends. It’s okay to tell people that boys and girls can be friends too, just like in Harry Potter.” Those were obviously magic words. He armed himself with Harry and Hermoine’s powerful example and never had a problem with it again. Within a month Jake had not only gotten over it, but he rounded off their trio.

We routinely eavesdrop on Harrison and Kaiyah’s conversations for propriety’s sake (when Jake’s not around) and it always pays off as good entertainment. I walked in on them practicing Hogwart’s spells one time, but my presence instantly halted any magic brewing in the air.

“Whatcha doin?” I asked.

“Um…” Kaiyah said.

“Just…practicing,” Harry said.

“Cool,” I turned to leave the room then stopped. “You guys know it’s not real, right?”

“What’s not real?” Kaiyah asked.

“Magic. It’s just pretend, the books, the movies, they’re not actually real.”

“Uh, yeah,” Harrison said casually, “We know.” I turned to leave again. “Wait,” he said, “Are you sure?”

I will tell you in confidence that no thanks to hanging out with little sisters and girly friends, Harrison has an open affinity for Barbie movies. He is not ashamed of the fact that he knows all the songs from Barbie as Princess and Pauper. He’s not sure what it is about those movies that he loves so much. We’ve decided to tell him when he’s older.

The other day Kaiyah’s mom walked in to find Kaiyah, her sisters, and a couple of nine and ten-year-old boys from the neighborhood–Harrison included–watching Barbie Fairie Secret. Knowing that Kaiyah prides herself on being anti-princess and anti-Barbie, my friend asked, “So Kaiyah, do you like the Barbie movies?”

“No,” she answered defensively.

“I do,” Landen (10) confessed with a sigh.

“It’s just,” Kaiyah said, “I can’t help watching them.”

“It’s true,” Harrison agreed as the three of them sat mesmerized watching Barbie flit across the screen.

It’s funny to see how compliant Harrison is when it comes to being bossed by a girl. We were playing at the lake a few weeks ago and Jason told the kids he’d give five euro to anyone who could catch one of the teensy minnows swimming around. Harrison and Kaiyah spent the next hour intently fishing for treasure.

“Got it!” Harrison yelled at last, holding the little red bucket above his head.

“You owe me three euro,” Kaiyah said, hands on her hips. “It was my bucket.”

Harry sighed and shrugged, “Alright.”

Someday some woman is going to thank Kaiyah for training that boy so thoroughly.

I unfortunately pride myself in lofty goals. Lose 42 pounds by Thanksgiving, learn to run then run a marathon by Christmas, teach myself to play the violin by March, stuff like that. When summer started I decided to kick my mothering into high gear and planned to teach my children everything they need to know to succeed in life by the end of August.

We began the summer with an impressively intricate points system (I bummed it off a much more intelligent girlfriend of mine) to encourage the children to use their jobs to earn rewards, like media or swim days. My kids loved it.

The summer also started with a strict bed time and wake up schedule. We planned to retire at a reasonable hour and arise with the sun in order to conquer the world and the toilets before the day burned off. The morning ritual included oral hygene, bed making, Learn About Jesus Time, daily chores, and most importantly, summer school.

It lasted three days.

For three days their little minds expanded and their habits showed the promise of aspiring good citizenship. Finally, our family was proving that we can be a well-oiled machine, balancing the delicate tension between work and play, rewards and discipline, learning and meandering.

Then we went on vacation.

Don’t ask me what happened between then and now but with one week of summer left I keep walking around the house, scratching my head and wondering who these weedy little hoodlums are and if their mother is ever going to show up and take them home. I don’t know what I’m dreading more, the first day of school next week or Tuesday’s dental appointments. Not only do my poor little children have puffy summer gums but they can’t seem to remember which end of the pencil they’re supposed to write with.

I was playing a board game with Harrison (9) a few days ago. It required some very elementary math skills, like 2×4 and 6+8. He’s going into fourth grade; at one point last year he passed off all his multiplication tables.

“Okay honey,” I said at the end of the first round, “What’s 2×3?” He stared at me, his popsicle-stained mouth hanging slightly ajar as he tried to crank up the old mathematical cogs. I waited. And waited and waited and waited.

“Don’t tell me!” he finally said, holding up a finger before I could supply him the miserable answer. I shut my mouth with excruciating effort and watched as he counted them up on his fingers.

Heavens to Betsy, were we in trouble. The rest of the game went about the same as I attempted to drill him on simple multiplication tables. As the game finished I laid the hard news on the table for him.

“Buddy,” I said, “I hate to break it to you but we’ve got two weeks until school starts. Do you know what that means?” He looked back at me with his do-we-have-any-cookies-because-I’m-really-not-listening-to-you expression (the one thing he’s perfected this summer).

“Hello?” I said, “Earth to Harry. Did you hear me? We’ve got two weeks until school starts.”

“So?” he said.

“So? What’s 7×2?” Once again I watched in agony as he tried to resurrect his defunct mathematical tools.

“Don’t tell me!” he finally said. I put my head in my hands as he counted up the answer.

“Son,” I asked, “How will you feel when you start fourth grade and your teacher realizes that you can’t remember any of your multiplication tables? What will your teacher think of you? Aren’t you a little worried about that?” Finally a sliver of understanding cross his face. Nobody wants to feel stupid on the first day of school. He quickly agreed to a steady diet of flash cards.

I was telling my girlfriend about our lost learning. When I got to the part in the story where he couldn’t do simple multiplication any more, like 6×2, he yelled out to me, “I do to know what 6×2 is, it’s 18!”

Fourth grade, here we come.