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.