Okay I’ve Become That Parent

(Last Thursday, before Anette came home from the hospital, Adinah and V. got into another World War 4. After I waded in and disarmed the insurgents, we sat at the breakfast table and I brokered a treaty. I asked the two of ‘em, “What rules can we have in this house to make things better?” Then I wrote down what they said, and made them both sign it. I signed the damn thing as well. V. decorated the rules with little stickers of panda bears and surfing lizards. Adinah translated the document into German, then made a big sign that reads “Unser Regeln (Our Rules).” We taped the entire declaration up on the refrigerator door. Here are our Rules.)

1) We can be more quiet when Mom is asleep.

2) We can ask Mom what she wants (to do, to eat, etc.)

3) We can clean our room when Mom or Papa asks us to.

4) We will not be screaming at Mom (or Papa) (at bedtime or any other time.)

5) We can disagree, but we can solve our problems by talking about them.

6) We need to be gentle with each other.

7) We will listen to each other better.

I Want to Rock and Roll All Night and Part of Every Day

An old Austin music scene friend updated her status on Facebook the other day by saying that her eight-year-old son is driving her crazy. He’s playing a KISS CD. A lot.

My first reaction was, “So what’s the problem?’

Then she added that she’s giving him all of her old “hard rock CDs” including some by Soundgarden, the Clash and the Foo Fighters, to try to get him to listen to something ”better.”

So my second reaction, logical for a rock critic, was, ‘Those groups are not hard rock.’

She wound up by saying her kid is not going for her music.

Really?

Everybody knows it’s a kid’s job to drive their parents bananas. It’s been that way since at least the nineteenth century, when young Bavarians started telling their folks, ‘Yo, Beethoven is dope.’ What’s more surprising is that my friend may have thought her family would be different.

Years ago, another musician friend of mine proudly announced to me that his sixteen-year-old son was listening to exactly the same music that he did. My friend had a noise band—they built their own instruments, which included electrified drainpipes and two-by-fours with guitar strings. So his teenage son was listening to the Pixies, and telling all his high school friends that hip hop and Christina Aguilera sucked. He was just like his dad. It was one of the creepiest father-son things I ever saw.

Besides, it’s all relative. My kids, Adinah and Ms. V., they love the Kiddie Contest CDs. These feature the music from an Austrian TV show in which a group of irritating rugrats and Celine Dion-damaged teens perform clever remakes of pop hits. One contestant turned Barry Manilow’s “Mandy” into “Handy,” a song about her relationship with her cel phone. Listening to that these last hundred times or so has been better than drinking Drano. But not much.

So I’d love it if my girls discovered “Detroit Rock City.” Or even “Calling Doctor Love.”

But do you see me complaining about Kiddie Contest?

No, you do not.

Ops Meeting Notes, November 24

The Deputy Assistant for Hair Whipping and Dairy Product Consumption begins the meeting by noting that she will require disbursement of additional funds (€ 1) for the upcoming Charismatic Transportation project (A.K.A the Field Trip.)

The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee thanks the Deputy Assistant for her feedback and affirms that an R & D team will look into the matter. She then asks for updates from each unit.

The Vice Chair for Fried Foods and Belated Laundry Folding begins by noting some extant confusion in his department regarding use of the Cast Iron Pans. Is it the smaller one which is only for roasting, and if so, will the Managing Director please define "roasting"?
He also reports that Bed Sheet Replacement and Sanitation was completed at approximately 17:20 Sunday evening.

The Junior President in Charge of Kitty Litter and Chortling notes that, as the Deputy Assistant has yet to return her balloon, the Deputy Assistant will henceforth be referred to as "caca." Or possibly "lulu."

The Deputy Assistant registers an objection to this comment.

The Junior President continues, noting that the Second Undersecretary for Rodent Removal has been bathing in the toilet again.

The Second Undersecretary affirms this last, and adds that any and all household entities resembling mice--including shoestrings, wet sponges and the feet of the Junior President--have been warned to get out of town or face immediate Mexican drug cartel-style retribution.

Duly noted.

The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee reports that the Holiday Celebration (i.e. Thanksgiving) will be downsized due to the absence of most of the usual suspects in the greater Vienna area.
She adds that "roasting" shall consist of, but not be limited to, preparation of onions, Grieskoch and pasta re-heats. She further notes all use of said pan is predicated on a mandatory and subsequent hydration process (i.e. "soaking.)
In addition, The Managing Director reports that immediate action is required on the Kitchen and Bathroom Sink Washer Replacement project, the Cellar Clearance and Moldy Furniture Destruction Initiative and the immanent Prague Visitation.

The Vice Chair inquires as to whether immediate action may be postponed until tonight after the Simpsons?

Meeting adjourns.

so long, so long

It’s official: we’re losing Rosa, our beloved first babysitter.

Okay, maybe she wasn’t the first-first. A few other folks have guest-starred as babysitters for our girls. But Rosa is the best.

I wasn’t sure what to think of her at first. She was soft-spoken and she was a radikal feminist grad student. On one of the first days she had Adinah, she asked if she could take our baby to a squat that was about to be raided by the police. I said, um, No. But I guess the important thing was that she asked.

Suffice to say, over the years, Adinah and V. have not been angels nor princesses every day they were with Miss Rosa. Adinah can bring the psychic pain, and V. has a pretty wicked backswing. Rosa has been super patient with them. She’s the polar opposite of Gloria, the heroine of that underappreciated Cassavettes film: she really likes kids, especially ours.

I don’t know what we’re gonna do without her. She has recommended a friend, and that’s a start. It’s such a precarious, maddening idea: leaving your children with another person, especially someone you don’t know so well. So many things, big and small, can go wrong. I’m sure we’ll find someone who’s okay. But I’m really going to miss talking medieval history and diapers with Rosa.

Vacation in Vorarlberg Top Ten

(in no particular order)

1) After a week without her, waking up with Adinah and walking out of our cabin to see a fleet of hot-air balloons spread across the sky.

2) An actual conversation, two large goblets of red wine and some smooching with Anette on our hotel room terrace under a big bright moon.

3) Watching V swim by herself for the first time.

4) That juicy roast ox I ate last night.

5) All of us in one bed watching the Teletubbies dubbed in Dutch tonight before we put the kids to bed.

6) Listening to Adinah reading a book called Unicorn Wings in English.

7) Watching Roger Corman's Not of this Earth, for the very first time, on the train out here the other night. It must have cost forty-three dollars to make, and it's go great, and even sort of creepy.

8) Did I already mention that big goblet of red wine?

9) The view from on top of today's mountain.

10) Eight minutes alone in the sauna today.

Giggling in the Dark

My mind doesn’t always move in a straight line, so bear with me for a few paragraphs here.

As some of you may have guessed, I’ve been going to some Kino Unter den Sternen (cinema under the stars) nights lately. Vienna summers being what they are (i.e. colder than San Francisco and rainy as hell), the weather hasn’t permitted it every night, but so far this year I’ve seen The Damned, In a Lonely Place, In the Heat of the Night and just the other night, Goldfinger.

Okay, I’ve seen Goldfinger about a million times, but I had the night off, and I thought, ‘It’s spectacular, gotta be nice on a big screen, and really, how many warm nights do we have left this summer?’

Of course, I laffed my ass off at stuff I’d never noticed, and I got caught up in the sheer velocity of the sequences all over again. Halfway through my second large cold beer, I had what appeared to be a thought. Goldfinger should be a key text for me. The whole thing is besotted with gadgets—the laser, the super Aston Martin, the junkyard auto compactor, etc. It’s pure techno-filia, drenched with the belief that fancy machines will save your ass. (Or kill it.) But @t the end, Bond himself cannot defuse the Bomb—he’s baffled, and he even panics a bit. It’s a marvelous joke, because in the end, one realizes that even though the superspy likes all this hi-end junk, he’s actually pretty lo-tech. Bond is all fast fists and Martinis. Like me.

No. What I mean is I really identify with this teetering between techno-filia and techno-phobia. I love my computer. I just don’t understand it.

Anyway, this beer-battered epiphany of mine wasn’t the best thing that happened that night.

During the climactic Fort Knox sequence of the film, as everything is accelerating and it’s all pretty ridiculous but you don’t care because it’s so fun, I noticed two teenage girls sitting behind me. They were giggling in the dark, and talking non-stop, apparently about the movie. They were tickled pink. Maybe it was the first time they’d seen Goldfinger. Or any James Bond besides Daniel Craig. Or any film older than Lord of the Rings.

After the movie, I saw them spill out onto the path that leads to the street. They were still giggling as they ran over to pick up the schedule for the rest of this film festival. Then they scampered, chasing each other out, altogether in a tizzy about this crazy, corny, really ancient movie they just saw, yeah!

How great to witness such teen gaga discovery, such a rush of thrill and spritzing enthusiasm!

I smiled to myself. My daughters will have moments like this, years from now. Giggly discoveries with each other or with friends. By that time, I won’t be hanging out with them as much as I do now, so maybe I won’t see them capering around exactly like this. That’s okay. But it’s sweet to think they may laugh and hoot at stuff which I’m too over to care about, at things I’ve long taken for granted.

Youth isn’t always wasted on the young. When you’re fifteen, everything’s an adventure, especially if you’re out with your friends. At fifteen, there are so many things left to discover. When you see Goldfinger for the first time, it seems like the most outrageous artifact of a prehistoric time. You can’t even believe someone actually made such a zany film. Without CGI!

Dear reader, please do not cynically judge me. I do not miss that joy of discovery. I experience that joy every time I Google. It’s just nice to catch a glimpse of things to come for Adinah and V.

It makes me happy.

Back to Sicily, Part 2

After discovering three jellyfish in the first twenty feet of my first walk on this beach, I passed through the Twelve Stages of vacation recovery. Denial: “This isn’t happening to us!” Disbelief: “I can’t believe we’re stuck for two weeks on a beautiful beach full of quasi-lethal invertebrates!” Evasion: “How long can I keep this news from my wife?”

V. is too young to understand the exquisite discomfort of a jellyfish kiss, so I didn’t bother explaining the off-purple blobs on the sand to her. I just steered her away, and she burbled along happily enough.

When Adinah woke up, I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I was afraid she would be afraid to go in the water. I was afraid to go in the water. I was even more afraid Anette would immediately insist that we pack up and go searching for another beach in Sicily. And after our missed flight, lost luggage and that €120 cab ride, moving to another spot just sounded like a lot of damn work.

But when I got her to myself, I told my gal about the jellyfish, which the Italians call ‘medusa.’ She said, ‘Then let’s just go to another campsite.’ I said, ‘Let’s just go to the beach and see how it goes.’

A few hours later, after chocolate cornettos and cappuccino, we strode bravely out onto the beach—a lovely stretch of sand, a long, shallow shelf with sand bars so kids can walk way way out, not too many people…in other words, perfect.

I screwed up my courage and told my oldest daughter there might be medusa. Adinah didn’t care, she said—she was ready to jump in the ocean. We asked the people on the beach: one burnt brown German couple said they’d been here two weeks and had only seen a couple of jellyfish. And despite all the splats in the sand I’d seen earlier in the day, I could only find one blob there now. So I showed it to V. I thought, ‘She has to know about them so she won’t pick one up.’ V. never wants to swim in the ocean anyway, and I was afraid that now she’s just have one more reason to stay out of the drink. Instead, she got a stick and tried to poke the thing. Jellyfish really do look like little piles of marmalade.

This was not the first time I realized that, as a parent, you have to be careful you don’t give your kid all of your own fears. They usually don’t need them.

Still, on that first day, Adinah walked into the waves slowly. Anette waded in a few inches at a time. I screamed ‘Banzai!’ and threw myself into the water faux-hysterically. V. laughed at me, then declined to get wet at all.

We stayed there for twelve days. By the end of it, V. was splashing around and swimming as fearlessly as the rest of us.

One day, a whole army of medusa did invade our beach. As soon as we saw them, Adinah said, “Let’s go get a net!’ We spent the rest of that morning hunting jellyfish. They really are beautiful little creatures….

Seven Years Later

My favorite news source, besides Facebook of course, is the New Yorker. It's the best magazine. It regularly blows my brains out. And sometimes other pieces in it are just 'Meh.' I'm not sure what I think about this one, about an international adoption from Haiti.

The writer, John Seabrook, began an adoption before the horrible recent earthquakes there, then he scrambled down to the island as soon as he could to meet his daughter in the wake of the disaster. He writes that he and his wife just wanted a kid, but then it turned into a rescue mission.

I guess I'm ambivalent about this because it's a lot like our story. Our adoption of Adinah began with a lot of paperwork, a slow build of excitement, then a sudden, unexpectedly early trip to Addis Ababa to meet her. It became an emergency in our last days there, when Adinah caught pneumonia. Then just before we got on the plane home, she broke out in a rash, which we thought was maybe an allergic reaction to the anti-biotics. A few hours later we landed in London with a very sick baby. What was supposed to be a four-hour layover turned into an four day hospital stay. When one of the doctors made a "casual" remark about the unreliability of AIDS testing in Africa, we were worried sick for 24 hours as we awaited a new round of test results.

But we were all heroes, and we got through it, got home, and then we started to become a regular family. That was seven years ago.

Maybe every international adoption is an emergency. Or seems like one at the time.

These days, I forget some of what we have experienced. I think we're normal and special, but special in a regular family way. When I look at Adinah, I don't think about all the stuff in John Seabrook's article: the problems of transracial relationships, the wealth gap between Ethiopia and the US, the disasters she may have witnessed in the time Before Us. I look at her and I see my daughter. My most precious A'd.

I don't see a damsel in distress, I don't see a victim. I don't see what a stranger once told us we'd taken on--a superproject. She's not an errand of mercy. She's a little girl, and she's getting bigger all the time. I see that she has darker skin than I do, and I notice that sometimes people stare at us. But I don't repeat 'We're a normal family,' as a mantra. I don't think,'That's racist,' every time someone is mean to us.

I do grimace a little when I read an article like this about adoption, though. Journalists--even those who are adoptive parents themselves--often play up the drama and trauma and ambivalence of the experience. I know I did. But I think that what we share with all families is a lot of uncertainty. As any sort of parent, you can never be certain that your kids will be healthy, or kind, or upstanding, respectable Deep Purple fans. Nobody gets guarantees. Perhaps adoptive parents are exposed to one or two more variables, like what the NAACP or the National Social Workers guild will think about interracial adoptions five years from now when all the hubbub over Brangelina and Madonna has died down. But...who...cares?

Parenting is always a tightrope act. Look down, and you're done. Keep your eyes front--commit--and you might just be okay.

my watch

I like the scene in Terminator 2, where Arnold, now the good Terminator, is playing with John Connor, the boy who will grow up to save the world, while the boy’s mother watches them. She muses, in voiceover,’ Watching John with the machine, it was suddenly so clear. The terminator wouldn't stop, it would never leave him. It would never hurt him or shout at him or get drunk and hit him or say it was too busy to spend time with him. And it would die to protect him. Of all the would-be fathers that came over the years, this thing, this machine, was the only thing that measured up. In an insane world, it was the sanest choice.’

I could say this scene is a foundational principle of my dadhood, but it’s closer to the truth to say that it sticks in my head like a broken record. Something about this ridiculous science fiction feels true. That is what a dad must do, I think. At least, that’s what he should try to do: protect the kid. Eliminate cyber-bots and/or bullies, defuse plasma bombs and/or common colds, but be sure you maintain a secure perimeter around that child.

Aspiring to be a metallic, super-bodyguard-bot seems like a reasonable goal.

But I think, somehow, I’ve let my intention to be like Arnold slip a little bit. Especially as regards V. When she came into our lives, she was a chubby, strong kid who seemed fearless. She didn’t look like she needed protection. But we were wrong about her. Maybe I can try to be Atticus Finch for Adinah, but V. needs more Terminator 2 from me.

She tries to do everything her big sister and the other 7-year-olds do. But she’s 3. She hollers a blue streak when I say, ‘No.’ And she’s been known to shout down playground bullies several years older than her. But she’s also afraid of loud noises and almost every animal besides caterpillars.

Sometimes V. falls down, scrapes her knee, and doesn’t even blink. But she’s still a princess, a sensitive flower. She looks so pretty in a summer dress, even though she’s gonna be covered with chocolate and glue and mud in twenty minutes.

And she needs more looking out from me.

at the playground again

A sunny holiday afternoon, the playground fresh and green from yesterday’s rain. Adinah and V. and I are playing on the line swing, along with a few other kids, plus a trio of older ones. The oldest of these last are a boy and girl, about thirteen.

The teenagers are taking extra turns, cutting in line, telling the little kids to wait. Adinah notices and tells me. I mumble something like, “Yeah, I see, I got it.’

Then two of the older kids walk away, leaving just the teenage girl. V. is up next. The teenage girl grabs for the swing to go again.

“It’s her turn,” I say in my halting German, and I take the swing.

“Bitte? (Excuse me?)” the teenager says with a sharp grimace.

The rest of our exchange is rapidfire, with lots of overlapping dialogue, and very little listening.

"It's her turn," I say, pointing at my three-year-old daughter.

"This ride isn't for little ones," the teenager snaps.

"This park is for everyone," I say.

"Why are you shouting at me?" she says.

"I'm not shouting at you," I answer. "Can you be a little more polite?"

The teenage girl doesn't hear me because she's saying something I don't hear because I'm already saying, again, "Can you be a little more polite?"

"You're not my father," she spits.

That's when I stop. I turn away and try to help V. with the swing. But I'm useless because I'm shaking.

Men in Tights

I'm a little obsessed with Kick-Ass, the new (to Vienna) film about teen super-heroes and ultra-violence. It's funny and sweet and then someone gets shot in the face. That's a little confusing, and the parent in me squirmed a bit when the teens were suddenly having the kind of hot porno sex that only happens in Hollywood movies. But otherwise, it's a pretty great film.

And the soundtrack's great, too. Liam Prodigy put it together, and contributes a really fantastic Stax soul-meats-Bristol-Big Beat instrumental theme. It also includes the cartoon punk classic recording of the "Banana Splits Theme" by the Dickies, which plays under the scene when the film suddenly turns super-gory.

anyway. My theory is that underneath the music and mayhem that I'm crushing on, I like this idea of heroes. Maybe everyone loves a hero. But one man's hero is another man's working father. I may not be wearing purple tights (at least, not at the moment), or leaping over tall gothic churches. But sometimes just getting our girls fed and out the door to school feels like a heroic act.

Of course, sometimes I get grumpy and impatient with them. Then I'm more like a super villain. I become Black Cloud. Or Red Face.

This morning I was both. V. woke up at 5:15, a full ninety minutes before any of us needed to be conscious. She insisted on coming into our bed, where she squirmed and whined and yelled at us until I got up and went somewhere else to not sleep. But not before I yelled back at her.

Even as I lay on the couch not sleeping, I thought, 'Adinah used to wake up in the middle of the night, and I just got up and played with her. Somehow I'm not so patient with V....'

A little later, as I was helping Adinah get ready for her day, I saw that she hadn't eaten the snack I put in her school bag yesterday. "Deanie, why didn't you eat your snack from yesterday?" She heard me, but gave no answer. I looked at her. "You don't have an answer for me?" Uh huh, she nodded. It was clear to me that she simply thought it was better for her to give no reply.

And what do you do with that?

Well, you go and stare out the window for a second. Count to 10,000. Try to be the adult in the room.

All this angst, and I hadn't even made 'em breakfast.

Somehow, I made like Black Flag, and rose above. Got them out the door and over to Deanie's school, where I helped her take fotos of twenty-two of her twenty-three classmates (special secret class project--don't ask.) Then we reversed and went to our neighborhood cafe, the Blue/Orange, where we got bagels with cream cheese. V. had a lot of fun getting cream cheese all over her face, then wiping it off again.

The morning slowed for a long moment. A moment I really enjoyed having with my precious daughters.

That's when I felt like a super hero. Or maybe I just felt super good.

the score

Last night, as soon as I walked into my first parent-teacher conference, I sat down at my kid's school desk. I thought that was where I was supposed to sit. The teacher just looked down and laughed.

I had prepared a list of questions and lines of attack, thinking back to my journalist days. Only instead of asking a rock singer, 'Did you really show that former TV star your penis?', I was getting ready to ask, 'Is it okay if I read Dr. Suess to her at night while she's learning proper German by day?'

And unlike some of the interviews I used to do when I was a cub reporter, there was no deep mystery to unravel, no puzzle to solve. Deanie's teacher told me she's a very good student, very articulate and verbal, good social skills etc. Teacher said Adinah tells lots of stories, and sometimes on Mondays, she reports very specific bits, the smallest details of her weekend. (Cool.) She said Adinah is kind.

I was especially proud of that last thing.

The teacher gave me another report card for Deanie, her second, and as in the first, she had graded my girl with a scale of Happy Faces and Stars. Stars are Super, Happy Faces are Good/Normal. Adinah got mostly Stars, and about 5 Happy Faces. The teacher said I should look the report over and talk about it with Anette, then show it to Adinah.

This morning Adinah was beside herself. "Can I see it now, can I see it now, can I see it now?"

Honey and Vinegar

Something has changed again in V. She's more self-possessed, more sure of herself. I'd like to think she's more confident, and that she likes herself more, but that's a bit presumptuous. Because all I see is something in her smile.

Her smile is more understanding now. She smiles like she is aware of more of the dynamics and complications in the room around her. She smiles now like someone who is starting to be able to see things on two different levels. Her smile is sometimes that of someone who is able to step outside of the action-and of herself-and reconsider the situation.

Of course, I could just be nuts. But....let's just say she still has other tools in her toolkit.

Yesterday, just after returning from the States and still jet-lagged, Anette took both our girls to the playground. They met up with all of their friends. While they were all congregating around the Korbschaukel (basket swing), some older boys started bothering them, telling them, 'Go away, we want to play here.' Adinah and her other friends just looked down and didn't say anything back to the boys. But V. walked right up to the interlopers, planted both feet and screamed at the top of her lungs, 'NO, You go away!!"

The boys went away.

Pretty cool, huh?

Some Questions I Can't Answer Tonight

1) "Papa, why does a volcano break twice?"

2) "Papa, when comes Mommy?"

3) "Papa, why are some people so dumb?"

4) "Why do you have to go to work, Poppy?"

5) "Why can't I have mashed potatoes after I've brushed my teeth?"

6) "Will we go to live in America, Papa?"

7) "What film do you like better, Papa--'Paparazzi' by Lady Gaga, or 'Beat It' by Michael Jackson?"

8) "What was the worst thing that ever happened to you, Papa?"

What I Learned on my Easter Holiday

1) Paying attention to a kid is a good way to get to know them, but it also distracts the Devil in him. Or her.

2) My wife really does have the patience of a saint.

3) Adinah is a world class Memory player, and is quite capable of humiliating players who are even three (!) years older than her. (Now I don't feel so stupid.)

4) If you want to coax a kid up (or down) a mountain, tell her a story. (Even if that means dressing up the Big Bad Wolf in a leather jacket.)

5) V. doesn’t start by assembling the outer edge of the puzzle; she puts it together by color cluster.

6) Even though she’s not a rock chick, and she complains about whiney white boys with guitars, Anette knows and derives pleasure from “Death Of A Clown” by the Kinks. For now, this is all the proof I need that I am a lucky fellow.

7) If V. is screaming a lot, calling me a stupid cow or otherwise ausgeflipping out, she needs food or sleep or both. Immediately.

8) Left to her own devices, Adinah would be perfectly content with a breakfast of a roll with butter, cake, buttered toast, and Melba toast.

9) I quite enjoy eating Osso Bucco or vegetables in a perfect red pepper sauce but sooner or later I’m gonna need to eat some french fries or I’ll get a little difficult.

10) We may be the loudest and sloppiest family in the hotel restaurant, but that doesn’t mean we’re bad people.

bar talk

Stopped in at our former neighborhood bar last night. Stephan was working, though he told me he only works there on Monday nights these days. He’s a big handsome gym queen, and he always asks about Adinah. First he always asks, ‘What’s your daughter’s name again?’ Last night, when I walked in, he stopped talking to the young man sitting at the bar, immediately switched to English, and pumped me with so many questions about our family that I had to remind him that I had also come for a drink.

Stephan has always wanted to have a kid. Or at least, whenever he sees me, he likes to think and talk about having a kid. He seems like a sweet man. It’s probably been two years since I’ve seen him.

So last night he had lots of questions about V. ‘So she’s your foster kid?’ ‘How is that different from an adopted kid?’ ‘Is it expensive?’ ‘Is there a lot of paperwork to do?’ ‘How long did it take to get her?’ And so forth. Culminating with the last question, the one he always returns to when I return to his bar, ‘Do you think I could have a foster kid, even though I don’t have a partner?’

I told him, ‘Yes, I think you could. We know a lesbian couple who have two foster kids.’

His young friend at the bar disagreed. ‘Surely not, Stephan,” he said in German. “No way.” He said a single gay man could never become a foster father in this super Catholic country. But I began to doubt this character’s judgement over the next hour plus as I listened to him see-saw between complaining about Austrian provincialism and exhibiting it.

Mostly I was struck again by the fact that some people just want to have kids, whether or not it’s practical or even possible. Even without a boyfriend or a husband, some men think, ‘I want to be a papa.’ Women too: our friend K was like this—she was determined to adopt or become a foster parent, and when she met her girlfriend, she said, ‘Think twice before you get involved with me—I’m pregnant.’

I know this is accepted, or explained away as a ‘parenting urge’ or some such, but still I find it remarkable. In Stephan’s case, maybe it’s just a fantasy, nothing serious, not something he will ever make happen. Still, isn’t it amazing that even in these completely crazy times, some folks just want to step up to the plate and take on all this work and joy and heartbreak and other stuff?

I’m muttering again, I know, but I think that’s amazing.

the Fury

Yesterday was the second time in a week that I wasted a perfectly good opportunity to lose my temper. But I had to do something. A fellow can only be in a crowded public place, listening to his sweetest little precious scream, ‘You are shit!” so many times….

V. is at that delicate stage of life when one gives up one’s afternoon nap because Emily and Katarina and Doo Doo don’t take one anymore. Even though one is not really physically strong enough to go without that sleep. So one is a tad irritable when a papa picks one up from kindergarten.

She shrieked at me in school, at the U-Bahn station, on the train, and also when we got stuck in the elevator, after V. punched all the buttons, including the red one that says, ‘STOP.’ She called me caca, and stupid, then she added that she would not be giving me any presents. That really hurt.

The walk home was nice, though.

A small dose of bubble gum seemed to placate her for awhile.

But the kniptions erupted again after dinner. Violent protestations about my choice of pajamas for her, etc. etc. So I said to her, “V., you’ve been screaming at me for no good reason for three hours now. I don’t like it. I’ve had enough. Will you stop?” And she stopped. For about a minute.

Then she screamed,”Kakao!!”(Translation: Give me my bottle of warm soy milk, NOW!)

“No,” I said. “That’s it. No bottle tonight. And you’re going to bed right now.”

So she lets loose the Fury. Screams of indignity, the ear-piercing howls of the criminally persecuted.

I looked right into her little eyes, and told her, “Honey, if you scream at people, they’re not going to do Anything nice for you. I’ve had it. I know you’re tired. But I asked you if you would stop, you said you would, but you kept screaming at me. Now that’s it.”

The Fury raged on for a while, though it had probably turned to hurt. I gave her some water in her bottle, and sang “Moonshadow” to her, like I always do. But she got no kakao. And I didn’t get mad.

Beastly behavior has consequences. And she won't get to be CEO of Google, or for that matter, play right midfield for Manchester United, until she understands that.

It took her a few minutes longer to fall asleep. The next morning, she was my sweetest little precious again.

Death of a Pinata (and other scenes from the birthday party)

No Time

Last night, I got home at six, said goodbye to the babysitter, fixed a quick dinner, then spent 90 minutes driving the girls towards bedtime.

This morning, I got up just after six, had a few moments to myself, then spent an hour and fifteen minutes persuading, asking ‘Please’ and finally pushing them out of the door to school.

And so it goes. During the week, my time with my daughters is tight. And I spend so much of it getting them dressed or begging them to let me brush their teeth, I barely have any time to give them Sugar. To give them the encouragement and support and love they need.

I worry a little that they think their papa is a psycho who bosses them around, occasionally dances with them, then bosses them around some more. I worry more that they will start to think life is just a slog: all personal hygiene, household tasks and no fun.

Actually, they both love playing with their friends. And they like playing with each other a lot too.

What I miss is my playtime with them. I miss getting-to-know-them time. They’re growing up, changing, and learning, and it’s difficult to understand how or why they’re changing when I have so few moments to really see and hear them. I don’t get to talk to my girls enough....

Our Big Fat Faschings Party Top 10

Best Kids Costume:
Tie: Oskar, who came as a Chemist (white lab coat with periodic table symbols scrawled on it) and Ainoah and her brother Andreas, who came as Ninjas (dressed all in black, with t-shirts that said 'Ninja')

My Daughters' Costumes:
Adinah-Witch, V.-Rockstar Fairy. (But she took the Axl Rose wig off after five minutes, and then she looked like every other pink girl in the place.

Best Adult Costume:
Christiana, who was completely done up in orange, with tights, cape and horn-rimmed glasses--apparently she was some kind of...Librarian Superhero!

Most Overheard Phrase:
"Gummi Bears-YAHHHHHHGHH!"

Bravest Costume:
Lino, who is six, came dressed as a Baby. With a pacifier. That kid was letting himself in for so much abuse from his fellow first graders. But apparently Adinah and her other friends at the party just laffed and said, 'Yeah, that Lino, he's so creative.'

Most Krapfen Eaten by an Individual:
4, consumed by the above mentioned Lino. (BTW, "Krapfen" is German for Jelly Donut.) At the end of the party, he did hurl.

Music on the small Jambox:
Miriam Makeba-"Pata Pata"
Elizabeth Mitchell-"You are My Sunshine"
Slayer-Reign in Blood

Ratio of Children to Meltdowns, Hissy Fits or other Conniptions:
25/8

Most Amazing Revelation:
Hand them a push broom and seven-year-olds love to sweep up streamers, confetti and dirty socks!

Most Dangerous Costume:
Our friend Andy borrowed my colleague Mark's full body Monkey costume, and the children tried to kill him. Last I saw, the Monkey was limping across the gymnasium floor, with a kid in a Tiger costume clamped to his foot.