Annie Valentine

This was in the paper last week and I forgot to post it. One of those unforgettable Christmas moments.

Over here in Germany Christmas is serious business. Nearly every village puts on some sort of Christmas festival or market, some of which run for an entire month of holiday bliss. The food alone is enough to keep me coming back for more.

But my favorite thing about Christmas in Duetchland would have to be the nativities. They are absolutely everywhere. I haven’t seen Santa at a single Christmas market but the story of Jesus is presented in nearly every format imaginable, including live animation.

The other day my girlfriend and I took the children to one of the local village Christmas markets not far from our area. I’ve got a few Christmas gifts to buy and have been looking for something decidedly German to send back to family in the states. Leaving my purse in the car, I pocketed 100 euros ($130) and my cell phone and headed out with the kids in search of Christmas treasure.

As soon as we entered the main square of the festival we saw, much to our wondering awe, the three wise men and their camels in full New Testament regalia. They were awesome.

The kids and I visited for a moment, got a picture, and made a note of the live play taking place later in the afternoon.

We moved on and found scattered among the shops a live stable filled with animals–donkey, goats, fowl, sheep–for the children to touch and smell (the smell was very authentic). It was a great teaching moment and I snapped another picture before we headed on our way.

After wandering through the crowds and stalls I finally found some ornaments to purchase. Reaching into my pocket for my wad of cash I fingered my phone and dug around for the bills.

Nothing. My pocket was empty.

I checked my other pocket in vain knowing that my money had been next to my phone–the same phone I had snapped pictures with fifteen minutes earlier.

With a heavy heart my friend and I retraced our steps. I didn’t have much hope. We carefully checked the busy walkways for my missing money but it remained bill-free. The cash was nowhere to be seen.

All I could think about was my quickly depleting Christmas budget. Why had I taken so much money with me, and why hadn’t I put it someplace safe, like my underwear? Am I really that stupid?

We continued to retrace our steps and I continued to mumble a sad little prayer under my breath. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the money never surfaced, and if it went to someone who needed it more than us that was fine too. But please, if there could be a way…

Finally we landed ourselves once again in front of the Magi. I approached the wise men and told them my plight. They shook their heads, no money had been found. I turned to leave, the day completely ruined, when the oldest (and wisest) of the three stopped me. “Wait,” he said, “I have an idea. Let us check the city hall, perhaps someone has turned it in.” I left the children with my friend as the gentleman took my arm and we headed across the town square, through the alley and around the church, finally entering the Rathaus.

We walked down a narrow hall and he knocked on the last door. Upon entering, the fellow told the lady behind the desk my story, asking if anyone had turned in the money.

I stood there staring out the window. Their conversation was in German and my faith wasn’t much better than a soggy yule log.

Finally the man turned to me with a big grin. “They have it,” he said. “Someone found it on the street and turned it in. See? People are good!”

He might not have been one of the real wise men, but he was good and wise and willing to help a poor, stupid American far from home feeling lost and forlorn. How funny that even after all this time the magi continue to show us that answers don’t usually come unless we’re willing to go the distance.

Wise, wise men indeed.

Thank you to all my wonderful friends, both real and virtual, who sent us cards; my wall is happy and I’m surrounded by reminders of those we love dearly. Per my request, Mr. Jason has written our Christmas letter, it will be going out shortly. Never has a keyboard been put to such good use, I think I’m going to hand it over permanently.

Okay that’s a lie. No way am I giving up the Christmas letter forever.

J and I were discussing 2011 in the car today, reminiscing about some of the things we’ve done/seen/visited. Holy backpack we’ve been busy. We’ve never had a year this monumental and if we know what’s good for us, we’ll never have one like it again.

We’ve been to: Disneyland, Sun River, Las Vegas, Izmir, Jerusalem, Basel, Rome, Athens, Paris, too many German villages to count, plus a number of cities in between.

We’ve purchased: A house, a trout pond, four vehicles, a couch, two dressers, and enough Ikea crap to furnish a moderate apartment.

We’ve sold: Four vehicles, a couch, two dressers, and enough old Ikea crap to furnish a moderate apartment.

We’ve lost: Five teeth, a cat, car keys, a house key, six stuffed animals, four dozen socks, 190 euros, $40, and numerous tubes of June’s lipstick.

We’ve found: 150 euros, $40, four of the six animals, too many new friends to count, and strength we didn’t know we had.

Frankly I can’t decide if this year has been exhaustingly fun or just plain exhausting. Judging by the state of my kitchen in this post-Christmas moment I’m going to go with exhausting.

I’ve learned this year that my little family is strong. We’ve moved across the world, left family and friends and familiarity behind, and what we’ve found is a well of strength and love I didn’t know we had. We’re like an aquifer and I’ve got to give credit to the Lord. If it wasn’t for the example Jesus Christ has set for us and the Gospel here on Earth, I’m sure we’d be a surly, faithless bunch with a lot more spitting and biting (something we’re working on these days) and not nearly as many hugs.

As we finished up the Christmas celebration with games and food we found ourselves comfortably seated around the dining room table listening to Kixi AM 880 streaming online. I was saying how happy we are here in Germany, how much I love my house and what wonderful friends we’ve found…and then I heard it.

Within seconds of the music hitting my ears I was choked up and homesick beyond belief. I’m certainly not the first person in the last 150 years to hear the tune to “Home, Sweet Home,” who’s found herself misty-eyed and speechless. “Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”  Truer words were never written.

To my friends and family members who keep up with us online and in print, we love you. We miss you. You matter to us. Seeing the world is great, seeing you is better. I am certain I’ve been blessed with more wonderful people in my life than just about anyone. From close relatives to distant cousins, teachers, neighbors and really nice grocery store clerks, I am continually reminded just how great people really are.

The world; there’s still so much goodness to be found.

Happy Holidays, my friends.

Let me tell you, someone should really get organized around here before the kids go to bed on Christmas Eve.

Due to a really inconvenient tradition that I plan to change, Jason and I don’t wrap any of the kids’ presents until Christmas Eve. We sit in front of It’s a Wonderful Life and reminisce and talk and use brown paper and all that crap.

But AFN television doesn’t show that movie on Christmas Eve in Germany. After discussing our options we went ahead and popped in Dumb and Dumber instead.

It was not a good omen.

First dumb thing: Letting Harrison sleep on the couch. He was determined to catch the man in red (purple and white stripes last night). He’s a heavy sleeper, how much harm can he do?

By the time we’d dragged everything up and stuffed it under the tree–sweating and cursing the euro race car set while we unglamorously displayed the playschool toys–we wanted nothing more to do with Christmas. And just as we turned to leave the tree…

TIMBER!

Oh yeah, it fell over.

After ten minutes of unsuccessfully trying to reposition it Harrison started to stir. Unfortunately the kid weighs about 300 pounds (he’s 8 and oh-so-built-like-his-father) so carrying him up stairs was not happening. Jason carried him to the bottom of the stairs then sent him to bed.

Dumb mistake number two, never wake a sleeping child in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.

We finally secured the tree and made our way to bed around 1:00 am. It took me half an hour to put my mind to rest and fall asleep, and just as I was drifting off I heard…

“REX! Get up! It’s Christmas morning! Everyone wake up, he came he came he came!!”

Worst. Sound. Ever.

I shoved Jason out of bed to deal with the rising tide of trouble and listened as he tried to talk Harry down. “Son,” he said much more nicely than I would have, “It’s the middle of the night…”

“But Dad, I’m wide awake!” Oh holy holy night, someone get me a tranquilizer gun.

Somehow Jason convinced Harrison to go back to bed. Fifteen minutes later and I was finally fast asleep.

2:49 am.

You know when you’re the mom and you’re so dead asleep, but because you’re the mom it’s really all a big fake? That any moment one of your kids might make a sound and you’ll be up and running in .2 seconds?

So I’m mom sleeping, thinking I’m all dead to the world, and suddenly I hear this.

“….”

I know, that wouldn’t have woken you up but if you were listening just a little closer what you would have heard was the faintest, teensiest little ghost of a breath right next to your bed saying,” maaaaahm…” That breath knows it shouldn’t be waking you up, it knows you’re probably going to kill it, but it just can’t help itself.

And when you mentally jump from sleep and the kid breathing next to your ear says, “Um…can I play the Wii Santa left me?” You have to try really hard to not take off his head.

5:23 am.

“Wake up! Wake up! It’s 7:45 Mom, time for presents!” Yes, he still believes he can manufacture time to fit his schedule. This time Harrison had Rex with him and gosh darn it I thought I was going to kill someone.

By the time 7:00 am finally rolled around and we let the boys wake up the girls, I felt like I’d had about three minutes of consecutive sleep.

That much said, it was still a pretty fantastic Christmas. I so hope he believes next year.

This year has been marked with a couple of really unforgettable moments.

We decided to use the 25 Days of Christmas binder I made years ago at a church homemaking/enrichment/craft night/whatever the heck we’re calling it now event, to bring the true meaning of Christmas into our family. Each day has a song, a scripture and a story–many of them classic, ageless pieces that every child should know.

As we hit the second week of December I opened the binder and found myself face to face with Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Little Matchgirl.” Talk about a tear jerker, my mother used to read us that terrible tale when I was a child and I hated it.

I relish the opportunity to make my children feel something other than boredom or hunger so I sprang at the chance to weave it into our Christmas tradition.

As I told the sad tale of the poor, freezing, shoeless match girl, huddled in the cold and afraid to go home because her father would beat her (that made me look really good), I couldn’t hold back my tears. In her desperation she gives in and lights a match. Suddenly a vision is before her: a warm fire all crackly and toasty, chasing away the awful cold that is freezing her little hands and blue feet–until her match burns out.

Again, she’s alone and cold.

Quickly she lights another match and sees a vision of a lovely Roast Goose with dates and prunes (my kids would have gagged), her poor little mouth watering at the sight–until the match burns out.

She lights another, desperate for comfort, and sees the most glorious Christmas tree! Walking toward it, anxious to be part of that magical moment, she almost touches it–then gone. The match is extinguished.

The fourth match. This time (ready?) she sees her beautiful old grandmother who has died, the only person who ever loved her. Her granny reaches out to her and she’s so desperately afraid to lose the vision that she lights her matches as fast as she can, “Granny! Take me with you!” she cries, reaching for her lovely granny who pulls the cold little child into her arms and flies away to Heaven to live with Jesus.

The people find her dead little body the next day, clutching the matches. She died of cold, they say, such a pity, so sad.

By this time I looked over at Harrison and he was an absolute wreck. He was slumped over in the chair, sobbing his little 8-year-old head clean off, not sure if he was glad she’s dead or if it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard. I opened my arms and he shuffled over, collapsed against the couch cushions and sobbed and sobbed, drooling all over my couch in his absolute anguish.

It took him ten minutes to quit crying.

That night he prayed for all the little match girls and the kids with no food and mean parents, the ones without shoes in the cold (sob!) and would Heavenly Father please bless them all?

I think it was, very possibly, the greatest motherhood moment of my life.

Also Jason has insisted that I never read that horrible story to our children ever again.

I say? Every. Single. Year. Oh yes, they will hear it again.

That is one of my favorite LeRoy Anderson songs of all time, thank you Mother.

You know what’s awesome about traveling? How extremely unprepared we are for just about everything.

We got here on Sunday in the middle of a snowstorm. For starters no one told me that we were heading up in elevation. For seconds, my weatherman (usually spot on) was right with the “cold and sunny” part but totally missed the “wild snowstorm” bit. We’re doing two feet of snow in sneakers.

When I think of all the &%#$ snow clothes sitting in a bin in my garage…

Thanks to our awesome time share hookup we picked up seven nights for $300, two bedrooms two bath, and all the comforts of home plus a pool. Frankly, judging by today’s field trip I’m wondering why we didn’t just stay at the condo all day long.

Our week came with free train fare so we decided to choo choo off to Freiberg for their magical Christmas festival. We were certain the kids would love taking the train and woke this morning with holiday aniticipation coursing through our veins. Let me tell you, it was a waste of anticipation.

Poor June’s boots were too small (she left her good ones at preschool) so for the first two hours of the morning, amid the loading and unloading of numerous modes of transportation, her boots kept sliding off. And so she wined. And whined and whined and pestered and poked and OH MY GOSH WHY DO WE EVEN TRY TO TRAVEL?

By the time we finally pulled into Freiberg Rex was hungry (they all wanted McDonald’s), Georgia was hot (the only kid I brought a snow suit for) Jason was walking really fast (always a bad sign) and all I could think about was the missing 50 euro bill that had somehow evacuated my pocket (I kept that small piece of information to myself).

The Christmas market was good. We didn’t lose any kids and although the funnel cake was good, the hot chocolate burned my tastebuds clean off and I didn’t get any of the German dumplings with Vanilla cream that I love so much. Yes, we got June new boots. No, her behavior didn’t improve from that point on.

It was cold and I spent the day following the trail of discarded mittens my kids couldn’t commit to. By the time we got home tonight all I wanted was a hot bath and a back that wasn’t aching from stress-induced disk slippage.

I did get a super cute pair of jeans that Jason made me stop and try on. Good man, always looking out for Mama’s happiness. It’s been forever since I had jeans that I love and I think these were sent from Heaven just for me.

Tomorrow we’re going to Triberg to discover the wonders of the cuckoo clock. Despite today’s misadventure, I’m kind of excited. Don’t ask me why but day one of vacation is always a wash with my kids. I’ve got a good feeling about tomorrow.

It’s been a surprisingly hard week and I’m feeling weighted down with the responsibility of motherhood. I feel completely inadequate.

Rex had to go in this week for another school screening to see if he could move on to first grade in the German school system. Prior to our cruise we were seeing tendrils of success from Rex. It seemed like every time I doubted this decision I would get a note home from his teacher with smiley faces telling me that Rex is starting to use his German/play with kids/participate in lessons.

But since the cruise? Only frowny faces for everyone involved.

I woke up Monday morning with a heavy dose of dread. Last time Rex went to visit this German school physician it was catastrophic. He acted like he was mentally impaired, screamed and cried and freaked out the entire hour long visit, and I left knowing they thought we were donkey kong crazy.

I was in the bathroom all morning with Rex-induced IBS.

His German seems to be non-existent and a little part of me kind of blames Jason (because I don’t want to own it). I bought Rex a big pile of cheap VHS tapes this summer and have been trying to find a used German tape player so he could watch German movies after school each day. Used VCR’s are impossible to locate. I finally found one two months ago at a thrift store and they wanted 40 euros for it. I begged and pleaded but the man said no, he wasn’t spending that kind of money on a cheap old tape player.

We have no remote for the DVD player so none of our German DVD’s can be switched to play in Deutch, and that means that my big plan of plying him with German media has ended up kaput.

The worst part? I’ve been too busy with stupid mindless cleaning and organizing to sit down with him and study German every day. He’s just so easy to not sit down with; he plays quietly after school with his animals and siblings and only asks to be fed and watered. Out of sight.

In some ways the doctor’s visit was much better than last time. He didn’t freak out and performed all the tricks they asked of him, and in fact it turns out he’s smarter than he lets on.

But the one thing they needed from him he wouldn’t give. Speaking German. Not only did he not say anything to them in German (not even the phrases he knows), but he refused to understand a single thing they said to him unless they spoke English.

ARGH.

The doctor sternly chastised me and I deserved it. Why am I not speaking German to him every day? Why isn’t he playing with German kids after school every day? If he doesn’t learn German by April he’s out of the school. Period.

I’d like to say that when I knelt down and prayed about this problem yesterday my answer was simple: take him out and do something else. But alas, that is not what happened. In fact the answer came swiftly and was more along the lines of, “I’ve told you what needs to happen, stop asking, get off your butt and do it.” I can’t fail my kid and I can’t fail the Lord.

I’m sure reading this that you think I’m the worst parent ever. Right now I kind of agree. I guess there are more important things in life than clean underwear and fingerprint free windows. And even though I’m trying hard to be the best mom I can be (less yelling and not so much candy), it seems like I can’t help falling short all the freaking time.

I must find a balance. The only thing I want in life right now is to help my children learn what they need to learn so they can follow the plan Heavenly Father has laid out for them.

They can’t afford to have me fail.

Sixteen years of public and private education and I’ve learned more from my four-year-old daughter (happy birthday baby!) than any professor could have possibly curriculumed.

Here’s the thing about raising kids: you can get an easy child. In many cases having one kid is a safe bet; if we’d stopped with Harrison (8) my life would be such a simple old thing. Sure Rex and Harrison have handed me their fair share of challenges, but I’ve rarely dealt with head pounding exasperation from either of them.

Then June materialized. I once heard a man say that easy kids are like taking Parenting 101. June is worthy of a thesis paper. Why? Because she’s just plain smarter than we are and she knows it.

For example, the other day at my girlfriend’s house June and her friend were playing the game Memory. She wanted to keep a particularly pretty flowered pair at the end of the first match, but my friend made her add the two tiles to the pile. Then, with all the sneak of a Las Vegas dealer my girlfriend thoroughly mixed them into the game while June sat silently and watched her, never blinking.

When my friend was absolutely certain there was no way June could know where the two tiles were she started the second match. June went first.

With a little gleam in her eye and a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, that girl reached out and instantly plucked the two matching tiles my friend had so carefully tried to mix into the bunch.

See what I mean? Scary smart.

Years ago I took a six week Love and Logic training course  provided by our local school. The premise of the Love and Logic parenting method is simple: let the consequences do the teaching. If you don’t eat your dinner you go to bed hungry. Novel, I know.

Once you get the hang of it and your kids begin to understand that their negative actions will have logical negative reactions, they are supposed to start making good choices out of intelligence, not fear.

It’s worked great with my boys. They know that if you are still in your pajamas when the car leaves in the morning you’re out of luck. This has only happened one time to one kid.

And then June came along. It’s not that my method isn’t working on her, it’s that she’s decided to double the bet and throw it back to me.

For example, I say, “Junie, if you leave all your beads on the carpet they’re going to get vacuumed up. Please put them away so you don’t lose them.” However, instead of recognizing the need to put her beads away she instead looks at me and says, “Fine. But if you vacuum up my beads then I’m going to throw your vacuum out the window,” with the same patient look that I had on my face.

Apparently what I think is logical parenting is being processed as logical threatening. I’ll admit there are times when my consequence storeroom is low on ideas and I resort to less logical options like,”If you throw your boots at my head I’ll take away your birthday,” that kind of thing.

So for now, I am done with logical reasoning where my girl is concerned. As of this morning, and per my mother’s suggestion, I have decided to revisit some age old retro-parenting methods when dealing with June. From now on when she asks why I want her to do something, I’m simply going to tell her what my mom told me ten million times: Because I’m The Mother. That’s why.

I’m homesick for my childhood.

I’ve been away from home for fifteen years now. And while I sometimes I make it back for the family party, being there for the season hasn’t happened since I was a girl.

I love having my home and my kids and making my own Christmas. I love baking and pretending not to eat treats and gathering with friends and yes, even Jason’s coworkers to celebrate the season (he doesn’t understand why his work people need to have a Christmas party when they already spend every single day together. Uh, perhaps for the wives who don’t get out much?).

But every now and then Judy Garland will come on the Christmas station reminding me to have myself a merry little Christmas. And when she does I think about the movie Meet Me in St. Louis, where the song and scene originated from, and I think about that family and those sisters and how very quickly it all changed shortly after the movie ended. They grew up and got married and, in some cases, probably left St. Louis.

Kelly, my niece left a comment yesterday that I can’t stop feeling homesick over. I haven’t thought about that last Christmas back when we were still girls for years. Probably because I hate it when my throat gets lumpy, and also because I can’t bear the fact that life has taken us up and away from those precious moments. No more staying up until 3 am reenacting scenes from Bye Bye Birdie, or seeing how fast we can recite the entire script from The Little Mermaid.

Kids are so naive, we didn’t even know our life would change.

I wouldn’t trade being a mother and a wife and the creator of my very own frequently happy (and sometimes not so much) ending, but today I feel a little like Rexy, who just asked me once again if he can please stay a little boy forever.

Me too, Rex. Me too.

And Kelly? “…Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bow…and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.” I’ll come home for good someday and I promise we will pick up where we left off.

I’m noticing some subtle and not so subtle differences in these German Christmases.

For instance, last week at Globus (a really cool German store that is kind of like Target but with a way better in-house eatery and cheese section) they had maraschino cherry chocolates on sale. I personally love cherry and chocolate anything and happily loaded three boxes into my cart to gorge on over the next few weeks.

I got home, broke a box open and popped one of those lovely little cherry surprises into my mouth. And what a surprise it was.

They weren’t filled with maraschino cherries, they were filled with cherry flavored alcohol that instantly burned the tastebuds out of my head and, as Harrison is reminding me, “Tasted like liquor.”

Another thing I’m loving about Christmas here is how very little we’re seeing of Santa. It’s all about Jesus. Instead of Santa being their Christmas hero, it’s the Christkind (think that’s how it’s spelled) that brings Christmas around (this might be slightly distorted due to my laziness when it comes to fact checking).

Anyway, on the eve of December 6th (or 5th if you’re an American who gets confused about foreign policy) the kids leave their shoes out with their Christmas lists inside. Santa comes by and takes the list, leaving them with cavity-inducing goodies of all sorts.

The kids and I were walking through a German grocery store on the 6th and we saw heading our way the tallest, freakiest Kris Kringle you’ve ever laid eyes upon. He was carrying a gunnysack that I’m pretty sure was to capture small children in so he could go home and roast them over the fire. Georgia burst into tears when he got close.

His face was so strange I thought he was wearing some kind of mask (a mask would have been a good idea in his case). I would have taken a picture if I hadn’t been so focussed on getting my children away from him. The guy had hands the size of plates. He reached into his sack and gave them all apples and really old candy bars. Once the chocolate surfaced they loved him. Kids are so conditioned.

And just to set the record straight, I keep hearing that Germany only has expensive, ugly Charlie Brown trees but I totally disagree. Our village tree lot opened up for four hours on Friday afternoon and I found a glorious Christmas tree for a great price that they happily delivered to my door later that evening, no extra charge.

It’s gonna be a good one, I can feel it.

12 years. For the past 12 years I have killed myself off with Christmas cards. Sometimes I nurse an idea for months before finally putting it down in writing, trying desperately to send out something that won’t bore, brag or beleaguer my audience.

I don’t really know what beleaguer means but it started with a B.

And not only have I spent hours of my time and tablespoons of saliva getting said masterpieces in the mail (the past two years I’ve used a wax seal with a “T” crest to seal them because I am bananas), but I sent them out to about sixty people.

Would you like to know how many address requests I’ve had this year? Two. And one of them was my sister-in-law (love you, Heather).

“We’re not sending out a Christmas card this year,” I said to Jason last night in a last ditch attempt to keep him awake and visiting with me.

“What?” Apparently that was interesting. “Why?”

“Because nobody cares if we do a Christmas card. They probably don’t even read them.” I seriously hope this was a lie.

“Honey, we can’t just not do a card,” he says cause he’s big on doing things all proper like.

“Uh, yeah we can. This is me not sending cards,” then I smiled to show him that I can smile even when my heart is breaking.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll write it.”

So here it is. If I can get enough interest generated for a card this year, Jason will do the writing. I am dying to see what he comes up with. If you send me one I’ll send one back to you. Don’t you wonder what he’s thinking all the time?

Annie Valentine Family

PSC 2 Box 10396

APO, AE 09012

Those are the three address lines and all it takes is a little old American stamp and it’s off to Germany, no extra postage necessary. Obviously I’m not at all desperate to get cards in the mail.