A Merry Christmas Was Had By Everyone

Christmas came and went, and with it brought one chocolate Nikolaus, two granddads, three lamb shanks, and many many presents. For photographic evidence for some of this, please see below:

One of the first presents, a petrol tanker from Uncle Sven and Auntie Corina:

Crayoning and playdohing after breakfast:

Hoovering Opa (new hoover, just like Mummy's and Mama's):

And hoovering (very popular present) the new train set:

And a whole chocolate Nikolaus all for myself, and NONE for you!

Christmas Tree

Against all German tradition, we put up our Christmas tree last weekend.

The tree had literally come off the back of a lorry - a couple with impenetrable Bavarian accents selling them from door to door, and Carla picked the bestest of the lot. The new tree stand was the latest model by market-leaders Krinner, and can take trees up to 2.7 m high! The decorations were a mixture of ancient (bought by my mother), old (bought by us / given as presents over the past years) and newly purchased from our local IKEA. Very ecclectic, to say the least.

It was a true family occasion, Grandma and Mummy decorating the tree in colour co-ordinated red and green, Mama trying to get her favourite purple / multi-colour kitsch items (including beloved surfing Santa) on the tree, Granddad Dave sitting in the armchair, keeping out of the firing line, and Max doing the sensible thing ie sleeping in bed.

In the end Mama, all in a huff, hung 'her' decorative items on a line strung out along the bookshelves (much laughed at by everyone else).

The next morning Max woke up and thought he'd gone to heaven: A tree! In his house! With lots of lovely things on it! Including Santas (Nikolaus... ave it)! Having been told not to touch the tree, he moved his chair right in front of it to have a really good look. Of course, that didn't last very long and to date a number of items have been moved / removed / lost / broken / caused tantrums, but it is a great success. See for yourself:

Happy Birthday, Max!

Today is Max's 2nd birthday, and not only did he get lots of presents and cards, his most favourite grandma 'suddenly' appeared in the house! He seems a bit serious, but that's just the look of concentration on his face.

Psycho Stuff

So why is it that I am so psycho when it comes to Max's eating? Why do I feel like tearing my hair out when he is just being a normal toddler and pushing boundaries, being independent, exerting control over me, the world and everything? I go mental, he goes mental. He doesn't eat. I eat the left-overs. Mealtime over. He gets skinny. I get fat. I am moody. Wife gets beaten up. Everyone is miserable. What's it all about?

First possibility - my milk didn't come in for him during the first week of his life, he got really skinny and we had to stuff him full of formula every ten seconds to make sure they didn't admit him to hospital and feed him with a drip. Guess there is a whole heap of guilt / unworthy mother / not a proper woman feelings linked to this experience (two whole years ago) that are still hanging around inside. I was such a militant 'breast is best' advocate and then when it didn't work, there was serious brow-beating. Felt really heart-breaking at the time and it's probably about time I got over it.

Second possibility - we spent so many years trying to get pregnant (4.5 actually) that, when Max eventually did come along, I had built up such an idealised image of motherhood, what sort of mother I would be (Birkenstock-donning, breast-feeding, sling-wearing, baby-massaging) and what sort of a child mine would be (co-sleeping, no-dummy-in-sight, early-talking, early-walking, bi-lingual, and most of all an unfussy foodie like me) that I couldn't help but be disappointed and disillusioned.

Third possibility - I just can't accept that toddlers eat not for enjoyment, fun, company, greed and sheer love of grub but for sustenance and as quickly as possible so they can go back to their toys and books and everything else that is just way more interesting than eating.

Sure there might be a bit more to it than that - sometimes feeling a bit lonely here with my, as yet, rather under-developed support network - but I guess that is the crux of it. Not so complicated really. Thanks to all my old school and Facebook chums for helping me see the light this time.

Oh, and thanks to my dearest wife for putting up with my moods. Can't guarantee there won't be more black cloud evenings but, for now, I feel as though I can deal with the times when my little monster chooses to throw my delicious dishes back in my face (fortunately, we have, provisionally, left behind the phase of literally having dinner thrown up the wall).

You've seen the pictures. The boy is big, tall and healthy. What IS my problem?

Big House but No Space

So how does this work then? This house is roughly double the size of our little Victorian terrace in Addlestone i.e. twice, yes, twice the amount of space and yet, we somehow still live in a bloody tip?

My dearest wife says it's because I relegated her stupid dark wood dresser thing to the cellar and that's where we used to store everything? Must have been like the cupboard in the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe then for all the piles of crap hanging around here to have fitted in it. Besides, the house is all nice light wood - how could we keep that old relic in here casting a cloud over our sunshine beech?

Dearest wife also says that it's because she used to do the filing and now she works in an office (novel experience for her), she doesn't have time anymore. True enough but that must mean that it's now my job and I don't have a clue about any of these bits of paper and besides, if I had known it was suddenly my responsibility, I might have started to half organise the piles before the piles became even more tottery and the drawers even more stuffed with 6 more months of god only knows what!

Maybe we do really just need a sideboard. Another piece of furniture to jam pack full of random pieces of paper. And where the hell is my P45 anyway???

Advent Advent Ein Lichtlein Brennt

Today was the first Advent Sunday, and we used the rare opportunity of no vistors and no places to go for Max's first christmas Plätzchen baking session.

We went from here...


via here...



to here...

All in all a very successful day, rounded off by a visit to the local Christmas market once it got properly dark: mulled wine and sausages for the grown ups, Karussell (again and again and again) for the boss. Perfect.

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday to YOU,

Happy Birthday to YOU,

Happy Birthday,

Dear Carla,

Happy Birthday to YOUUUUUUUUUUU

Gardening

The weekend weather was quite nice (for November), so Mama and Max decided to do some gardening. Result: rosemary, blackberry, vine, cherry tree, and garlic chives all in the ground, lots of dirty clothes in the washing machine :-)

Count Dracula, At Your Service

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid!!!

Ahh - Those Blue Eyes

Construction Work

Well, it's obvious I suppose, nothing much happens in Newgrapeling Towers, at least, nothing much that makes me bothered to write about. Which is quite sad, but on the other hand, maybe it just shows that we have a life outside computers. :-)

Anyway, today Max decided that Duplo was fun, and discovered that he was able to put together his very own unprompted construction. He even named it:

airplane brm brm...

Bad bloggers

OK, so we'll never make it into the top ten of fascinating, or even regularly updated, blogs. I try my best and am always thinking about entries. Honestly I am.

So, instead, here's a round-up of the most important Summer goings on.

Friends to Stay
We had lots of visitors for a while including visits from Max's future wife and her family. She bit his toe, which was not a good start, but by the second visit they started to get along really well, which was very nice to see. We also had a lovely weekend with ex-ante-natal-class friends and their kiddies who are supposed to be Max's buddies. Problem is, Max wasn't really very nice to them though a little bit of a poke, a punch and a pinch is understandable when a 19 month old has his space invaded. But whilst these little angels packed away their blueberry pancakes and happily trotted around Regensburg holding on to their Mummies' hands, our little 'angel' was running riot, throwing food around the city and heading into the path of oncoming traffic. It really was a lovely weekend but clearly the little man didn't like sharing his Mummy, and his Mummy felt woefully inadequate. Funny thing is, it's always Mummy who looks bad when the angel turns into a devil isn't it? It's always Mummy who is paranoid about what on earth locals can be thinking especially as German kids always seem so well behaved and their parents appear to be in complete shock when they see my lunatic live-wire. And yes, I do see Max as an extension of myself and I do feel as though I, personally, am a failure and that all my offspring will turn out to be mass murderers when a grubby hand lobs a tomatoey gnocchi at a passing Regensburgher.

Paranoid women should never become Mums. Another blog entry in the pipeline...




Nursery
Max does love nursery though. They told me he is only 'lieb' (loving) and is a 'Traumkind' (dream child). At nursery, when you put food in front of him, he picks up his spoon or fork and eats it (although he does sometimes still use his hands). He hugs other children. He runs around independently and plays nicely on his own. He doesn't cry or complain or pinch or bite or kick. Henceforth, Max will be taking residence at that local nursery.

Really and Truly a Mama at Last
This shouldn't really be my blog entry. It's Marion's show. At long last, after months of intrusive and, frankly, idiotic questioning, friendships undermined, bureaucratic hurdle upon bureaucratic hurdle stumbled over, Marion has officially adopted our little man. A lovely day. Even Staines was sunny and bright. A lovely moment – flowers for the 'new' Mama, nice words and smiles from the Magistrates, a toy train for Max (from the magistrates) and lots of family in attendance as well as a tear shed by the proud Great Grandma. Max didn't even mind the long drive home too much (well, I did have my fingers in my ears for the last stretch).



Back to see 'Mangar'
Max's Grandma used to be known as 'Mangar'. But he has grown up a lot since then and can say 'Ganma' properly now. And Nannak Dayf (sounds like Klingon but definitely means Granddad Dave). Even when Skype isn't working (most of the time), Max is screaming 'Hiyo Ganma' at the computer at the top of his voice. He loved visiting her and especially his beloved 'goggies' who scare him when they bark but most of the time thrill him to bits. He got to catch up and meet lots of family properly and almost behaved himself some of the time!



Only downside was that Max got really clingy with his Mama. When she was there, he needed his Mama to comfort him and his Mama to pick him up. And he certainly didn't want his Mama to be in another room for anything longer than about 15 seconds. Just shows you that biology has nothing to do with it. Marion is as connected as any biological Mummy could ever be and Max, so far, even prefers her to the one who carried him and pushed him out! Mummy feels slightly inferior at times over this and slightly left out and ever so slightly hurt and annoyed. On the other hand, if he wanted me to carry him around all day, my back would be well and truly knackered. So why is Max like this with his Mama? (Nice) answers on a postcard...

Still no friends and Max is ill
Well actually, Max isn't ill any more. He was ill, coughing, moody, moany and worst of all not eating. Max couldn't go to nursery. Mummy couldn't do any work. Mummy went into meltdown and made sure the world knew about it. Only problem is that the world is still quite small right now. Poor Marion got the brunt. Now Max is on the mend (little left over cough but not much else) and everything seems a little brighter. Still no friends (apart from the neighbours and their wonderful kids who take Max out to play at the park on his tricycle for hours on end) but once swimming and music and tumble tots (not to mention some crazy aerobics stuff I've gone and registered myself for) starts, life will take off. Won't it? Maybe we should have moved to Berlin.

Socialised Medicine

With the current debate about health care in the US, and the evils of so-called socialised medicine in other countries, I thought I'd tell you of my own recent experiences with the German system:

Two days ago, I woke up with a pain in my chest. I wasn't overly concerned, but when I had trouble breathing cycling to Max's nursery, I decided to drop in on a local GP (not having registered with one yet) on the way back. They were very friendly and said I could wait for a doctor, without an appointment, and it wouldn't be too long. Did I have my health insurance card? No, sorry. Could I pay the 10€ quarterly charge? Sorry, no money with me. OK, pay next time, and bring the card as well. So I then asked, could I make a local phone call (as I didn't have my mobile with me either) - sure, no problem!

I saw the doctor within less than 30 minutes, I had blood taken afterwards, and a quick ECG, and was gone again by 10am, with an appointment for the next evening. The next day I had an ultra-sound scan, my blood values had come through, and in the end we decided that I didn't have anything serious, just some muscle pain for whatever reason.

All of this was paid for through my health insurance. No need to ask which doctor to go to, whether they would pay, or any upfront payment (other than those 10€ that they still haven't got).

I rest my case.

August Break

Sorry, nothing much happens in August. It's too hot to sit in front of the computer, the lake beckons, family visits interfere, and cold drinks and / or ice cream don't go with PC keyboards.

Normal (whatever counts for normal round here) service to resume in September.

Do You Like Watermelon? The Aftermath

Watermelon is fine. But when it gets juiced and kept outside for too long, and then drunk by a thirsty cyclist just home from work, it can create havoc with your insides.

Urgh.

PS: No pictures, they wouldn't be pretty

Do You Like Watermelon?

I certainly do!

More Bread

Lots of photos of various breads made at the course, including Tuscan Harvest Bread (made with lots of grapes and raisins and vino santo), pirozhki (with egg and cabbage), all-real-butter croissants, focaccia, French country bread with lots of nuts and dried fruit, and a communal wheatsheaf (with mouse). There were others, such as various rhy breads, brioche, fruitbread (which I turned into a gugelhupf) - I can't even remember it all.

The people on the course were a good mix of young and old, new hands and experienced bakers, and of course there was Andrew, who knows more about bread than I've ever forgotton.

Brilliant

I'm sure they mean well....

At first, the novelty was appealing.

A walk round the supermarket saw Max 'pick-up' all sorts of freebies from garlic fried potatoes to little pots of strawberry yoghurt. At the butcher's he was given hunks of Fleischwurst (something akin to a high meat content luncheon meat) and at the baker's he got soft pretzels and biscuits. Even the lady at the supermarket meat counter asked 'wui der kloana a Wiener odr a Stück Gelbwurst' (whether the little one would like a fistful of German meat of one description or another). But I soon learned that, however cute it looked, Max in the trolley at ten thirty with a piece of bread bigger than his head in one hand and an obscenely huge sausage would mean he would look askance at my nutrious warm lunch an hour or so later and our sacrasanct routine would be out of synch for the whole day. The young man, of course, loved it. He soon cottoned on, vociferously complaining 'more, more, more' a hundred times at even the slightest glimpse of a baker's or meat counter vitrine. I liked the fact that he was becoming a true little German sausage afficionado but I just had to be careful with the timing. However, although sausages and bread really aren't THAT bad for toddlers, this little cultural more goes beyond a bit of hearty German elevenses. Max has been given dextrose tablets (?) from the chemists, Werthers Originals from strangers (wishing to placate a crying boy who is complaining that I have taken away a pen he was poking down his throat before putting him in the bike trailer – believe me depriving him of his boiled sweet caused renewed outrage) and the wonderful lady in the supermarket (just before teatime) who, on hearing Max's gigantinormous trolley tantrum (due to me having to get him and my frozen food home but him preferring to stay and play on the electric 'bike, bike, bike', 'car, car, car' or 'buth, buth, buth' (Max never says a word only once)) handed him an ice-cream in a packet telling me that 'now the poor little lad needn't cry anymore'. Well-meant I am sure but this latter trantrum resurfaced wth renewed vigour when I had to remove the ice-cream and plop it into the bin just as he got through the wrapper with his teeth – visualise the scene - me singing 'bye-bye ice-cream' in tense tones trying to drown out Max's wailing with a fixed smile trying to warm the cold stares of passers by. Wonderful experience.

I guess this particular novelty is rapidly wearing off...

Bread, Bread and More Bread

I spent last week in Cumbria, in the North of England, on a most excellent bread making course. It was run by Andrew Whitley, who used to own the Village Bakery in Melmerby, and is the author of one of the best bread books ever (at least in my opinion), Bread Matters. Over those five days, we got instruction on how to create our own sourdough, air kneading (good for your arms), how to survive in the Soviet Union on nothing but rye bread, potatoes and the odd bit of veg, the politics of owning a bakery, water mills, organic food & farming, shaping bread, different types of flour, gluten structure, and a whole load more. I won't bore you with all the details, but here are a couple of photos of the breads I made:


Russian Borodinsky bread. A rye sourdough bread, with molasses, malt, and most importantly, dried coriander (both ground and some seeds). According to the experts, well, my other half, very authentic.


Pain de levain aux oignons et lardon: ie wheat leaven bread with fried onions and bacon. Well tasty, excellent with cold meats.

More to follow

Nothing Much Really

It's been a while since we updated this blog, mostly because we've been too busy (more on that in another entry). So in the meantime, here are a couple of recent photos of The Man (at the time of writing, 19 months old already).

As you can see, he's already an accomplished gardener (what a hole), and likes blackberries fresh from the bush.