Annie Valentine

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.

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.