Bizarre Bazaars

Selling
A month or so ago I was feeling some of the familiar signs that a posting was imminent. Feeling more reflective than usual, wanting to write something, not wanting to do the dishes. Also, the impulse for an entry is often brought on by some new activity or situation here in Germany.

Well, after two years, I had finally begun to dabble in the occupation of immigrants the world over, since the beginning of time: Sales!

I sold a small bag of baby clothes at a snooty second-hand shop (with the Űbertrendy girl’s name “Lilu”--pronounced /LEE/ LOO/, heavy stress on both syllables--try saying that 3, 456, 326 times. But, I digress).

I also opened up an account on the buy-and-cell internet site “Der Heisse Draht 24” ('the Hot Wire', like Ebay but without the bidding) to rid ourselves of a sofa-bed that took up too much room and a transitional crib that we had Marco biding his time in until Leo was ready to give his up.

With this selling kick, I had some experiences that felt relatively blog-worthy. For the baby clothes, it was negative. I was offered only 20 euro and no explanation of individual pricing. The store owner pointed to my bag on the floor and said something along the lines of “take it or leave it”. Though I felt my cute little babythings deserved more, I had lugged the bundle a couple miles on my bike a few days earlier and didn’t feel like carrying it back with me (Leo and Marco were also in the bike trailer, so there was no room). So I accepted her wrinkled bill, feeling defeated and a little cheated. I then heard myself actually thanking the woman, the way we Americans do after any such exchange. She looked up at me and held my gaze but said nothing, not even goodbye, her absolute power over me unobscured by conventional expressions of kindness.

If Leo or Marco EVER bring a Lilu home from the playground….

Happily, the internet sales were positive. The goal was to move my merchandise quickly and not to make millions, so I priced both items at half the value of anything comparable from the same category. A good strategy. Germans love bargains but the poor dears rarely have access to them (the “5% jubilee sale” is quite common in retail stores), so they were calling us all day long. And both “pick-up” exchanges were pleasant in the extreme. My customers showed up when they said they would, paid without attempting to bargain, and actually thanked me. One was a balding, skinny dad with glasses helping his skinny daughter decorate her first apartment, the other a proud new grandpa furnishing a grandchild’s room. The experience also made me feel capable and semi-integrated into society, since I wrote the ads and took all the phone calls in German. But not quite enough for an entire blog.

But buying in Germany is another story. We have been participating in the second-hand marketplace, on the buying end, ever since we bought those bikes at the police auction (see entry from 2006). A lot can be learned about a culture from their used goods. Read on.

Buying

Flohmarkt : Supposedly, Hannover’s Saturday morning flea market is one of the oldest and best in all of Germany. While the merchants’ tables, lining an ancient bridge, and the early fog from the Leine River in the historic “old city” are lovely, I hate to think this is the best market around. You’re supposed to arrive early to get the good stuff, but I think they just say that to make you think they had good stuff but they sold it before you woke up. We have never made it there before 9:00 or so, and by then, what remains are piles of antiquey trinkets, cobwebby paintings, old kitchen appliances that are not yet “retro”, knives, musty books in German, and a small selection of overpriced and under-restored wood furniture. On our first, touristy visit, when my Dad and Nan were visiting back in 2006, we bought a big antique armoire and even bargained it down a bit. Good thing, because fleamarkets in Germany are not cheap. Go figure. We visited a few more times but eventually stopped because it was making us homesick. Oh, how we longed for the Saturday morning garage sales in the USA, infinitely superior in all ways, except for that very few of them can boast medieval European settings.

Used Kinderwagen (see photo). A lemon. A 150€ embarrassment. Marco is comfortable in it, but the tires (which are different sizes, something I didn’t notice when I bought it from a seemingly nice Kazakhstanian family) always go flat, are annoying to inflate, and the handle bar always snaps when steering. I should have probably been suspicious after noticing that the youngest girl in said family was 15. Some things really should be bought new, I guess. But, as I like to show visitors whom I drag to the German version of Babys R Us, a new stroller like this can cost 750€.

Kinderbazaars: These second-hand sales for kids’ clothes, toys and accessories—advertised on flyers and most common in spring and fall—have been on my radar since moving here. When we first arrived, it was September, and memories of the second-hand extravanganzas at the southern baptist churches were still fresh. Those Georgia church rec rooms would fill to bursting, with toys still in their boxes, strollers, kids’ furniture, books in shrinkwrap, clothes still with tags, all at rock-bottom prices. So it was a shock to show up at my first German Kinderbazaar at a YMCA-type place and see the sparse sale tables laid with neatly folded, faded clothes, old toys in crates, board games, and stacks of puzzles, all manned by dour salespeople. There was less selection, less room to move about, and the merchandise was more worn. The most tempting part was the Coffee and Cake buffet. But prices were good and, in addition to cake, I bought plenty of clothes, partly in an effort to dress Leo more like a German child. Some hits were a pair of navy sweats for 50 cents that he still wears to gymnastics class, and a preppy, English style hunting parka that we gleefully discovered had an old chestnut in one pocket and some other toddler’s pacifier in the other. But I stopped going to them for a long time, until recently, when I learned the unspoken rule of these Kinderbazaars: the richer the neighborhood, the better the Bazaar.

Mosh pit at St. Elizabeth’s: Not only is St. Elizabeth’s a catholic Kindergarten—meaning that most of the kids who go there have parents who choose to pay the optional 10% tithe—it’s in one of the best parts of the city, umm, just a few blocks from our house. You did know we live next door to the ex-Chancellor Gerhardt Schroeder, didn’t you? Yeah, well, his kid, from his 4th marriage, goes to this Kindergarten. You get the picture. All the moms had been talking about the St. Elizabeth sale for weeks. The cake alone was legend. It was to start at 2:00 on a Sunday and both boys needed winter coats so I was going to give it a shot. When Leo and I arrived at 1:50, the line was snaking around an entire block, a heterogeneous mix of tall blondes with 7even Jeans and brown leather riding boots (the locals), loud Russian ladies with bright lipstick, and subdued Muslim families. Most of the parents with children had them strapped to their bodies, and I soon learned why. The cramped sale space, spread over two floors, was so crowded and chaotic with the bargain-hungry, so few of whom favored deodorant, that Leo and I lept into the air and just let the crowd carry us for awhile. Though I lost him multiple times and he was so nervous he started scratching an imaginary “owie” until it bled, having subjected him to such madness made me even more determined to find jackets. I basically bought everything I was able to touch with my hands, including two warm-ish coats costing 4 euro each, and we were out the door after 12 minutes, with a full bag. Cake was out of the question but this time Leo didn’t mind.

Sunny playground, dismal people: Also in our wealthy neighborhood, just inside the city forest and a seven-minute walk from our apartment, there’s a clearing with a playground where Leo and Marco have spent a sizeable chunk of their infancy/youth: the Sonnenspielplatz, or sunny playground. Each first Saturday morning of the month they hold a very small, relaxed Kinderbazaar, right near the playground’s “Forest Café”, famous for its cranky help and burnt lattes. When Marco was first born, we bought lots of clothes for him here, as we were often on the playground early on Saturday mornings anyway, trying to entertain a jealous Leo and get an unhappy Marco to stop crying (those were the days :)!). Then we stopped going, probably out of PTSD, or because the sellers are not very pleasant. They are particularly untrusting of Fernando (he’s not exactly blond), and don’t like him fingering the goods or letting Leo try something on before paying.

But we stumbled on the monthly bazaar again this past weekend. It was a cool and sunny morning. The yuppies held their coffees in one hand and their babies in the other, chatting away. Ever notice how some people throw their heads back when they laugh and some don’t? Well, these people did.

There were only a few tables, but boy, did they have treasures that morning! A skinny blond with long hair in a ponytail and frosty lipstick stood guarding her impossibly appropriate wares: a pile of warm clothes in Leo’s size, puzzles and even a wooden memory game that just the day before I had been thinking about for him. I was salivating over everything on her table when Marco bumped his upper lip on the pavement and let out a wail, needing some attention. Standing to the side a bit with Marco, I asked Fernando to go over and buy the Memory game for 4€. When Fernando pulled out a 20, Skinny blond ponytail confessed she didn’t have exact change. I then moved back over and offered to buy more things so that she’d be able to make change. I held up a few possibilities –a mini rucksack, a Bob the Builder work studio, a puzzle, a vest… until we found the perfect combination of items to equal 10 € so that we could get a 10 in change. So she took the 20€ Fernando handed her and commented that she had already given us the 10 (when she hadn’t... why would she have, before the sale?). We told her she had not yet given us anything. She insisted. To be nice, we looked in our empty pockets, Fernando fanned his wallet in front of her eyes. No 10 €. She insisted again that her 10 € was gone, and how very strange that was. She walked around her table, dramatically searching for it. We were now irritated and Fernando requested to terminate the transaction. She replied, “No, because then you’d have your 20 and my 10, too”. She was accusing us of scamming her out of 10 € at a kiddie sale. It was part maddening, but also hurtful. Our impulse was to hightail it out of there, but we kept shopping and held our heads high with the other salespeople, all of whom had witnessed the incident. The last thing she told us as, we rushed away in disgust, was to give her back her ten euro “when we found it”. The Memory game remains untouched and the vest hangs in Leo’s room like an insult, but he loves his Bob the Builder work studio.

I think we’ve had enough of Kinderbazaars for awhile. So what, in the end, does this all say? That Germans hold on to their stuff for longer than Americans. That they are less generous with it. That the “customer is always right” doesn’t extend to amateur German salespeople. That there are deals and gems to be had, but never without a price. On a lighter note, I suppose what it also says is, wow, I do love a good bargain, no matter where we are living.

Parental perks in Germany

Leo turns three today! This coming Sunday afternoon we’re having a small party to celebrate. It will be our first time hosting an event in which some of our different friends (i.e., sets of moms, dads, and their little ones) will meet each other. Will everybody get along? I am not worried about the kids, who, with cake and enough room to run around, should be fine. But I do wonder how the adults will fare. How will earthy Vivian, for example, find anything to say to Pia, whose typical day includes substantial retail therapy at a kids’ boutique, a cosmetics counter, or a health spa? And what if motorcycle riding Kristof blows smoke (from his hand rolled cigarettes) too close to health-conscious Holger’s face?

Everything will turn out fine, though, because I’ve double checked about the one single issue that could, potentially, be divisive. Not politics, not sports teams, not wooden or plastic toys. Kindergarten!

As far as I know, all the kids have been officially admitted to Kindergarten starting in August. This is a good thing, because for a few months now, the question of whether or not one’s 2 ½ or 3-yr.-old had been granted a slot at one of the “good” (government or church-run) Hannover Kindergartens had been turning even the most even-keeled mothers into ranting madwomen or hopeless depressives.

It seems that a rite of German Spring for 2 ½ year olds (well, really, their mothers) is to wait anxiously, for weeks, by the mailbox for an acceptance letter from one of the ten or so kindergartens whose waiting lists their child’s names are on. One need not be a statistician to realize that if each mother puts her little Janek’s or her sweet Louisa’s name on that many lists, the placement period, which begins in late February, must go through several rounds and phases before every mother—oops, child—is successfully placed in one Kindergarten slot. By now, though, everybody’s pipsqueak has secured a place at pre-school, most at places they’re happy about.

So what was all the fuss about? I’m trying to figure it out. For several weeks, I listened, nodding sympathetically, as German mothers agonized over the dearth of childcare options, the too-short Kindergarten days, the huge price tag, and the impossibility of getting a good placement. But everything I learned about Kindergarten in Germany sounded just brilliant, to me. And when Leo was granted a spot at the popular Protestant “Kita” down the street back in March, my positive opinion was confirmed. If I, a heavily accented, non-German, non-working mother can get my child into Kindergarten, then everyone can. And, as it turns out, everyone did. So what gives? Here’s my theory: by the time these parents have Kindergarten-aged children, they have been enjoying the multiple advantages of being parents in Germany for nearly three years. That is to say, the German state has been supporting them on their parenting journey, even encouraging them to procreate again, with ever more attractive legislation each year. As it turns out, in this kind of environment, it’s easy to feel a little entitled…

Caution: if you’re a parent, or thinking about becoming one, and not living in Germany, the following description of how good they have it here might make you ill. Please, take comfort in the fact that I tend to exaggerate. But I don’t totally make stuff up, either.

…Let’s start from the very beginning: pregnancy and parental leave in Germany…

Elternzeit
Any taxpaying, working mother in Germany is entitled to “Parent’s Time”. Even the oppressed-looking cashier at the supermarket, even the young colorist at the discount hair salon. It begins six weeks before a pregnant woman’s due date, when she is obliged to stop work, no matter what. This explains why there are so many very pregnant looking women wandering around the streets of Hannover--window shopping, eating ice cream cones, gabbing on their cell phones. They can’t go to work, their baby hasn’t been born yet, their husbands are at the office, the layette has been washed and folded. They’re bored! For the next six months (by law), these women receive 80% of their former salary. When these six months are over, their salary will stop coming in (unless they go back to work, which they rarely do so “soon”). But they are given an additional 2 ½ years of job protection. This means that they are guaranteed their former job, if they want it. If the job doesn’t exist anymore (heck, a lot can happen in 36 months!) they are entitled to a position at the same level, at the same company, with the same benefits. Now, no employer wants to prevent these women from working during this three year Elternzeit period, so there are special part time job opportunities designed especially for this odd, Elternzeit ‘hiatus’ period. Thus, ambitious (or restless, or both) women can return to work part time, with full benefits, for just a year or maybe a bit more, before finally returning, at the end of the 3 years, to their old, pre-baby job. And what if, after three years with junior, Mom decides full-time work is just too much? Kein Problem! No problem! Her employer is legally bound to figure out some part-time gig that suits her better (yup, full benefits). Job-sharing, often between two mothers, is a typical arrangement. One goes to the office in the morning, the other in the afternoon, sitting at the same desk; that sort of a thing.

Vater’s Elternzeit
Why should “stay-at-home” be purely a Mom’s job description? Some German guys have asked themselves this very question and opted to stay at home with the kid. This means that poor Mom has to “rush” back to work after “only” six months (that is, if she wants to keep getting paid). But Dad now can enjoy the same parental leave benefits described above. This scenario allows for LOTS of family time for the baby’s first months, because the father stops work on the baby’s due date, and doesn’t return for three years. In the beginning, then, that’s six months at home for both parents to get used to the new baby, take turns feeding and diapering, and attend those ridiculous newborn movement classes (see a previous entry). This is also a popular time for families (with substantial savings, of course) to go on extended trips to Australia or the Maldives. What better way to get used to this new life form then on a sandy beach?

Or, an alternative: during the first three years, father can take substantial (several months) time off, without pay, with total job protection.

… And cash incentives to be fruitful and multiply…

Kindergeld
This translates as “Kid Money” and that’s what it is. Shortly after arriving I heard about this little stipend and made sure we started collecting it for Leo, since we are German taxpayers. (And boy, do we pay taxes: to the tune of 43 cents to the euro). Kindergeld amounts to about 150 €, or $220, per month, per kid. More than enough money for diapers and formula. This is clearly a huge boost for poorer Germany residents, but even the richest of the rich make sure they get it! Needless to say, as soon as we brought Marco home from the hospital and showed him where he’d be sleeping, I was nagging Fernando to contact our “re-location” agents to have them alert the authorities that we had another “Kind” who would be needing some monthly “Geld”. But “they” never tell you about any of this unless you ask. Good thing I have a nose for this kind of thing.

Elterngeld
Special for kids born in 2007 and after: "Parent Money"! When the law first passed, I heard a friend complain about her child’s 2006 birth date a few times, joking about how it would have been so much more lucrative had little Julian been born a bit later. It didn’t quite sink in. I kept hearing about Elterngeld this, Elterngeld that. But for several months I was just confusing it with the above-described Kindergeld (Hey! It’s not my first language!). Finally, though, and thankfully not too late, it dawned on me that Elterngeld was in fact something different, and that I might have a crack at getting some of it. Elterngeld is allotted to any parent of a child born in 2007 or after who can prove full-time parenting status for ten months following the birth. Listen to this craziness! In addition to the salary benefits described above, if you promise to stay home for ten months taking care of your baby, you are entitled to receive an additional 60% of your previous salary (yes, on top of Elternzeit salary), to amount to a maximum of no more than $1,800 € ($2,700) per month, for ten months. I doubted I could cash in on this, since I had never had a salary in Germany, but I filled out the paperwork, just in case, and crossed my fingers. As it turns out, they’ll soon be paying me retro-actively (since Marco was 9 months old when I applied) 3, 150 € for giving birth in 2007 in Germany, a country clearly anxious about its future labor force. This works out to about €300 per month ($450) for ten months. Much less than the maximum, but still an unexpected, and therefore, oh-so-sweet, windfall.

… When “Parent’s Time” is over, or, What to do with your 3-yr. old…

Kindergarten
The Germans invented Kindergarten and their philosophies about it are interesting and all, but not the subject of this entry. What’s amazing about Kindergarten to me is that German people don’t seem to appreciate it much. In the end, all kids who turn three in the summer before matriculation are guaranteed a spot. There’s even a governmental office where you can complain if your kid isn’t in by July. The hours your kid “gets” vary given family needs, anywhere from just mornings, mornings and lunch, a 2:00 pm daily pick up, and for some full-time working mothers, a late, 4:00 pm pick up. Granted, working mothers still must arrange additional child care for a couple of hours each afternoon to bridge that gap, and that’s a hassle, but there are private services that specialize in this. And refreshingly, even though getting into Kindergarten in Germany is a numbers game, I am happy to report that I don’t mean I.Q., Apgar score, or Mama and Papa’s salaries. It’s an equation based purely on the child’s age and proximity in kilometers to the Kindergarten. Again, the fact that my child got in to a “good” one (where he will not be matriculating, btw) is proof about how blind the system is. Kindergarten also lasts a long time here… at least three years and sometimes four, since kids start “real” school at age seven. Germans also seem to think Kindergarten is expensive. Hah! When I heard the monthly cost, I thought the quoted price I was hearing was per week, and it seemed reasonable. It’s cheap! 30 hours a week costs about €250 per … month?!? Or, less than $3.00 an hour. So, basically about ¼ of what day care can cost in some parts of the US, and it includes a hot lunch. And Germans are up in arms about the price. Those who are simply too enraged to pay the fee (because for Germans it’s rarely an issue of truly not being able to pay) tend to enroll their kids in alternative “Elterninitiativ” Kindergartens, in which the parents have to be incredibly involved in order to keep prices down: canning apple sauce, cooking spaghetti, cleaning toilets, raking leaves, and going on last-minute toilet paper runs. These tend to be really clubby societies, really intense places where I would probably be eaten alive, or they’d just appoint me the designated English teacher.

In September Leo will be moving up to the Kindergarten group (ages 3-6) where he currently goes to day care (ages 1-3), at Solvay. He’ll have many of the same friends and will go every morning until lunch. It was just what I hoped he would “get” for next year, so I feel lucky. I wish Germans would allow themselves to feel “lucky” about some of this stuff, though I’m sure they have their reasons… Or do they? Oh well.

An accidental "Eco-Mom"

An article last month in the Int’l Herald Tribune (“Dishpan hands? Today it’s eco-anxiety”) discussed how a new sub-culture of women and mothers is mobilizing to lessen their households’ impact on the environment with “greener” practices. Websites and organizations have sprouted up, one even called the Eco-Mom Alliance. Reading the article, it occurred to me that since moving to Germany, many of the Eco steps taken sounded familiar. But rather than feel satisfied about how some of our behaviors are not detrimental to the environment, I felt more concern, since, truth be told, I am no environmental activist. Our relatively “green” lifestyle these days is more a product of our new habitat.

I asked myself a variation on that philosophical question: if a tree falls in a forest with nobody to hear it, does it make any noise? (At least I think that’s the question) So, if we are taking some “green” steps but doing it, more or less, in spite of ourselves, can I be an eco-Mom?

I think not. Oh well. All I can do is hope that when we move back to the U.S., we will see the (contact fluorescent) light and join the ranks of the true, card-carrying Eco-households that are actually making a concerted, laudable effort to reduce consumption. For now, in our house we’re just going along with the country’s commendable environmental policies. Being “Öko”, as they say in German, is more a question of conforming (also a German pastime). Read on.

Recycling
Recycling is central to the country’s extremely organized, public notion of environmentalism. Everybody recycles their household waste. If you don’t participate, you risk being reported by an informer, say, an annoyed neighbor. I am not kidding.
**Please see photo of our kitchen’s receptacle “tower”**
--From the top: The cylindrical “Bio” bin, for organic compost: banana peels, apple cores, egg shells, coffee grounds, tea bags, cut flowers, etc. We compost and we don’t even live on a commune! This stinky stuff, picked up weekly, is converted into genuine, Hannoverian fertilizer™ that can be purchased or given as a gift.
--Immediately below, the trash can. Notice how small it is. The eleven occupants in our building only require one average-size, curbside can per week, and over half its volume is taken up by Leo and Marco’s diapers. What goes in the trash besides dirty diapers? Not much: kitty litter, chicken bones, dirty hankies, human hair, ashes, cigarette butts.
--Below the trash are the three stacked bins for recyclables. I stick on Post-it labels whenever we have non-German, overnight guests.
-In the top one: anything made of plastic or metal. No rinsing allowed—not even of milk and yogurt containers--since this wastes running water.
-In the middle is the paper bin: all forms paper and processed wood, from cereal boxes to tea bag wrappers, newspaper to lightly soiled Kleenex, toilet paper cardboard to broken wooden toy.
-And finally, anything glass goes in the bottom bin: an empty bottle of moisturizer, a bottle of wine, even that weird blue stuff.

Once you get the hang of it, it becomes as second nature as breathing. Deep breathing near bin stack, however, is not recommended, as it can get pretty rank.

A country of "Locovores"
**please see photo of unsightly local beets**
This term, coined by the best-selling American author Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma, etc.) refers to the energy-conserving goal of consuming food grown within a limited radius of where you live. In Europe with its teensy weensy countries, this is easier to do than in the U.S. Take the Italian tomato, the only kind available in Germany from November to May. While not local per se, it still travels considerably less than a California tomato did to get to the Shaw’s in Massachusetts.
In our house, we’ve moved closer to being Locovores for two reasons: 1.) German markets prefer to sell domestic produce whenever possible, and 2.) I have come to loathe walking for more than five minutes to buy food. How’s that for local? During the winter months--at both the nearby, overpriced mini-supermarket and the nearby, overpriced weekly farmers’ market--its all German, and all apples and celeriac. As you can see from the photos, the pickings are slim. To survive the grey time of year and all the grey veggies, an attitude adjustment is in order. Beets are sweet! Parsnips are kind of like carrots! And really, who can resist cabbage? And as it turns out, the potato is to the northern German as the snow is to the Eskimo. There are 80 different varieties for sale in February, and Leo likes them (unfo., they make Marco gag). But the other day I wrestled with some temptation: a package of spotless green beans from Senegal. I hesitated a bit and then stuffed them in the basket. They were delicious.

Gas consumption
No need to dwell on this huge topic since I’ve referred to it in several entries. The “huge topic” being our carlessness. While it is true that most young families like ours have only one single car in their possession, most Germans do, in fact, have cars. We have some German friends that remarked that, as far as the no-car thing goes, Fernando and I are “more European than the Europeans”, and therefore, somewhat ridiculous. I suppose it is pretty good that we have not personally consumed automobile gas in a year and a half (excluding our visits to the US and the occasional car rental weekend) and have relied instead on Hannover’s excellent mass transit (tram, train, bus) and our bikes.
But the real reason we don’t have a car is because we can’t. As it turns out, we cannot drive legally here, since Germany does not honor Georgia licenses. They are totally fine with Alabama and Louisiana drivers, but not us Peach State folk. Nobody understands why. And getting a German license is no walk in the park. It is expensive, requires time consuming lessons, hours and hours of theoretical exam preparations, and several hours of first-aid course work. We have had trouble making the time. Fernando has been on the brink of taking the theoretical exam for over a year now, but something always happens. He goes away on a trip. A baby is born. We buy a garden. He gets a new job. Life gets in the way and the diligent study sessions stop, the memorized answers to confusing multiple choice questions are forgotten. But one day he’ll take and pass that exam, we can get insurance, we can buy that elusive car. Maybe.

Small "global footprint"
The global footprint, according to the article, is “a measure of the estimated amount of land it takes to support each person’s lifestyle” The American average is 24 acres. Our footprint here in Hannover has got to be less, judging from how small our apartment is and that we have no yard. And our footprint will soon be even smaller, since we are currently trying to sell off the ½ acre Schrebergarten that we bought less than a year ago (see multiple blog entries from 2007). Again, we are not doing this for reasons of conservation, but more for lack of time, the complexity of getting out to the garden colony with two kids (and no car!), and because of our somewhat embarrassing lack of knowledge about, um, how to garden. Someday we’d like to have a garden, preferably attached to our house and not a 20 minute bike ride away. But in the meantime, wish us luck selling this one! A handsome reward for referrals ending in a sale.

Low meat consumption
No, we have not become Vegans or even vegetarians. But when faced, day after day in that overpriced little market around the corner, with rows and rows of sausage, tubes of Liverwurst, and slabs of pork, deciding what to do for the “meat course” is sometimes just too taxing. So we eat lots of pasta and frozen pizza (it’s really yummy here, the Dr. Oetker brand). It is easy to eat way less than the American daily average meat consumption of 8 oz. Yes, we eat more hot dogs than we ever thought possible, and even though I buy the organic kind, I’m not kidding myself. But they don’t weigh much.

Real Eco-Moms could also lobby for the U.S. to adopt the following German practices that are, coincidentally, better for the environment.

∙Make people pay up to $0.25 for plastic bags at all retail stores, no matter how much they just spent. It’s the German way. And believe me, Germans do NOT buy these bags. The stack of bags is available for foreign fools attending some Hannover convention or for scatterbrained expats like me. Germans rely on their reusable burlap totes, and consider fancy-looking paper bags from prestigious stores (Benetton, etc.) to be national treasures.

∙Bathe children once a week. The concept of bath time as a nightly ritual involving toys, bubbles, washable crayons, puffy waterproof books, and special helmets to protect baby’s eyes from shampoo is totally unheard of in Germany. Bath night is Sunday, and those kids get scrubbed so clean they’re pink after. And crying while shampooing builds character.

∙Withhold information on home energy expenditure until the end of the year. That’s right. For the entire year our monthly bill actually reflects the previous year’s energy prices, even if different people were living in the unit. Thus, at the end of the year comes a big surprise: the letter asking for 12 months of back pay if you have gone over (and you usually have). This year long guessing game is a great psychological trick. Every day as you turn on the coffee machine and then the light switch, you wonder, “How much will this cost me?”. This year, we had to pay a couple hundred € . Who knows about next year?

**please see photo of boys in blue sweaters**
This photo is here to increase the number of hits this page gets :), but I think the sweaters were made with all organic material and with fairly paid labor, etc. A gift from some (American) friends.

My girls

It has been almost a year and a half now. Seventeen months of trying to get used to the language, behaviors and social conventions of these northern Germans; and just as much time working on establishing some sort of social network. We’re happy to report that the never-simple process of making friends has not been entirely dreadful. There are two main reasons for this: small children and low expectations. First, it is relatively easy to meet people (read: other parents) through a toddler’s play groups, kiddie classes, or playground routine. To break the ice, there is that guaranteed topic of your kids and their—choose all that apply—ages, names, runny noses, talent on the swings, agility with the pail and shovel, or penchant for stealing sips from another kid’s sippy cup. Second, we have known from the beginning—thanks to an all-day German cultural training workshop we attended in Atlanta--that these people have a different concept of friendship than most Americans do. According to the stereotype, due to what’s referred to as the Germans’ “village mentality”, their friendship bar is raised almost impossibly high. Friends are those few souls who have known you your whole life, are related to you, are sleeping with you, and/or have been by your side during life changing events. Anyone less is just a “Bekannte”, that is, literally a “known” person.

So we’ve been content just cultivating relationships with pleasant people, mostly Germans, some not. Maybe--maybe--we could call one or two of them friends, but that’s a subject best left for another entry. But because now there are, at least some numbers on our local phone list and a handful of people to meet up with at the park or for a Sunday breakfast, I no longer feel compelled to view every person who even half smiles in my direction as a potential friend. What follows are descriptions of some of the women in our neighborhood with whom I’ve had semi-friendly encounters but from whom, it’s safe to say at this point, I’ll probably be seeking nothing more. Please read on.

Brinna*
I had seen this unusually petite, ash blond woman several times on the playground. And while her no-nonsense, cold-weather uniform of chocolate brown, calf-length North Face parka, beige corduroys and brown rubber-soled boots all signaled an uncomplicated personality, her constant chatting with other mothers made her seem inaccessible. Until one sleety afternoon last winter when we were the only two adults on the local “Spielplatz”. When I saw that there were four kids with her, digging in the wet sand with large bright plastic shovels, I marched toward her armed with two legitimate inquiries: where could one buy such great sand toys at this time of year, and, were all of those children hers? She admitted, somewhat shamefully, that the toys were from Toys R’Us (German mothers love to hate this place), and with not a little exasperation, that yes, both the set of 3 year-old triplets and the 5 year old boy were hers. At the time I was pregnant and worrying about how I would manage with two little ones, so I stood trembling before this woman, in awe of her obvious achievement. (I was also struggling to comprehend how someone so tiny could carry triplets). She then recounted for me, without an ounce of sugarcoating, just how difficult it was to take care of four children under five, how little time she had for herself, how impossible it was to find trustworthy hired help, how her parents lived two hours away, and how late her husband came home from work. It did seem like a formidable task, and my goodbye to her was “Good luck!” as she rounded up her fair-haired herd and they ambled out of the playground. Curiously, the next few times I saw her there she ignored me and continued her conversations with the other mothers. I didn’t mind, since she had seemed a tad bland, even after factoring in the fatigue, chaos and tedium proper to her mammoth mothering job. I eventually stopped trying to meet her gaze, and “forgot” that I knew her. But just a few weeks ago Brinna stopped me to say hello, at the weekly farmer’s market held a block from our house. I had just dropped Leo off at Kindergarten and was buying apples with Marco in the carriage. She hadn’t yet met Marco, and smiled approvingly at him. She then turned to me and asked how I was managing with the baby. But before letting me answer, she commented, “I can see that he’s not sleeping well yet, because you look very tired.” Wait a second…How can this woman know if I look tired—she doesn’t even really know what I look like! Once at home, I dropped both Marco and the apples in our hallway to go check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I looked… no more tired than usual. Sometimes these Germans are too honest.

Ute*
How fun that I am in Germany and I found my own personal Doppelgänger! I witnessed over a few months, while pregnant and with a young toddler boy, as this neighborhood woman got even more pregnant, with her own little male toddler in tow. So one summer day (on the playground, of course), as I waddled along after Leo, I noticed that she was now thin and kind of grey looking, hovering over a baby carriage as her toddler played on the swings. For several weeks my double and I had been exchanging smiles of complicity, so I felt the time was right to make my move. In retrospect, I should have never begun a dialogue with Ute, because pretty much every thing out of her mouth, after introducing me to her newborn and older child, was negative. During our initial conversation, I began to slip in English words, which is my standard, indirect way of pleading to my interlocutor “Please, speak English! I don’t understand everything you are saying and it sounds important!”, but she just kept right on carping in German. I nodded sympathetically as she talked about not sleeping, crying, and throwing-up, but inside I dreaded every word out of her mouth (those that I understood). Somewhat naively I suppose, I had sort of hoped things would be easier with the second baby, and this woman was freaking me out! Then, for the first several weeks after Marco was born, I ran into Ute every few days-- in the little supermarket around the corner, on the play ground, in the zoo, and on the street. On the bright side, these encounters improved my German vocabulary tremendously. Now I knew plenty of words suitable for catastrophes: schlecht (nasty), shrecklich (horrible), schwerig (heavy, tough), furchtbar (terrible), and anstrengend (strenuous, stressful). I found out later, from my friend Veronika, that for Germans, this rapid fire of (un)pleasantries is not uncommon. But for an American like me who strives to “show a good face”, particularly with mere acquaintances, Ute’s conversational style was hard to take. Interestingly, I also learned from Veronika that Germans are critical of the American convention of always asking “How are you?”, (almost) always answering “Fine”, and never expecting/wanting anything more than a one-word answer for this exchange. OK, lesson learned: I will brace myself before asking the question again to a German. But the “it’s just cultural” excuse only goes so far. I guess she’s not really my twin.

Marise*
I made Marise’s acquaintance at the farmers’ market early last fall. Again, I was buying apples, but this time I had just dropped my carton of farm fresh eggs, broken 80% of them, and was feeling frazzled (and eggy). She could detect from the way I asked for a half kilo of Elstar that I was not a native German speaker. “Where are you from?” She asked me in English. When I told her I was from America she smiled and said, “so am I… Canada… Montreal.” I then recognized that she, too, had an accent… a French one. She had been living in Germany for a decade, so was acculturated and totally fluent. Standing in front of the apple sellers, with egg yolk on my fingers and Marco whimpering in the Bjorn, we had a nice conversation, each nodding enthusiastically at our commonalities (ties to Atlanta, bilingual children, living abroad, learning German, etc.). She gave me her email and implored me to contact her. A few days later I did, but we had trouble finding a time to meet. It was no big loss, though she had seemed nice and peppy. But I did keep running into her-- once with her Hannoverian husband on a Saturday, once leaving a fancy furniture store, and once in the little supermarket, when she insisted on lending me her umbrella since it was raining and again I had Marco in the Bjorn, with no rain cover. It was October, and she mentioned her total stress over a new client (she is a self-employed intercultural trainer). She suggested we get together in January. Yes, that’s right: Marise was suggesting a play-date for the following year. I agreed, incredulous, that this was a grand idea. After that day, I didn’t see the French Canadian-German woman again, not even once. It’s just as well, because her umbrella has gotten so much use in inclement weather that it is now totally busted, and I haven’t quite motivated myself to buy a replacement.

Lea*
Lea is a friend of our friends Veronika and Matthias, a woman who I had seen at a few social events and a couple times at the… yup, playground. This tall, gaunt, blond woman with ice blue eyes, high cheekbones and a knob at the end of her nose also has two young kids, Henno* and Elena*. Lea is very quiet and her English is limited. So I was surprised when she invited me over for coffee. When we were there, though, all Lea talked about was learning English and the frustrating courses she and her husband had been taking. So I was soon suspicious that she wished me to be her new English teacher. Now, the Germans are a foreign language-obsessed breed, but never in my time here has anyone been so transparent about their intentions for me. Feeling a bit peeved, I decided I’d “use” her for German practice, and searched around in my head for some words that I needed clarification on. But she was not receptive of my attempts to practice her language. I then looked around her apartment, seeing if there was anything else I could take advantage of her for. For starters, I could help myself to another slice of cake and get her to make me one of those cappuccino drinks from that fancy machine they had. The carpet was nice and soft for the babies, and Leo was seriously digging Henno’s trains. When the clock struck twelve, it was finally time to dress the kiddies and take them home. Unsurprisingly, my new English student asked me what Leo, Marco and I were doing the following Friday. Foreseeing the beginning of a fixed weekly meeting, I told her I could only meet two weeks later. She seemed positively elated—her husband would be so jealous of all this language practice! That Friday came. I bundled everybody up and gave her a call to tell her we were on our way. Though she seemed to expect my call, she told me that her kids had been sick all week and she didn’t want to get mine sick so could we please not come. If they had been sick all week, why not call and cancel? She immediately worked on re-scheduling her next English session, and I reluctantly gave her another Friday spot, again at her place. The next Friday, the same thing happened! This time I told her--as I was removing Marco from his snowsuit and thinking of how to tell Leo he wouldn’t be playing with Henno’s train set that day, either-- that we were busy on Fridays until 2009. I wished her family better health and hung up cussing. In defense of Germans, Lea’s non-existent “cancellation policy” is by no means typical. They usually take their appointments very seriously. Maybe that’s why it irked me so. But, on the bright side, I’m now free from pro-bono English teaching.

As you can see, nobody described here is a Bad Person. In fact, I plan on keeping their contact information, just in case. And luckily, for every “iffy” person in Germany, we’ve met twice as many nice ones. They’re just not as fun to write about.



*name has been slightly altered

PEKIP and the New Year

Happy 2008! Fernando, Leo, Marco and I have been back in Hannover for almost two weeks and we all seem to be riding a wave of new year optimism, an entire half-month in! Maybe it’s the weather, which has been almost sunny a few times and only bitter cold once. Maybe it’s Fernando’s new projects at work. Maybe it’s the orderly stacks of last year’s Christmas trees on the street corner, still with their intoxicating pine scent, awaiting their scheduled pick up. Maybe it’s our upstairs neighbors, who have mostly chosen to limit their tireless stomping (they would probably refer to it as walking) to the pre-midnight hours. Maybe it’s Marco, who decided a few weeks ago that he actually liked life outside the womb. Or maybe it’s the nearby pond, which has been full of ducks. Whatever might be contributing to this sense of well being, it certainly feels like a fresh start is in order.

And while exactly a year ago I resolved to get more involved in Hannover’s international women’s group (see blog entry from January 2007), this year I am asserting a somewhat different position. In 2008 I will not feel compelled to join every playgroup that I hear about, or attend every parent and child class that someone scribbles about on the back of an envelope. And I will not, I repeat-- will NOT-- on any account, return to PEKIP class.

PEKIP is the acronym, in German, for The Prague Program for Parents and Children. Developed by a famous Czech psychologist in the early 1970’s, this course designed for parents and their babies during the first year of life is a bit like Bikram yoga. Not in the poses or anything, but in PEKIP’s status as a “brand”. That is, no matter where you go to for this 90-minute, bonding-with-baby experience, be it in Berlin or Bonn, it will look and feel pretty much the same. The instructor, who has been trained for hundreds of hours at a PEKIP pedagogical institute and indoctrinated in the Prague Program’s “concept”, leads a maximum of ten similarly-aged babies and their parents through a sequence of activities, games and songs. Since the babies often begin their PEKIP education at as young as four to six weeks, the age-appropriate activities often include such basic things as lying down, being carried around by mom in a circle, tickled with a brightly colored silk scarf, getting rubbed down with oil, and serenaded with simple songs. What distinguishes PEKIP from a typical day at home with Mom or Dad, then, is that the babies are naked, and the room, often a yoga studio, is really warm. Oh, and it costs 10 € a pop, which is more than Germans would normally pay for 90 minutes of just about anything.

Enrolling in a PEKIP class is about as obvious to modern German mothers as breathing. After conceiving, “signing up for PEKIP” is one of the first entries on any self-respecting expectant mother’s to-do list, right after that appointment with the OB/GYN to confirm the pregnancy. So after having several PEKIP alumnae tell me about how great these weekly classes were, how friendships between the adults had been maintained even after the course year ended, and just how darn cute it was to behold ten shiny little bottoms wriggling around the floor each week, I decided to enroll myself and future baby Venegas. Luckily for me, there was a nearby community center type place whose PEKIP instructors had a good reputation. The director of the center spoke some English and promptly sent me Xeroxed descriptions of the course’s philosophy, shakily translated from the German. I was granted a spot in a 6-session class (with the option to continue on afterwards) beginning in November of ‘07, with 9 other babies born in July and August. And when the class I had been assigned turned out to be held during one of Leo’s mornings at kindergarten, I was sure an angel was watching over me. I paid the fee, read about the PEKIP philosophy, and waited in anticipation for the classes to begin.

Well, everything the informational hand-outs described turned out to be true, and from our very first class! While PEKIP can be nice for both babies and parents—maybe even beneficial—after only one session I already had my doubts. Please read on.

As per the PEKIP philosophy…

“A naked infant moves more spontaneously and intensive. He has more skin contact with the parent, cries less and is altogether more content”.
Marco did seem at ease being naked, but even more thrilled was his mother, having had little prior opportunity to contemplate her second-born in the buff (our apartment is always drafty and our summer was non-existent). I delighted in counting Marco’s thigh rolls and observing the rubber-band skin creases marking the spot where wrists and ankles would someday be. But after about twenty minutes of cooing and heavy flirting directed at the instructor Karine, my future teacher’s pet son started to get fussy-- a full 30 minutes before the other babies. It was clear he was due for his next nap, but as his whines and whimpers progressed predictably in both frequency and pitch, it became difficult for any adult to talk and be heard. So Karine decided to use Marco as a didactic example of what happens to babies when they feel TOO naked. She implored me to put his clothes back on him. Like a scolded puppy I returned Marco to his clothed state, smiling smugly when it became obvious that clothing was not going to stop his howls. Now irritated, Karine asked me to plug Marco with a pacifier so that the rest of the group could get some peace and quiet-- and that shut both of us up, for a couple minutes anyway.

“When the baby is tired, he may sleep. When he is thirsty he may drink.”
Yes, OK. But the hand-out would have done well to include: “when he must pee and poop, he may”. In Marco’s case, it was when his bare bottom was on my lap. I was wearing a new pair of beige corduroys and he was pooping a delightful stream of dark green. Good thing there were buckets of water and towels precisely for this all-too-common PEKIP occurrence. Anyone on the street who happened to glance down at my pant leg during our (thankfully short) walk home after class would have guessed correctly if they thought mother and child had just been at that naked baby class.

“The adults have the possibility to watch other children. They realize that every baby has his own rhythm, shows different behavior patterns and develops in his own manner”.
Oh, so true. So as my wee one wailed away, sweating bullets since he had been forced to wear clothes in this tropical, so-called “nude space”, I was instructed to sit on a yoga ball and bounce the baby back to bliss. I bounced away, my lids heavy from lack of sleep and the room’s excessive humidity, and compared my weeping child to his peers. There was long and lean Garrett, drooling contentedly on his belly… There was chubby Moritz, lounging face-up on his mother’s lap… was that kid … asleep? … There was delicate little Nora, reclining in her mother’s arms enjoying a bottle of milk. But just as I was starting to go completely green with envy, wondering why I got the cranky one, one by one, Marco’s contemporaries began to fuss. And fuss some more. At 70 minutes elapsed class time, Karine had to project her voice to be heard over the cries, and the mothers were looking exasperated as they fumbled around to gather their things and begin the process of leaving. At 80 minutes the room was at half capacity, with Karine reminding us stragglers multiple times about bringing the apricot oil for the following week’s meeting. And at 90 minutes on the dot, Marco and I were finally outside again, breathing in the cool November air and beginning our walk home. Seconds after rounding the corner away from the building, Marco was fast asleep in his carriage, and I felt as free as a bird (a bird with pooped-on cords, of course)

“During the group meetings there are also times when mothers/fathers can talk in a relaxed atmosphere and share experiences”.
Compared to other parent-child classes I had attended in Germany, PEKIP was a chat-fest, and this posed a problem. Karine advised about parenting and mothers alternated between complaining and boasting about their babies. Since my German is not exactly stellar, I limited my own contributions and just concentrated on trying to keep up with the topic at hand. For the most part I could tell if the mothers were complaining about night feedings or fevers; describing too short naps or nasty diaper rash. Furthermore, totally unlike the other classes I’ve attended here, not a single woman wanted to practice her English on me. Nobody dared to even try, not even during the casual “meet and greet” period toward the beginning. So not only did I not do much talking, it was pretty obvious I wouldn’t be making any friends in PEKIP class, either. And since I was the only second-time mother in the group, my current concerns were somewhat different. I was worried about how to keep Marco’s wails from waking up Leo, and how to keep germy Leo from infecting the baby. I didn’t care at all to rehash labor and delivery stories or exchange birthweights (understandably, favored topics with first time moms).

“The babies are offered positions and postures in which they can become active themselves”.
During the class I learned some nice holding techniques for a fussy baby and a gentler way of picking them up from a lying position (tilt baby to side and then scoop). But I was annoyed when more than once Karine used my technique with Marco as an example of how NOT to handle a baby! For example, when she saw me dressing him back up again while in a seated position on my lap, she instructed me to never bend the baby’s back at such an angle, warning me against future “back problems”, folding herself into an improbably bad-postured position to help get her point across. I had been aware of this German fear of anything that would take a baby from the flat-lying position during the first year, and had been ignoring it, in favor of the American style—propping babies up in car seats, Johnny jump ups, swings, Exersaucers, strollers and the like as soon as they can hold their heads up. And as this non-medical person rested her eyes on me while warning the class against car seat over-use, I had visions of that American Olympian swimmer—a young man with quite a back, Michael Phelps I think?—and wondered how much better a swimmer he’d be now if only Mrs. Phelps had made him lie flatter. But I just smiled faintly, nodding that I understood her, thinking about maybe not returning the following week.

I made it to three of the six PEKIP classes. After the first class described here, it was a struggle to motivate myself to keep going, even though the babies do like it (see photos) and it is really cute. Might PEKIP be for you? If this is not your first baby, your German isn’t that good, and you don’t like being incorporated as one of the instructor’s learning props, then I suggest you just play with your baby at home. He has a whole life ahead of him for songs and games, and can keep his clothes on, too.

Praktisch

It was bound to happen sooner or later: our German has reached a plateau. I haven’t taken any classes since April, and Fernando’s classes have also tapered off since Marco was born. Too tired after putting the boys to bed to pop in a CD or open up a workbook, occasionally we at least try to learn German by watching TV. But when the cheesy movie with the bucolic setting and the local news are too taxing to make much sense of, we either retreat to one of the two English language news channels (CNN and BBC) or, just turn off the TV.

Yet, despite the reduction in class time and studying, we do still hear German every day, often ask friends questions about it, and occasionally consult our dictionary. In fact, even in a state of exhaustion, it’s impossible to avoid learning a little German. These days, my learning comes primarily from drawing hypotheses about the language through Germans’ slightly “off” use of English. While Fernando will tell you about their enthusiastic use of the word “opportunity” to mean anything from “chance” and “prospect” to “vote”, the word that has struck me as particularly overused by Germans in English is “practical”. Translating from “praktisch”, these Germans use my language to call just about everything “practical”. While to me a portable umbrella is practical; to them, people, sweaters, events, classes, languages, jobs, cute hats, vacations, music, hotels, swing sets and even organic food can be described as practical. I might be exaggerating a bit, but “praktisch” embodies more than the English word “practical”. Whatever its definition, its connotation is extremely positive, and I dare say (remember this is just one of my unqualified hypotheses) reflects some highly esteemed German value.

At a Fall festival in a big park last weekend, we ran into a woman I knew from the International Women’s group. A Filipina married to a German, her English--however good it may have been while a student in Manila--is now filtered through German. (Side note: People with such language backgrounds, and we’ve met a few of them here, are often the worst offenders of saying funny German things in English). She took one look at our gleaming new Chariot bike carrier and commented approvingly that she and her family loved theirs because it was just so “practical”. Expensive, well-made, fun, and occasionally useful, sure… but practical? Alas, not really.

Indeed, getting around Hannover these days with two children has been the big challenge, the daily puzzle to be solved, a mini-accomplishment at the end of each errand, outing, drop-off, or play date. A “practical” mode of transport that would work in all situations is, in fact, our Holy Grail. At one time, we had thought that the Chariot might fit the bill. And although we get closer and closer with each purchase or acquisition, on any given day we still draw on several of the transport mechanisms described below to cart everybody around. Please consult our current catalogue.

Chariot Cougar 2 bike trailer. Red and silver with a black interior, this light- weight, Canadian two-seat child carrier attaches to the back of a bike. It costs almost as much, and is about as high tech, as a small car. With a custom Chariot infant seat installed on top of one of the regular seats, babies as young as Marco can sit alongside their big brothers.
Pros: Faster than walking. Keeps kids dry and warm. Leo likes to look out the “window” as we cruise along, and Marco gets lulled to sleep bouncing away in the infant seat.
Cons: Despite all the functional engineering and easy-to-use details, its large size makes it more difficult to stow away each day, and to use it requires time consuming “pit stops”--attaching and securing it onto a bike, locking and unlocking various bike locks, removing wheels, rolling up flaps here and there. No fun when the little ones are impatient (crying). Our most expensive possession, we are also afraid it will get ripped off.
Best for: longer distances, daycare pick up, looking affluent.

Chariot Cougar 2 stroller. At a slightly adjusted angle, the above bike carrier converts into a highly satisfactory double stroller, and even has a “jogger” option with a big center wheel.
Pros: The handle bar rests at a perfect length, steering is easy, and the ride is smooth.
Cons: often a little too slow-moving for Leo’s taste. A bit wide, and sometimes difficult to park and to maneuver through doorways.
Best for: very short jogs in the forest, trips to the playground, going anywhere when Leo is sick or when both kids want to be babies.
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Romer Jockey child bicycle seat. One of our best purchases during our first, “pre-Marco” year here, this German plastic bicycle seat is attached behind the bike seat. While some thrill-seeking mothers have both rear and front child seats secured onto their bikes, Romers are suitable only for older babies.
Pros: Faster to set up than the Chariot. No fear of theft. Can go anywhere and Leo always enjoys it. When shopping alone, big box of diapers fits perfectly into empty child seat.
Cons: Can only cart around one kid. Child gets almost as wet as you do when it’s raining.
Best for: Going places with only Leo.

Prémaxx baby sling. Dark red with orange accents, handy pockets, and ample padding, this well-constructed cotton sling of Dutch design looks like it should be comfortable for both parent and child. The process of inserting Marco inside the pocket and basically folding him in half tends to induce desperate cries for a few minutes, normally followed by a womb-like calm and then, sleep.
Pros: Produces womb-like calm and then, sleep.
Cons: $%!—Owee! My aching back, my irritated shoulder, my strained neck… this is supposed to be comfortable?
Best for: very, very short outings, when Marco refuses to lie flat in baby carriage, or when hands need to be free for older sib.

Baby Bjorn front carrier. Cotton, navy blue. Marco likes being strapped into this Swedish carrier with his belly against Mom or Dad’s chest.
Pros: Easier than sling. Adjustable for taller and fatter babies. Slightly less painful on parent’s back than sling.
Cons: Still, not all that comfortable for long periods. Can cause jealousy in older sibling. Difficult to stuff a warmly dressed baby through the smallish leg and arm holes.
Best for: Short distances, and for keeping hands free to cook dinner or to get the Chariot bike trailer set up.

Hartan baby carriage. This enormous German baby carriage--with genuine air tires, adjustable handle bar, ample storage space, and slightly tacky yellow and black gingham and striped fabric covering--is the standard way to transport a baby on this side of the pond. As German pediatricians advise leaving babies flat on their backs for the first year of life, these carriages are sold with a portable bed that allows baby to lie there passively, blinking up at the sky or, in Marco’s case, wailing at his inability to see anything beyond the dingy striped fabric of the so-called “carry bag”. I found this 4-year-old “Kinderwagen” on the internet and bought it off a Kazakhstanian family living nearby. I even haggled a bit and got the father to go down 20 euro on his listed price. Obviously ready to part with it, he also threw in a bicycle pump for the tires.
Pros: Very smooth ride and great suspension, even over cobblestones and bad sidewalks. Makes us feel a little less like foreigners, since the carriage is soooo German.
Cons: Can cause jealousy in older sibling and boredom in younger sibling. Takes up a lot of room on the subway and bus.
Best for: Medium distances (up to 20 minutes walking), errands with just Marco, and the Zoo with both kids.

Lascal Kiddy Board. This small (Swedish!) plastic board with two wheels attaches to the back of the baby carriage, and is just big enough for a toddler to stand on and thus be pushed along with the baby carriage. Probably the most expensive piece of plastic we ever bought, the first model took hours to install, and then promptly broke. The second most expensive piece of plastic we bought—a replacement for the broken one—is holding up better.
Pros. Leo can stand up rather than walk along or be carried while Marco is in the carriage.
Cons: Leo’s erratic interest in Kiddy Board. Some days it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen, other days, the mere sight of it makes him cry.
Best for: short to medium distances, like walking to the subway or going to the playground, and for whenever Leo is in the mood to be a “big boy”.

Combi “City Savvy” Stroller. Purchased in the U.S. at Babies R Us, this bare-bones Japanese model is essentially an umbrella stroller with a little more padding
Pros: Small, doesn’t take up much room
Cons: No storage space and difficult to steer.
Best for: short distances, like to the store or park when Leo insists on assuming Marco’s role as baby.

And, currently out of circulation… Other transportation devices that fill up our storage space and threaten to take over our weatherized terrace are… Babytime single jogger stroller, Hotsling sling, Chicco umbrella stroller, Kelty kid carrier backpack, Graco infant car seat, and Evenflo toddler car seat.

You must be thinking—why not add a (Korean?) car to the mix? Well, the answer is a long one, easily the subject of another entry. It’s a decent idea, though not as practical, or even as praktisch, as it might seem.

Pregnancy, German style

Monday morning, as I sat in the waiting room of my Frauenärztin, or women doctor’s office, it occurred to me that these prenatal visits have become part of my routine here in Germany, and not always a purely pleasant one. At that moment, for example, my face was a little flushed. Not from the embarrassment of having to make my way through the crowded office clutching my urine sample (I got used to that months ago), or from being weighed in a public room (ditto), but from the almost-as-standard slap on the wrist from one of the receptionists/nursing assistants, regarding one of my countless infractions at this clinic. This time, I had only a €50 bill on me to pay for an unexpected, €10 “office fee”. That I had nothing smaller—and that the assistants couldn’t make change--appeared to irritate them more than if I had refused to pay the fee. “Don’t forget to pay next time,” one of them said tersely, as she handed me my plastic white cup. “I NOT forget!” I assured her. A bit later, flipping through a copy of German Vanity Fair in the waiting room, I turned another shade darker, and sighed out loud. I forgot to bring the mesh netting! Even though they always have a big roll of this white material, which is used to secure the CTG stethoscope-like monitors on the belly to record the fetal heart beat, the assistants regard it as valuable, and expect you to return for each appointment with the same swatch. To an American like me, this feels roughly equivalent to being expected to return each week with the same plastic cup. Well, yesterday was my 5th CTG, and I had only remembered to recycle my mesh twice. As I feared, the assistant rolled her eyes when I told her I needed a new cut. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s all very different in America.”

Yes, between the U.S. and in Germany, there are lots of differences in prenatal care and in being pregnant in general. And while none of these differences has me worried about the impending birth of baby #2, they certainly have amused, bewildered, pleased, and sometimes irritated me.

Prenatal care
The best word to describe prenatal care here in Germany could be “thorough”. Whereas in Atlanta my typical check-up lasted five minutes and involved only a scale, a stethoscope, a measuring tape, and a condescending doctor with a bow tie, the pre-natal visit in Germany is much more elaborate, high tech and time consuming. I’ve had more ultrasounds than I can count, way more pelvic examinations than I had allotted for my lifetime, four separate blood tests for Toxoplasmosis (the disease spread by domestic cats), and numerous blood checks of my iron levels. And then there’s the bane of my existence, the CTG. After 20 weeks of pregnancy, each prenatal visit requires a 30-45 minute monitoring of the baby’s movement and heartbeat while the patient lies completely still on a cot. At first I tried to make Leo suffer through these ordeals, but not even Baby Einstein on the portable DVD player could keep him happy after the second CTG. Now I schedule appointments for when he’s at his daycare, and bring something in English to read. When I mentioned to the doctor that I had never had a CTG for my first pregnancy in the States, she seemed embarrassed and a little defensive. Since then I’ve heard that the usefulness of the practice is now questioned in the German medical community, but it remains standard procedure. But while they might be high-tech with their care, the general philosophy is, at the same time, very anti-modern medication. This aspect of my care didn’t surprise me, having been exposed to German pediatrics and administered Leo’s prescribed tinctures, fruit gels, salts and pomades for his kiddie colds and infections. For headaches- only water; for trouble sleeping- only warm milk; for a baby kicking too much at night- try a lullaby; for heartburn, eat almonds; for low iron, eat beets and drink a brown liquid called “herb blood”. Luckily I know about the effectiveness (in moderation, of course!) of acetaminophen, Tums, steak and yoga for these same pregnancy woes.

Pregnancy culture
In a word, pregnancy is “serious” to Germans. Though no native has confirmed this for me, I think this sentiment of stern respect reflects remnants of past political views on motherhood. While German women are no longer awarded medals for outstanding fertility as they were in Hitler’s day, the government does actively support the development of families through tax incentives, modest cash stipends that increase with each successive child born, and, in comparison to the U.S., very generous maternity leave options for women. Although Germans laugh about their country’s negative birth rate, these jokes are actually based on old statistics. The hosting of the 2006 World Cup boosted fertility rates by double digits, as did a recent change in a national law making it even more profitable to have kids. Now, Italy (yes, catholic Italy!) and Portugal lag behind their northern neighbors in reproductive terms. But although pregnancy may be serious in Germany, it is not idealized like it can be in America. When I was pregnant in the U.S. with Leo, not a day would go by without kind looks from a cashier at my bump, inquiries into my due date by people walking down the street, and even questions about the baby’s sex, probable name, and whether or not we were registered at Babies R’ Us. It seemed like we were all day-dreaming about the little treasure soon to be delivered by the stork. Here in Germany, on the other hand, not a single stranger has asked me ANY of the above questions, and nobody smiles at me for being pregnant. Rather, they’re more likely to avert their eyes if I attempt to make contact. Also, in Germany, pregnancy is not for the faint hearted—but then again, as Fernando and I are both learning, being German is not for the faint hearted. Painkillers and anesthetics during labor are frowned upon, and the epidural is the stuff of urban legends, said to cause paralysis, infant retardation, and death. Again, statistics tell a slightly different story: almost 30% of patients at the hospital we’ll be using in Hannover receive the epidural for pain management. But to the German mindset, natural childbirth is the only “real” kind. And to a significant minority of German women, the only really true childbirth is that which takes place at one’s own residence! Three women acquaintances here, all experienced in it, have tried to convince me of the benefits of a homebirth with a Hebammen, or midwife. Ummm, nice idea, but we’ll stick to the hospital.

Late prenatal and postnatal care
The situation seems good, and again, very different than in the States. Expecting mothers are required, by law, to leave their jobs six weeks before their due date, and then receive 80% of their salary for the next six months off (their spot at work is reserved for three years, a period called “Parents’ Time”, though only the 1st six months are paid leave). Granted I’m not in their situation, but six weeks to prepare or at least rest a bit before the birth would seem a welcomed gift. Then, once the baby is born, women here call up their personal Hebammen, who is kind of like a cross between a midwife and a home nurse. She visits daily for the baby’s first ten days to check on both mother and child, and then comes on request for eight weeks after that. The Hebammen, available to any new mother in Germany at no cost, is then required to maintain subsequent contact with the mother for as long as the baby is breastfed. I picked out my “free” nurse, Anja, from a little pamphlet and have met with her a couple times. She is young, enthusiastic, carries a black leather purse reminiscent of a country veterinarian, and speaks good English. Her biggest passion is delivering babies at home, a skill she honed through field work in Africa. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to be holding against me my wish to deliver in a hospital, and Leo was fond of her immediately. So despite these months of tedious appointments, misunderstandings at the receptionists’ desk, and no talk of baby names or shower gifts, we’re thinking, and hoping, that everything will turn out fine.