Papa needs improvement

Her¹ has made it clear that there are some areas of her childhood in desperate need of real improvement. The most recent include (in no particular order):

You can’t cook as well as Opa

At story time before going to bed:

Mama should read to me because I want a German story, and you can’t read German so well.

I was at least redeemed on the cooking front a few days later: hot dogs and mashed potatoes.

And to be 100 percent honest, I wasn’t exactly heartbroken about missing the chance for a cuddle and a story. Her¹ went ot the bookshelf and returned to Her⁰ with:

Yup, there’s nothing like a little bit of the Bible before bed. Her⁰ managed to limit the Bible to just Noah’s Ark.

Thanks for the first picture amboo who?, Amazon for the second

Undoing the Past

Everybody certainly has a regret or two — some probably have more than that. Mine, luckily, are far from anything serious and not even with mentioning here since I’d likely be (rightfully) flooded with comments about the high quality of my life and standard of living.

But it’s Her¹‘s regrets that are sapping me.

She is just starting to have some regrets of her own, but at the age of 3 is lucky enough to have a brain that know there’s a way to change everything.

Endowed with a brain that has realized that everything can be made good with a little help from mamma or papa, coming to grips with situations that have already ended in a way that deviates from her notion of how things should work out.

Here’s a look:

Her¹: Mamma, I’d like some sausage from the butcher.
Her⁰: Oh, the butcher is closed already, sweetie. You can have some at home.
Her¹, unhappily acquiesces.

Later at home:

Her⁰: heres a piece of sausage for you ( it’s the end piece and therefore rounded)
Foreseeable fit begins
Her¹: non, I don’t want a round piece I want a normal piece
Her⁰: They all taste the same

A call to Opa, a butcher, to confirm that, yes, even the sausage on the end tastes like middle pieces consoles Her¹, who wolfs down the meat.

Later, setting the table for dinner:

Her^0: Look, I found some more meat, you can have another piece!
New, unexpected fit begins
Her¹: Nooooo, that’s what I wanted to eat before

Does she think there is some magical, medical way we can empty her stomach and replace the meat with the newly re-found middle piece? Does she not understand that this new sausage will be in addition to the round piece from earlier in the evening and that we, in fact, do not intend to pump her stomach in order to replace what she has already eaten?

Faking it

Luckily, Her¹‘s mind remains malleable enough for us to mold it just enough to limit the size and quantity of regret-related tantrums. We pretend to recreate the situation in whatever atmosphere is available, which, surprisingly enough, placates Her¹ to the point where she again assumed her angelic side.

We’re in trouble the day Her¹ realizes that her bedroom is not the butcher.

Thanks to sinosplice for the picture!

Time to raise Germany’s barometric bar

A beautiful day.

Germany – and generally all of the middle of Europe – isn’t blessed with the kind of weather that would make you want to sing (unless you’re a Gene Kelly fan). As someone who chooses to live here with the Hers, I’m trying to come to terms with that.

But what I’m much less willing to accept is people’s general willingness to accept anything less than a downpour as a fine weather. Here’s a rundown of a general pre-vacation conversation:

Me: We’re headed to the North Sea for 10 days.
Friend: Hopefully you’ll have nice weather.
Me: Hope so. I want to work on my tan while Her² plays in the mud.
Friend: As long as it doesn’t rain too much it’ll be great.

Really, not too much rain is the best I can ask for? Demanding the best and complaining about anything less has been raised the an art form here, let’s not be so blindly accepting of horrible weather – and let’s certainly not lie about it.

A dry day, in and of itself, is not a beautiful day, and it’s time to stop settling.

P.S.

Nice job, Lena.

Under Observation

While it would normally only be necessary in hospital and for the old and incontinent, our home is outfitted with a pair of toilets sporting observation decks – a.k.a. poop decks. And with toilet training for Her¹ underway, the shit shelf’s contents have become a new daily source of entertainment.

Look, it’s a butterfly.
It looks like an ice cream cone.

What I’d like to say is, “No honey, it’s your poop.” I’ll save you from having to see the pictures (I don’t have any, anyhow), but the problem is, the girl is right. It didn’t take the eye of a MoMA curator to see that the toilet troopers did resemble a butterfly one day and an ice cream cone (two scoops of chocolate) the next.

Stay tuned to see what lands tomorrow.

UPDATE:: Sunday, January 24, 2010

FYI: Today it was a starfish.

Thanks to Random McRandomhead for the picture.

You’re kidding, right?

Here’s the first installment in a series that will probably grow to saga-like length as preparation for a trip the States continues.
(Leave your suggestions for future editions in the comments.)

Maybe this shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but scanning through the 324 comments made me a little nauseous.

I’m not sure how it happened, but Her¹ and Her²‘s asses have both suffered through non-heated wipes.

I’m a bad father.

Don’t take my medical advice, ever.

I’ve never been accused of being overly optimistic. Her⁰ has fairly regularly accused me of exactly the opposite. It’s even been a long-held belief of mine that optimists simply the imagination to conceive just how bad things can get.

Except when it comes to the health — especially of her¹ and her². Then, for some reason, my proud pessimist takes a back seat.

They’re kids, they’ll spring back. What could be wrong with them? She just saw the doctor two days ago, why do you want to go back now?

Those are just some of the lines I’ve muttered recently concerning the two hers. In the first case it turned out to be a virus and an ear infection requiring antibiotics. In the second it was re-hospitalization (her² had been released less than 24 hours earlier) and treatment with IV, an oxygen tank and face masks for everyone who enters the room.

And don’t be fooled into thinking that I’m only this way with the ankle-biter set. My malpractice experience goes back a couple of years. Best other example included the line: Don’t worry. Give it a little time and it’ll take care of itself.

The problem ended with a doctor saying, You should have come in as soon as you noticed something. And could have ended with my (beautiful) wife’s face permanently disfigured.

Thanks Michael Flick for the 1st picture.

A Lesson for a Dummy

Photo thanks: http://www.flickr.com/photos/piulet/

Why call it a “dummy” when it’s so clearly meant to pacify?

The Brits knew the answer all along. Because you feel like a dummy when the kid is screaming and you don’t have an extra one in your pocket.

It’s a lesson Her¹ taught me and a problem Her² won’t ever have to face.

Endure the wait

There’ll be stories here soon. Probably even pictures.

You can go ahead and blink and all – it’s not going to happen that fast.

But it’ll happen.

Really.

Promise.