The Comfort of Strangers

Our twin daughters were born 10 weeks premature and in bad shape.They spent the first 9 weeks of their lives in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. At first they were in the University hospital’s NICU in downtown Zurich, Switzerland where we lived at the time, but after three weeks, they were moved to a hospital closer to our home.

One day at the ‘Unispital’ (as it is called in Switzerland), just a few days before the girls were to be moved to the more local hospital, I was in holding the babies. A remarkably beautiful Vietnamese woman was sitting with her son in the incubator next to ours. He was so big and robust, I couldn’t figure out why he was there. Compared to my little ones who weighed just 2 and 2 & ½ pounds at birth, this little guy was a bruiser.

I laid there in the reclining chair, 'kangarooing', with the girls on my chest and watched this fragile mommy sitting adjacent to me, holding her strong baby boy. He looked huge in her sinewy arms. The strange thing about NICUs…well there are a lot of strange things, but one of the oddest aspects of the NICU is that it is always full of parents holding their babies, but no one every talks to each other. I guess it is because of the serious nature of where they are and why  they are there. In 9 weeks and probably hundreds of hours spent in the NICU, I didn’t have one conversation with another parent. Aside from the obvious reasons, it is an eery place; babies don't cry because they are too weak, parents don't speak because they are too scared-- the only sound that fills the space is the beeping, buzzing and ticking of life-support machines.

It took my by surprise when the mommy holding her boy said to me, “Don’t worry, my son was as small as your girls when he was born.” Her simple sentence gave me so much comfort, at such a dark time. I felt stranded at the bottom of a deep, slippery well. Her words were just the tiniest sparkle of golden light at the top of the well, 'maybe we will get out of here'.

I few months after my babies came home from our local hospital, they had to go back into the children’s hospital because they were having problems breathing at night. Visits back to the hospital are not that unusual for premature babies. My husband and I sat there holding the babies in the infants’ unit, when I saw the same, ethereal woman standing over her son who lay in a small crib. It was as if she was made of the most delicate crystal, and could shatter at any moment. Her beautiful, wide-set brown eyes were worn out now; she looked exhausted.

A nurse interrupted my gaze and showed us to our daughters’ hospital room. I left the infants’ unit without speaking to the woman.

One year later I was in the grocery store with Tess. As is our thrice weekly routine, we drop Mimi off at physical therapy and then Tess and I go to the grocery store. It was in the frozen food section that I saw the woman again. I felt absolutely compelled to speak to her this time.

I cautiously approached and touched her sleeve. She looked up at me blankly. I said, “I think we had children in the NICU at the Unispital at the same time a little over a year ago. I had the twins next to your son.” She recognized me and said, “Oh, yes,” and at the same time we said, “How is your child(ren)?”.

We both paused, waiting for the other one to begin-- I started. “Well, Tess had to have heart surgery, but is fine now, very active. Mimi, we found out, had a stroke at birth and has Cerebral Palsy. She is at physical therapy right now. She is working really hard and making good progress. How about your son?”

In that instant, her eyes flooded with tears and she said simply, “He died.” I was shocked. Her pain enveloped me; it was a palpable, physical ache. We both stood there between the frozen vegetables and ice cream and wept. Strangers linked only through the greatest grief any parent can face.

I could say nothing comforting to this woman. It would be absurd to think that any soothing words could fill her great chasm of pain. Tess squirmed in my arms, I put her in the grocery cart, touched the woman’s arm again and said, “I am so sorry.” We stood and cried for a few minutes longer and then nodded and walked away from each other without words.

Two and a half years later I saw her in the grocery store again. She looked stronger, but carried a hurt in her eyes that will probably never go away. We greeted each other, smiled and then she looked at Tess and said, “She is getting big.” “Yes,” I said.

I wonder how she gets through the days, although maybe the nights are worse. Does the pain weaken as the years pass, or just change in some way. How does a mother carry on after the death of her child?

Having come so close to this myself, I pray I never find out.

The Anniversary Gift

My husband and I just marked our fifteenth wedding anniversary. I say marked rather than celebrated because we didn’t really do anything special on the day. In fact, that evening I had a large dinner function to cater, so Jeff came along to the event with me. We toasted our anniversary that night, standing in the village hall kitchen, with a glass of tap water. After hearing this, my mother in-law said that we were now officially an old married couple.

Resignedly, I agreed.

You never know what is going to trigger you to recall exactly what drew you to each other in the first place; jogging the heart’s memory. It is quite often not the occasions we would expect.

Yesterday was a cold, damp, blustery British day. A tractor ran into the phone poll on our lane and took it clear out of the ground. With no phone or internet service my options for the day were to read and/or cook. I did both, settling on David Sedaris’, 'When You are Engulfed in Flames' and making a fine looking tomato soup for dinner.

The soup was perfect for the kids; after playing in the park for a couple of hours they were absolutely frigid and ravenous.

Tomato soup did not hold such an appeal for Jeff, though. After their dinner, I snuggled the girls up in our bed to watch an episode of Sponge Bob and made my way back downstairs just as Jeff arrived home from work. I enthused about the dinner menu and said that, because the kids had already eaten, we could dine alone.

Jeff- ‘Tomato soup?’
Me- ‘What—you don’t like tomato soup? I never knew that.’
Jeff- ‘Have you ever seen me eat tomato soup?’
Me- ‘No, come to think about it, I guess not.’
Jeff- ‘I don’t not- like tomato soup, I more avoid it.’

I walked into the laundry room to move damp clothes into the dryer. My disappointment was making the turn to anger, when I was startled to hear Jeff scream. Silence for a split second, then, ‘Oh my God!’

I ran into the kitchen, but was slowed as I took in the surreal scene. Jeff was lying on the floor with blood splattered all over the tiles and up the cabinets. He was holding his leg, repeating, Oh God. Oh God.'. I ran and crouched next to him.

He had been unloading the dishwasher when one of my heavy, chef’s knives slipped off the counter. In a split second, as it was falling, he picked his leg up then put it back down into the tip of the blade of the knife, which, in some freakish feat of aeronautical engineering, had landed handle side down, blade sticking straight into the air. The knife cut deeply into his calf.

We wrapped a tablecloth around the wound, laid him on his back and elevated his leg. I scrambled for the phone in the living room— no dial tone— I had forgotten it was out of service. Slamming the handset down, I ran back into the kitchen.

I tried to steady my voice. ‘Where’s your mobile phone?’
‘In the top drawer by the silverware.’ He was holding the table cloth as tightly as he could, but it was bleeding through.

I grabbed his phone and realized that I had no idea what the emergency number was. In the States, it is 911, in Switzerland it is 144—but here... we have lived here over a year and I had no idea what the number was.

I ran to the bottom of the stairs and screamed for my eldest daughter to come down. I heard her groan as her little sister taunted her with a childish song, ‘You’re have to do the dishes.’

Claire came into the kitchen where I was sitting with Jeff. His blood was now dripping to the tiles beneath his wrapped leg.
‘Holy—Daddy, what happened?’, she gasped.
‘What’s the emergency number?’ I shouted, even though she was four feet from me. My hands shook as I held the phone in front of me.
‘999! What happened?’ She repeated.
‘Daddy cut himself with a knife, but he will be okay.’ I was not at all convincing.

It all started to seem like a macabre episode of Little House on the Prairie.

I continued to shout. ‘Claire—you’ve got to run to Jude and Mike’s house and tell them that I need them to come quick!’

While not miles away from our nearest neighbour, we are out in the country, with just one neighbour—thankfully, a very good neighbour.

I called the emergency squad. Jude and Mike followed Claire back over and the ambulance arrived within minutes.

The medics checked Jeff’s wound. They said that he had not hit an artery or any big veins, (as I had secretly feared) but that the knife had made a wide cut into his muscle. They expertly wrapped his sliced leg and my panic began to subside.

Jude stayed with the kids, who, with the exception of Claire, lay upstairs in our bed contentedly watching Sponge Bob, completely oblivious to what now looked like a crime scene, one floor below them.

I followed behind the ambulance in our car for the 20 minute drive to the nearest hospital.

In case you were wondering, it was not amidst this chaotic, horrifying event that I grew thankful for my husband. Driving behind the ambulance, down the quiet, nightime motorway, alone in my car I didn't have soft-focus flashbacks of when Jeff and I first met-- the sweeping romance of it all. No, I must have still been in triage mode-- I was not awash in sentimentality, just trying to get to the hospital without crashing.

What brought about the thankful appreciation of the man I have made a life with happened more slowly, subtly.

We waited for three hours to be seen in the emergency room. The nurses would intermittently wheel him into a small room to change Jeff’s bandages, as they soaked through with blood. But, because he wasn’t critical, we had to wait... and wait.

In these interminable hours of mind-numbing delay, my husband and I sat, holding hands, sometimes in silence, sometimes whispering hilarious, disparaging things about our waiting room comrades: The comically inebriated Irishman with a bulbous, broken nose who shouted to no one in particular, ’How do you expect me NOT to pick me nose? It’s full of blood—I’ve GOT to pick me nose!’ Or the young woman who appeared to be in the emergency room because of her chronic coughing, but who stepped outside with her mother every 15 minutes for a smoke.

After I had taken my last picture for a collection of mobile-phone-images I was calling, ‘Leg Carnage Porn’, we were called in to see the doctor.

Jeff complained a bit about the pain of the slash into his muscle. I told him to pipe down—until he had delivered two babies through a slash in his stomach muscles, I would hear none of it.

They sewed him up and told us not to worry—there would be no permanent damage.
We hobbled out of the hospital at 2 am, arrived home and profusely thanked Jude for staying with the girls.

We saw her out then Jeff looked at me and said, ‘We never had dinner. Can I try some of your tomato soup?’

It was during his second cup of old fashioned tomato soup that I remembered what it was fifteen years ago, that I liked so much about him.

Hausfrau

My life changed drastically this morning.

At 8:55 a.m., I walked my two youngest children into their first day of school (pre-K, or reception, as it is known here in England). For the first time in twelve years I am home alone, drinking a hot cup of joe, with a pile of breakfast dishes stacked in the sink and more clean dishes waiting in the dishwasher to be put away. The day stretching out ahead is all mine, just mine. I have moved from being a ‘stay at home mom’ to being a ‘housewife’ or, as is said in German (and to my mind has a nicer ring), a ‘hausfrau’.

While this shift in daytime activity may seem subtle or unremarkable to some, (people without children, or even people who have children but work out of the house fulltime), it is literally life-altering to someone who has had a toddler or baby wrapped around their thigh for the preceding decade or so.

Because I am deceptively dense for a mother of four, I didn’t anticipate this altered state. This morning, I took pictures of all four girls in their school uniforms and celebrated the big day for the twins. I thought of it as their big day, never stopping to consider the effect that their absence from the house from 9 until 3, five days each week would have on my life.

It wasn’t until I came back home from the school run, walked into the kitchen and looked at the dishwasher full of clean dishes that it slowly crept into my awareness that I was alone. The dishes alerted me to my newfound status because of this: For the past three years, since my twin daughters could stand steadily on their own, they helped me with loading and unloading the dishwasher. As I would load dirty dishes in, they would take them out and jam them, caked stubbornly with dried syrup, melted cheese, spaghetti sauce or eggs, into the Tupperware cupboard (the cupboard lowest and closest to where they happened to be standing). Upon unloading the dishwasher, as I slid the silverware into the drawer and turned my back to put plates away, they would sweetly but determinedly, grab silverware from the drawer and put clean spoons, forks and sharp knives back into the dishwasher.

Reflecting on all those years (hours) ago, I think of that ritual and l smile, but at the time—at the times that I was struggling to stay sane, home alone with four (rightfully demanding) little girls—this adorable, helpful exercise made me crazier than I already was.

As often as possible, I would pop in a favourite DVD for the twins to watch and sneak off to do the dishes. Those were dark days when the DVD player did not work, which curiously occurred frequently (too many Polly Pocket shoes wedged into the machine, I suppose). I’d have to allow the dishes to sit in the washer, while more teetered precariously in the sink, waiting until the girls went to bed to do the dirty work.

So now I sit here casually having a cup of coffee and writing this, as though I am an expert at this hausfrau business. The dishwasher is full of clean dishes with more dirty ones in the sink, but I am relaxed, no rush to get to them. I may meander into the village to get a nice roast from the butcher for dinner, and some pretty flowers for the table tonight, to celebrate the twins first day of school—maybe even leisurely window shop. The world is my oyster, I’ve got six hours a day now that are to use at my discretion and I am wallowing in that freedom.

I just hope I remember to do the dishes before school lets out...

Jus-Tess

The mister came home from one of those super-stores with beer, nacho chips and a large bottle of ketchup. While we have taken to eating 'chips' (french fries) with almost every meal here in England, we have not yet adopted the customary malt vinegar condiment. We still swish our oven fries in good 'ol tomato ketchup.

Tess (my youngest who nickname used to be, Tiny-Tess, but has sinced moved on to Fas-Tess) picked up the bottle and brought it to me to put up in a cupboard. As she handed it to me, I noticed the weight-- 1.3 kilos (not quite 3 pounds). That number gave me pause. Four and a half years ago, I was holding on to a fragile, premature baby who weighed almost 50% less than that bottle of ketchup-- praying for her survival. Tess weighed just barely one kilo (2.2 pounds) at birth.

Now, as she stood strong and healthy, seemingly made of equal parts rubber and marble, she handed me the bottle of ketchup and I thought of her new nickname, 'Just-Tess'.

My Titanium Friend

My friend, Claire is made of titanium—she is incredibly light weight, yet incredibly strong. In her early forties, she has beaten breast cancer twice but has had recurring problems with the healing from her last surgery.

Yesterday, she had surgery on her boob without any anaesthesia or painkiller of any sort then drove herself home from the hospital. Allow me to reiterate for myself as well as you—she walked into the hospital, changed into a surgical gown, was wheeled into an operating theatre (room), they cut open and stitched closed her boob (with not even a local anaesthetic), then she got into her car and drove herself home.

I’m not making this up.

I called her today to see how her doctor’s appointment went and she related the story to me—completely matter-of-fact like, without even a hint of bravado or martyrdom.
Standing there with the phone to my ear and my mouth wide open, I just could not get my mind around this. I couldn’t find words to piece together. I finally spilled out, ‘What type of soup should I bring over?’
‘You don’t have to do that. Really,’ she said.
‘Claire, you weigh about 70 pounds soaking wet—you WILL eat the soup I bring to you. Now what type of soup shall I make?’
She exhaled. ‘Well, I am anaemic. I should probably eat something with meat in it.’
‘How about beef barley soup?’ I asked.
‘That sounds good.’

I rarely know the right thing to say. So I cook in times of great happiness or distress and hope that the food will speak for me. This soup is nothing fancy— it is just satisfying and comforting, maybe even somewhat restorative for my titanium friend.

On this day...

Is anyone else spending the day sobbing? The gravity of Obama being sworn in to office of the President of the U.S. is overwhelming me. This feels like the most hopeful day in my lifetime, at least.

I've heard many Americans saying that it has taken us so long to get to this point. Interestingly, most European I have spoken to about Obama remark about how quickly this change has happened. How in 45 years the nation has gone from segregation to a black man becoming president. In the big picture, this has happened in the blink of an eye.

I feel so lucky to be around on this day.

Birthday Cake

It was the twins' fourth birthday yesterday. As I think I have stated in past postings, I do not bake. Trained as a chef, yes-- I can cook dinners for 200 people without too many issues. But bake a simple birthday cake? No... No, I can't.

But bake I did. Or rather attempted... and failed. Using a Dunkin Hines mix I baked up a decent smelling chocolate cake, but immdiately broke it into pieces upon shaking it from its silicon pan (purchased just for this occassion).

I glued the cake back together with a pot of Dunkin Hines frosting, smearing the remaining frosting on top of the now, offense-to-homemade-birthday-cakes worldwide. It was at this point that I handed each of the twins a shaker of sprinkles and let them have their way with the white-frosted-black-crumb-coated cake. They decorated with glee (read: thousands of sprinkles).

It was an unaquivocal baking disaster.

I looked at it and thought to myself-- 'This is the ugliest birthday cake ever made. Ever.' Then, as if she was reading my mind and wanted to change it, Tess said, admiringly, 'It's so pretty!'

I looked at her and smiled. 'It is,' I agreed.

Should

Should—it seems like an innocent enough word. ‘I should go to the market’, or ‘You should straighten up your room before your friends come by’. But beneath the benign commonality of the word, lies a most dangerous auxiliary verb. ‘I should have done more to help’, or ‘I should lose weight’.

Should amounts to an expectation, but also a failure of sorts. As if an act or feeling needs to be carried out, but you just haven’t the gumption to do it. Instead you rack yourself (or others) with guilt about the failed act or emotion.

Should is an insidious toxin that seems to affect more of my women friends than my men folk. It seeps innocently enough into our conversations or through our inner-voices, but over years of unnoticed use can wreak havoc on our psyches. ‘I should volunteer more at my daughter’s school’... 'I shouldn’t eat that piece of cake’... ‘I shouldn’t have let that comment get to me so’.

Chip... chip... chip... Shoulds chip away at our confidence reserves and renders us unsure of our own motives.

I sincerely hate the word ‘should’ and try very hard not to use it. Here’s my method to combat the ‘shoulds’ in life: I to try and do my best; if I have, then I am happy with that effort and let the results fall as they may. If I have not done my best, I face that, own up to it, possibly learn from it and try to get on with life.

I shouldn’t ‘do’ anything—I either do it, or I don’t.

Of course, this is a work in progress. I occassionally fall down the slippery slope of 'shoulds', but I attempt and regain footing as soon as I realize it, and cut myself some slack.

In this new year, try and catch yourself when using the word ‘should’. How often do you say it to yourself? How often do you say it to others; to your children, or sweetheart?

Prick up your ears and watch out for that awful word. Let’s make ‘should’ a worthless sentiment of the past.

Aunt Olive the Great

I didn’t know her well. We met once, six years ago at my husband’s family reunion, but there were so many people there I didn’t get the chance to talk too much with her.

She is Aunt Olive. She is the Mister’s great aunt, his grandmother’s sister. I wrote about this generation here. These women went through some serious crap—the likes of which most of us can’t begin to imagine. They are tough and caring and have a fabulous sense of humor.

This was our family’s first Christmas in England. We were so happy to have not only the Mister’s parents come from America, but also his extended family drive up from London. It was the first time in six years that we would have had extended family with us for a holiday (since moving across the pond from the States).

As we sat and visited, I quickly noticed that Olive keeps a poker face. She allows very little emotion to escape via facial expression, but she is incredibly observant of her surroundings.

Christmas Eve arrived and I found myself wrapping presents at 11pm. I hate that. I had no Christmas spirit—just contemplating the logistics of cooking Christmas dinner the next day for the 13 people.

Bah-Humbug.

As Christmas morning dawned I was happy to see my four little girls flitting around the tree. I enjoyed watching family members open gifts that I had bought and wrapped. But I had yet to truly feel that deep Christmas spirit.

I wish I could say that as I watched my little girls open their presents and shriek with joy, I felt that warm feeling, but honestly I didn’t. I was preoccupied with how I was going to coordinate breakfast, lunch and dinner for the crowd. Then chidded myself for not enjoying the moment.

I couldn’t see the ‘gifts’ that were there in front of me.

After all of the presents were opened and the gang was in the dining room eating bagels, eggs and smoked salmon, I sat alone for a minute in the living room reading a cookbook that my daughters gave me. I was surprised when someone grabbed my shoulder very abruptly. Before I could look around and see who it was, Aunt Olive’s face appeared next to mine. She kissed my cheek. She had tears in her eyes and she said, ‘Thank you. All I can say is— thank you.’

Olive is 86. Olive lived through WWII—sleeping in a bomb shelter every night for six years. SIX YEARS. She saw more shit go down before her thirtieth birthday than I have even thought about in my forty years. But she is so sharp, so gracious, so appreciative of life.
What a fantastic example Olive is for our family.

What a gift.

After dinner, as the men-folk were doing the washing up, my big girls, Aunt Olive and I were watching ‘Mama Mia’. As soon as the first song came on, Aunt Olive began unabashedly belting out the words—loudly and perfectly. She knew every one of those Abba songs. She was as good as Meryl Streep...

Later we all sat around the dining room table and played a card game called ‘Chase the Ace’. To win the game you have to be very good at concealing what you think of your card. You must have a poker face.
Aunt Olive wiped the table with us all. Smiling broadly as she collected all of the pennies in the kitty.

She told me later about how she enjoyed throwing darts with the other old ladies in her retirement home every week.

Aunt Olive is my hero.

As the family loaded into the car this morning to head back to London, we all hugged goodbye. I told Aunt Olive that it was wonderful spending time with her, and she said, ‘Thank you for making me feel so welcome’. Welcome, I thought? I was honoured to have had her in my home for a few days.

Being with Great Aunt Olive was the best Christmas gift I’ve had in years.

Remembrance Day

Yesterday, November 11th was Remembrance Day here in the UK and across Europe. I rather vaguely recall it as ‘Armistice Day’ in the States. It is the day that we are to remember and be grateful to those who have died in battle. It began after the end of WWI, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

I say that I ‘vaguely’ recall Armistice Day, because it didn’t really touch my generation, or even my household. Until the first Gulf war (with the first President Bush) that lasted just from the summer of 1990 until February of 1991, my generation had not played a major part in a war. Vietnam ended when I was a toddler—I have no memory of it.

Neither my father, uncles, cousins nor grandfathers fought in any wars. My family was spared—we were the lucky ones.

It wasn’t until I moved away from the comfort of the United States that I realized how different life was for virtually every other nation.

Until September 11th, the States had never had invaders on its soil—we had existed safe on the sidelines of world conflict. This gave its citizens a sense of invincibility—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it is just different from most other countries. We’ve not taken the hits that other nations have.

In Switzerland, where we lived for five years, I would often observe the old men and women as they got on with life, pulling groceries home from the market in wheelie bags or chatting together for hours as they sat on benches in the ‘dorf platz’, village center. I would wonder, as I watched them, what their experiences during World War II were like. A constant mantra would cycle through my head, ‘You were there. What did you see? Did you help? Did you turn away? What would I have done?’

Camille, my nine year old wrote a paper for school about her great-grand-parents’ life during WWII. They are my husband’s grand-parents. We are so lucky that they are both still alive to tell us about it. The Mister’s grand-mother, Nan is English. She joined the British Women’s Land Army when she was just 16. She met her husband, Pa during that time, as he was U.S. soldier stationed here in England.

Nan actually joined the army to get away from how bad things were in London.

Air raids every night, the whole family would have to wake up and run into the backyard in their pyjamas and hunker down in the cramped bomb shelter to wait until the ‘all clear’ siren was heard. Many houses on her street were bombed to ruins. They could hear the planes flying overhead, see the flashes of fire as the bombs exploded on the ground, and smell the smoke and flames. The idea that she and her family could be killed was a real threat they experienced with all of their senses.

When the bombing was really bad, they would run for cover in the subway stations—literally living there for days or even weeks on end; entire families sleeping on the floor of a subway station. Can you imagine putting your children to bed at night on a blanket on the filthy subway station floor?

She told us of one horrible instance when people were packed into the stations like sardines and it had been raining for days—areas were becoming flooded. In the middle of the night, water began pouring into the station. Because there was such a crush of people and because they were mostly asleep and caught off guard, many of the people (especially the children) drown.

The stories go on, and get worse... Nan and Pa saw just a bit of the horrific happenings of WWII.


90 million people died in that war. 90 million.


My generation knows nothing of the harshness of life. We, especially Americans, have had it ridiculously easy.

And we owe a debt to those remarkably brave men and women who sacrificed sometimes, literally everything so that future generations could indeed live such comfortable lives; hopefully never repeating history.

First Day of School

It’s hard being the new kid at school. In our old school, in Zurich, this was not such a big deal because it was filled almost exclusively, with transient expats from all over the world. 25% of the pupils every year were the ‘new kids’.

But my daughters attend the local schools here in England. Most of the children have lived their entire lives in this area. As have their parents, and often grandparents, too.

My girls are not only the ‘new kids’ they are ‘the Americans’. It becomes painfully obvious to anyone within earshot, as soon as we open our mouths that we are not from these parts. We actually draw stares. But I get the sense that Americans are tolerated better here than in other areas of Europe, at least it seems we are liked more by the Brits than we were by the Swiss.

Today was the first day of school. Camille and Claire looked so sweet when they came down for breakfast wearing their school uniforms. Although they squawked a bit about the strict and formal uniform policy, I could tell that they both felt proud once they were all put together.

The mister stayed home from work for a few hours so that he could come to drop the girls at school, too. We all piled into my station wagon and drove first to Claire’s school (a ‘high school’ educating children from eleven to eighteen years old).

‘How you doing?’ I yelled back to Claire (Miley Cyrus was blasting on the stereo).
‘Good. Nervous. Pretty nervous.’ She shouted back.

The parking lot was packed, as we had expected. The mister pulled into a sort of illegal spot and sat in the car with the twins, while Camille and I walked Claire around the back of the school to the playground to line up with her class.

There were, literally over a thousand kids running around, bounding into each others’ arms and squealing with delight after having not seen friends for the six weeks of summer holiday. It was like watching soldiers coming home from war to the relief of their loved ones-- a fantastic reunion!

Camille and I stood with Claire. She was the only kid without a friend. I was the only parent on the playground. We stood there, the three of us, looking around, taking it all in. I did the best I could to make Claire laugh. The bell rang and they were all supposed to line up with their Halls (sort of smaller groups within the large student body). Groups of girls with arms locked, gathered into bunchy lines and Claire looked for her place. Just as I was developing an ulcer (on Claire’s behalf), two little girls walked up and enthused, ‘Hi, Claire!’

‘Oh, hi!’ She smiled back. She looked at me, relieved. ‘Mom, this is Jodie and this is Ellie. We met at orientation.’

‘Well hi there girls, it’s nice to meet you—‘ But I was cut off as they grabbed Claire and ran to find their place in line; the three of them, arms locked.

We then drove Camille to her sweet, little primary school.
‘I’ve got a stomach ache, Mama.’ She groaned.

‘Well, I think that once you get into school you will forget all about your tummy ache. In fact I am sure of it.’ I tried to reassure her. ‘ You will meet all sorts of new friends, I promise.’

‘Okay.’ She looked gloomy and worried.

We arrived at school, parked and walked her around to the playground to wait. After a minute or two, the twins ran off to play on a climbing frame. I was watching them, then glanced back at Camille, but she was gone. I scanned the playground and couldn’t find her.

‘Where is Camille’ I said to the mister. He was looking into the distance, ‘See that big gaggle of girls over there?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ I answered, squinting to see.

‘Camille is in the middle of it.’ He said still staring at the pulsating, chattering massive group of 3rd graders.

The bell rang, they all lined up and sort of bounced into the school. She never looked back at us standing on the playground, waving goodbye.

And that was fine with me.

Serving

"How soon can I come over?". This was the questions posed to me by our family's dearest friend, Amy.

She was referring to coming over to our new place in England. We've just moved from Switzerland to a very rural, very quaint part of northwest England. Although we were all looking forward to discovering life in England and excited about the move, a move is a move is a move-- especially with four children and going from one continent to another-- never easy.

We flew over to our new home country on the 6th of July. Amy arrived on the 8th...arriving even before the moving trucks with all of our belongings.

I told her, "Coming before the Fall is crazy-- we won't be settled. We won't know where all the touristy spots are to take you." "But Jenny, I am coming to help you, not to tour around England. I can come back another time for that."

Here's the thing-- she wasn't kidding. Amy flew in from the States, got off the plane and jumped into playing with four bored little girls, unpacking endless boxes, grocery shopping, Ikea shopping (barf), cleaning empty rooms, readying them for furniture. No one would accept this sort of job, not matter what the pay.

Amy was in England for ten days and left our house about four times. And she was happy to do it.

Her help was invaluable to us. After four weeks of packing, traveling, bickering and unpacking, Amy saved us from total, familial distruction due to lack of sleep, disorientation and sheer boredom.

Later this summer we got away on holiday to South Carolina for three weeks. Amy came down with her husband Pete. They lavished attention on the four girlies again; playing countless games of hide and seek and reading piles of books to them. We had a nice time all together, eating big seafood dinners, playing on the beach and just talking.

On the last day of their stay with us at the beach, I noticed a book that Pete was reading. It was about 'service' and had a picture of one person handing another a glass of water. I intially thought it was about how to be a better waiter...which didn't make sense because Pete is a computer geek working for a huge online company. So I looked closer at the book's subtitle. It was about how to serve people, how to be of help.

When was the last time I even thought of how best to serve someone, let alone read a book about how to do it better, more consciously? I use the excuse that I am so busy and my life moves so fast I don't have time to contemplate serving people other than my immediate family and friends.

That is bull shit.

Serving is a frame of mind as much an action. Serving others is about being open to the opportunity to do so, to see where you could be of help; it may not be obvious. Serving can be grand, like Amy flying over to England for ten days just to babysit and clean house, or a small gesture, like helping an old lady cross the street. Serving can even be done annonymously, picking up trash in front of someone's house, for instance.

And all these gestures, big or small, are done so with joy when you are in the mindset of service. You feel as if you are getting much more than you are giving. You feel filled up.

I used to serve. When I was younger. I was always looking for ways to serve. I felt grateful to serve. And I was so appreciative for my life. So thankful for the chance to help someone out.

I am still grateful, now. And I do things for others, not just my kids, but it's not the same. I am older and grouchier. A lot grouchier. And expectant. I am more of a taker now.

Spending time with Amy and Pete gave me pause to think about what I have become over time; not all bad, but I could stand a good push in a different direction.

A direction toward service.

Little Big-Kids

One of the comments I heard often, when I was pregnant with the twins, had to do with the age gap between them and my two older girls. Claire and Camille were four and six when I became pregnant with Mimi and Tess.

As is the case for most pregnant women, I was offered a lot of unsolicited advice.
‘Oh, the age gap is going to be a problem,’ a mother said to me on the school playground one day.
Taken aback I responded without thinking, ‘Hmmmm. I guess it’s all in how you look at it-- I can’t imagine anything about having babies being a problem.’
And I walked away . Bitchy I know, but am I right?

I grew up with a large age space between myself and my four older brother and sisters. To be honest, I never felt part of their ‘crowd’. They were all born within six years of each other, then a space of seven years until I came along. I haven’t lived in the same house as my oldest sister since I was four.

So the space in age between our two ‘big girls’ and our two ‘little girls’ was something that I have always been aware of.

But here’s the thing; from day one, the big girls have been nothing but excited, patient and engaged with the little girls. Even when they were just blobby newborns, the big girls would want to hold them, to take naps with them-- Camille would even burp one for me, as I fed the other.

This past weekend we went down to Bellinzona. It is a UNESCO Heritage site. It’s a lovely little, walled city in the southern most section of Switzerland, the Ticino area, the Italian speaking (and eating) area. It has three medieval castles -- very cool. While we were there a Medieval festival was going on at one of the castles. Loads of people dressed in period costume were cooking, doing handicrafts, entertaining and having sword fights. It was fantastic.

The sword fights caught Claire’s eye. There was a young woman wielding a huge, heavy sword, fighting the big guys and totally holding her own. She was amazing to watch; long, auburn hair down to her waist, her body was lean and lithe beneath her simple, beige linen gown. This so inspired the big girls that they asked to spend their allowance on a handmade, wooden sword. They even had mini wooden swords for the little girls. This was the best $50 we have ever spent.

All four girls took to the field at the side of the castle and began sword fighting in earnest. Claire, especially loved it. The big girls made up a whole routine, while the little ones just batted it out. Sometimes they would switch opponents, pairing up a little girl with a big girl. They carried the swords with them the entire weekend, challenging each other to fights at every spare moment; in the piazza after dinner, in the hotel room before breakfast, up and down the steps leading to the castles.

All four were having good, old fashioned fun together. No Ipods, no Gameboys, no television, no computer games-- just a sword widdled out of wood, and their sisters.

Now, as Claire is maturing into a tween and Camille is following right along, I think they secretly find comfort in the idea that they can still be ‘kids’ when they are with their little sisters. They can sort of use the little girls as an excuse to play with a sword or cuddle up and hear Mommy read the four of them a story. It is reassuring to me too, knowing that they still secretly, want to be children.

Mind the Gap

"Please, mind the gap." If you've ever been to London and ridden the Tube (their subway), you've heard this, probably about 47 thousand times. It is a very polite, recorded message that plays at every stop reminding passengers to be careful as they step off the subway car onto the platform.

I heard, 'mind the gap' this past weekend. I was in London to meet my dearest friends for a much anticipated weekend-long celebration for all of us turning 40.

How do you define friendship? I guess that varies from person to person.

For some people (I think women especially) friendship is about companionship; daily phone calls, weekly lunches, an occasional girls’ night out. It is this communicative connection that glues the friends together.

Others friendships are defined by common interests. My husband has a work colleague with whom he has traveled all over the world. They have experienced a lot together; tried many different (and sometimes scary) foods in Asia, gone on Safari in Kenya, traveled across the snowy, Russian tundra on a rickety, old Soviet train. They never see each other outside of work, and are at different stages in life (my guy with four little kids and his friend having three grown children)-- but their travel and adventures have formed a solid friendship.

Then there are the ‘Old School’ friends. These are friends from college, or high school or childhood. Friends with whom you have a catalog of shared experiences. They know all about you. These friends know you inside and out-- warts and all.

They were there during the happiest moments of your life, like your wedding day or just after the birth of a child. They celebrated you, and were sincerely as excited and happy for you as you were for yourself. Old School friends are also there at the saddest times, maybe the death of a parent or the shock of a miscarriage. They are the ones who pick up the rag doll of a person you are at the moment, and coddle you back to life. They are the ones who not only sit with you as you cry, they cry, too.

These are the friends I met in London. My Old School friends.

The logistics of a trip like this were fairly complex. You can imagine: Four women, three whom have jobs that need to be covered, three whom have children who needed to be farmed out or watched (fingers crossed) by husbands-- it was a part time job organizing everything.

But it was imperative that we all put forth the effort to make it, to 'mind the gap' as the very polite English lady reminds us on the Tube. Of course, I was thinking in the more figurative. 'Mind the gap'-- take care of your friendships, don't let the gap between you all grow too great.

I haven’t seen these three friends in almost two years. We keep in close touch via email, and two of them get to see each other several times a year because they live within a few hours of one and other. But none of us see each other nearly as often as we would like.

As soon as we all arrived at the flat we rented in London, it was as if not a year had slipped by since our teens. Bodies may have changed, slight wrinkles may have formed, but inside we were all 18 again.

We met on Cape Cod where we all spent summers with our families. Each of us had the typical summer waitressing job, sometimes at the same restaurant (which would invariably increase the trouble we would get into that summer). We would sneak away early on slow days, meeting at the beach to catch a few hours of sun, before going home to have dinner with our parents then head back out to one of a myriad of parties at someone‘s house or on the beach.

One night each summer, we would grab our sleeping bags, pack up a cooler with hot dogs, marshmallows and lots of beer (once we were ‘of age‘), commandeer one of our parents’ boats and speed off across the ocean to a long, narrow strip of beach called North Beach. Populated only by sand pipers and horseshoe crabs there was no electricity or bathrooms, no other people for that matter-- and we were pleased as punch. We would build a campfire, cook our dinner on sticks, talk a lot, play truth or dare, drink most of the beers and then fall asleep under the stars.

These are my fondest memories of summer, maybe of all. These women are and forever will be, my soul sisters.

So, we met in London and celebrated each other and our friendship. We shared funny stories about our kids and hilarious stories about our husbands. We also talked about what has been challenging over the past few years, but didn’t dwell on that too much. We saw all the sights, shopped at Harrod’s, drank a couple of pints in a couple of pubs, ate some good pub grub and laughed a whole hell of a lot-- until our sides hurt.

I was the first to leave the group, the other three staying on one more day. As we were hugging goodbye, to my surprise I started to cry. We were standing at the Tower of London and the day was beautifully sunny, clear and cold. We had rejuvenated each other, filled up the friendship tank for a few more years. It was hard to peel away from that, not knowing when I would next see them.

In the meantime, if any one of those women needs me, I will hop on a plane and be by their side immediately, without question. And I know that they will do the same for me.

We will mind the gap.

Friendship Soup

My best buddy, Dana invited us over for a Hanukah brunch. I have never been to one and was excited, of course to help celebrate with Dana’s family, but also for the potato latkes (with sour cream and smoked salmon!)

I know that this time of year, all the high holidays for that matter, can be a sort of sad time for Dana. Similar to the way I felt at Thanksgiving, she misses being near her family back in the States and celebrating in a more meaningful way. And she misses the very active Temple she and her kids belonged to in Minnesota.

Dana asked me to make a soup to bring to the buffet. I meditated on the soup for a couple of days, then came up with cream of celeriac soup finished with crunchy pancetta (‘you are serving pancetta at a Hanukah party?’ Yes, Dana said it was cool; she is that far removed from the traditional Hanukah meal…). Anyway, I made it a couple of days ago, and it was good, but not great.

So, yesterday when I was at the market buying the ingredients that I needed to make the mediocre celeriac soup again, I completely punted and decided to make a warm Mexican dip instead. Hold on, this may sound like Super Bowl fare, but here in Switzerland we can’t find Mexican ingredients and I had brought some dried chilis back from the States with me this summer, so having a dip like this is actually a real treat.

Dana was out all day, so when I talked to her last night she sounded rather disappointed not to have the expected, heretical celeriac and pancetta soup. Hmph!

At 5:52 a.m. this morning I woke up feeling rather guilty (an emotion I am not used to. At first I thought it was indigestion…). Was I adding to Dana’s melancholy at Hanukah? I rolled out of bed and went down to the kitchen.

In the freezer I found some good, homemade chicken stock and some nice baby spinach. In the fridge I found some fresh green beans, tomato paste and a wedge of Parmesan cheese. In the pantry I had a tin of diced tomatoes and a tin of kidney beans. And on my counter lay a few new potatoes, a head of garlic and some onions. I had the makings of a solid minestrone.

By 7:30 a.m. the soup was done and smelling fine. It wasn’t perfect, I didn’t have any fresh basil, but it tasted really good. It tasted like friendship.

Giving Thanks

When I was growing up, Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. Mainly because of the food; the hours of anticipation waiting for that first crispy piece of turkey skin was maddening.

But, unlike so many other memorable events in my life, it wasn’t solely the food that made it such a outstanding day, it was the whole package. Cousins, aunts, uncles, grand parents, sisters, brothers, random friends-- this was the weekend that we all got together. Even more than Christmas. My extended family has a very diverse religious background and Christmas isn’t celebrated by everyone, so it is Thanksgiving that brings our family together.

This is how it was for me growing up; this is what I knew.

Living far from our home country, we expats sort of group together on Thanksgiving, making our own extended families. Girlfriends replace favored aunts, their children become surrogate cousins, maybe a neighbor plays the part of the kindly grandmother.

And it works out okay. But being away from real family during holidays is one of the greatest drawbacks that expats face.

We celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday, Saturday. Everyone works and has school on the actual day, so we always have held it on the following weekend.

For some reason, this year Thanksgiving felt like an afterthought. There was no anticipation, in fact my usual eagerness was replaced by a feeling of melancholy about the whole feast.

As I began to make the stuffing, early yesterday morning, I realized how my apathy towards the planning of the meal could prove to be my undoing. I had a lot of food to prepare, little time and no family-- aunts, cousins or grandmothers, around to help.

I was just beginning to slice the crust off a couple of huge loaves of bread, feeling overwhelmed and blue (maybe a wee bit sorry for myself), when Camille walked into the kitchen and asked what I was doing.

‘Making stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner tonight, ‘ I said.

‘Can I help?’, she asked.

I almost began to cry. ‘Yes, I would love that’, I managed to get out.

I handed her a big bowl and the strips of soft bread that had to be torn into small pieces. She took them to the kitchen table and asked her almost-three-year-old twin sisters to come and help, too. The two little ones climbed up on the table, while Camille sat on a chair, and they spent the better part of any hour tearing up bread to make our Thanksgiving stuffing.

As I stood there watching them quietly tearing the bread apart, I realized that indeed I did have real family around to help me, I just wasn’t looking close enough.

Mel's Diner

I have a friend named, Mel. Mel is a woman, a real woman-- curvaceous body, flowing, chestnut brown hair, beautiful smile. She is gorgeous. I would hate her were it not for the fact that she is also completely and utterly down to earth, and sincerely kind.

We became fast friends four years ago when her son and my daughter became best buddies in nursery. That their family lived conveniently around the corner from us was a bonus. Camille would spend whole afternoons, from lunch through dinner at Mel’s house coloring pictures with her three sons and eating fantastic meals around their kitchen table.

More than geographic location though, what drew me to Mel was that she loved to cook foods from her native Turkey, and happily shared them with my children and me. Quite often, when I went to fetch Camille, I would be welcomed into Mel’s house with the scent of köftes greeting me at the kitchen door. Never having tasted, or even heard of köftes before, I was curious to try them. After one bite, I became a devoté.

Köftes are little Turkish burgers or meatballs (depending on the chosen shape) made usually of equal parts minced lamb and beef, but sometimes just one or the other. They can be sautéed, broiled, baked or grilled. They are a fabulous change to the more Western style meatball, can be made ahead of time and held in the fridge until just before cooking. They are easy and delicious.

Served with a tahini sauce, crisp lettuce and warm pitas they rival any American comfort food I can think of. Even plain, the way my kids choose to devour them, they are a treat.

Step into Mel’s diner, try one of her country’s favorite foods. I bet you’ll ask for seconds.

Morning Breath

What is your favorite scent? Turkey roasting in the oven on Thanksgiving day is towards the top of my list, but not number one. Boxwood bushes are up there, too, as is a freshly cut Christmas tree. But none of these is my favorite.

My favorite scent has to be the smell of my little kids as soon as they wake up in the morning. (Let me qualify this by saying that it applies only to little kids under 4. After that they begin to develop dragon breath and stinky farts.)

My favorite scent is not a purified perfume mind you-- no baby talc or lotion. No, it’s a mixture of things: sour morning breath, warm, sleepy neck, remnant peanut butter behind an ear, the especially soft palms of their hands, even the faint waft of a pee-filled diaper. They all intermingle to produce the sweetest, most intoxicating baby-scent.

In the mornings, I just want to stay in my big bed, snuggled under the covers, nuzzling the twins, smelling their morning breath, kissing their soft, little necks and hands, looking at their faces. This is my elixir for the stress and worries that lurk out there-- outside of my bedroom door.

Cow Beauty Contest

There we were, the six of us. Standing there in the middle of a field splattered with cow dung. None of us farmers. None of us dressed appropriately; coats too thin for this unseasonably cold October day, regular sneakers on, rather than the Wellies, or rubber rain boots that every other person, (man, woman and child) were so smartly dressed in. We were freezing and covered in crap.

My four kids, husband and I were standing at the dairy cow beauty competition in the village of Grüningen. Most of the small towns around Switzerland have these contests every autumn. On this day, farmers run their cows down from the pastures into the town where they are lined up and paraded, compared and finally judged so that one cow will reign supreme for that following year. Sort of like the 4-H contests at state fairs, except that these cows are neither auctioned or eaten at the end.

All this mucking about amongst cows made me hungry. So I was overjoyed when I spied a raclette stand.

Raclette, that special cheese produced only here in Switzerland and in the most eastern part of France. Half of a wheel of the cheese is set under a heat source and, as the cheese begins to bubble and melt, it is scrapped off the wheel onto a plate of awaiting boiled potatoes or bread. It is gooey and warm and absolutely perfect for cold weather.

Raclette stands are ubiquitous at outdoor Swiss Christmas markets. They are a sign that winter is upon us.

I stood there, ankle deep in mud and poop, listening to the cows mooing, watching my ill placed, poorly dressed gang descend upon that plate of melted cheese and bread, and I thought, ‘man, this is where it’s at’.

A Word About Mimi

Mimi is the ‘older’ of my two year-old twins (by 1 minute). She is sweet. She is shy. She has a gorgeous, big smile. She loves her dolls. She adores all three of her sisters. She is the bravest person I know.

Mimi has Cerebral Palsy. She had a stroke at birth.

Mimi goes to physical therapy three times a week and visits pediatric neurologists and developmental experts frequently. This is a drag. It makes her crawl into a tiny little shell inside of herself. She never smiles when we are at the Kinder Spital (children’s hospital). She grabs onto my neck and holds tight.

But Mimi’s CP is mild, I think. No one has ever told me that, though. She can walk and is so bright and is slowly beginning to use her right hand. I know that she will be fine.

The hardest part about CP, for Mimi is that it leaves her completely off balance. She falls a lot. Just now she was reaching for a tambourine and she fell, hard. I picked her up and we sat on the floor together while she cried and I kissed her all over her face.

It was then that it really hit me-- how brave Mimi is! She falls down many, many times a day, she can not keep up with her twin or other children. But she never stops trying.

I can tell sometimes, by the look on her face, that she realizes the difference between herself and her twin, that she is embarrassed when she falls. But she still gets up and tries again.

I love Mimi’s smile, her sweetness, her generous heart. But it is Mimi’s bravery that I love the most.