The Battle of the Pox

The constant tap dance between transient, unclear boundaries is the unwritten law that permeates all aspects of la vie d'une fille au pair. The family you live with is your employer, your landlord, and all the while acting as your surrogate family while living thousands of miles and a major body of water away from friends, family and the only life you've ever know. Needless to say, things can get complicated.

Benji's chicken pox, for example, has been major point of contention in the house. Getting into his pyjamas Tuesday night, I noticed the first fateful red blister on his chest. My heart was breaking for him because he had his first grade holiday concert the next morning, as well as Marc's work's party for kids, sure to be amazing with its $300,000 budget...but obviously you can't send a contagious kid to school or a party with 400 other small children. I called Michelle, expecting a full-fledged panic response. She was shockingly calm, and didn't make a big deal of it. I was instructed to tell Benji that "we can't be sure it is chicken pox, it could be eczema or something else.....we just don't know." I understood what she was up to, wanting to send Benji to school for his concert regardless of his pox. She conspired with me later, asking, "Meggie what should we do, do you think we can let him go?"

Uhhhh......asking me as a friend, an employee or innocent bystander? Rationally I knew that it would be best to keep him home, but I knew the answer she wanted to hear. I replied, "Oh, I'm sure it's OK for him to go for his concert.....if he's contagious he's already been at school for 2 days and the other kids are gonna catch it anyways." Abandoning better judgement for the sake of my employers' motherly compassion.....it's all in a days work.

The party went off without a hitch, the kids were adorable, and thankfully Benji hadn't sprouted pox on any uncovered parts of his body. During the concert I was relegated to servitude, Michelle asking me, "if I wanted to take some video," which in au pair world means "you will spend the next 45 minutes crouched in the back zooming in on my sons potentially pocky face, because he is the most brilliant and wonderful child in this entire class, if not the entire world."

It wasn't until we got back to the house that the merde hit the fan. I trotted upstairs like a good little au pair, to make the requisite healthy lunch of steamed vegetables and rice. All of a sudden, histrionics hell breaks loose. Both kids screaming and crying, and Michelle yelling to Marc that "all kids get it sooner or later, just let him go to the god damn party!". The mood was tense when they all came upstairs, each teary eyed kid clinging to their respective parent. Then the firing squad turns on me. "Est-ce qu'il avait ces boutons ce matin? ( Did he have all these spots this morning?")

Rock, hard place, ME! To tell the truth and get Marc pissed at Michelle, and subsequently Michelle pissed at me? Or to lie to my boss in the name of keeping peace and order in the household? Call me a bad person, but I chose that latter. "Non, il avait seulment un ou deux, pas si beaucoup comme ça (He only had one or two, not a lot like now). My first lie to my employer/landlord/pseud0-father, out of necessity, loyalty and respect to my pseud0-mother... and hopefully the only mensonge I will be forced to tell for the entire year.

Down the rabbit hole

Through the security gates and heavy wooden doors of a multi-million dollar Lake view house, and down the rabbit hole to feeling like a freshly minted 13 yr. old adolescent I went. Friday night, Julie's au pair family invited her to "come down after the kids were in bed, and bring a friend if you like" to their party. The parents are true socialites in every sense of the word, and without a doubt, "everyone in Geneva would be there" (or at least every couple who have matching his and hers Porsche SUVS).

Trekking to their house in my American Eagle wool skirt, Polo shirt, and Ugg boots, I wondered just how out of place I would be. The string of luxury station wagons and SUV's (in a city where parking a Smart car is challenge....can you say Ost-en-tay-shuss?) leading to the house left me a bit surprised; these people actually drove themselves! Kudos to them, when certainly they could afford to employ a full-time chauffeur, for every man woman and child in their families.

Entering the party, I didn't get to mingle right away. Julie's seriously ADD 11 yr old kept escaping from his room to go downstairs and eat multiple bowls of rice, his flannel pyjamas, slippers, and hand down the back of his pants clashing with haute couture which permeated every room and every body within.

Kids finally to bed, the professional waiter (in full tux) mercifully poured us some booze (champagne for me, red wine for Julie). We sipped and chatted near the kitchen, lingering on the delicate threshold that divided server and socialite. We bounced back and forth trying to decide whether to take the plunge into la foule (crowd) of the intimidatingly rich, powerful and stylish, or to retreat to the safe haven of the kids' 3rd floor movie den.

Guess what won? The comfort of an overstuffed couch, a flat screen tv, and a dvd of Love Actually. We traipsed upstairs in the dark, taking solace and breathing a sigh of relief to be only each others' company, the rich and famous for the moment confined to 2-dimensions.

The only thing that would motivate us now to go downstairs: the mounds of chocolate mousse that we knew were hidden somewhere in the labyrinth of luxury. Pausing the movie we creeped downstairs, peeking our heads into the buffet room for signs of sweet, chocolatey goodness. To no avail; only now-cold gourmet thai and italian food rested in the elegant ceramic warming trays. We tiptoed back up stairs, trying not to call attention to ourselves, and restarted the film. A half hour later, it was time to try again. We padded into the buffet room, and again, nothing. Fed up, Julie went to the kitchen and asked Norma, their full-time housekeeper currently in an ACTUAL French maid's costume/outfit, if there was any dessert. "Si, Julie, vamo dehors" she responded in her mélange of Spanish, French, and Italian. Out on the patio, SUCCESS! Heavenly little cups of layered chocolate mousse with a dab of whipped cream on top. We each helped ourselves to one, plus a kiwi custard tart for the road, and creeped out.

Trying to avoid eye contact, sneaking off with my friend and a dessert to go watch a movie, I felt instantly like I was 13 again, at one of my parents' infamous soirées. The crazy thing is, back then, my own parents would have loved nothing more than to have all the children mingling with the adults and enjoying the party, never thinking for one second to put us to bed before the first guests arrived. Being 22 and almost a half, I thought I would have had more confidence to go and take part in the "adult" party, but found myself retreating to the familar comforts of childhood.

Maybe I'm not cut out for the "seen and be seen" crowd', or maybe I simply have yet to cultivate the necessary social skills to to feel comfortable among people I have absolutely nothing in common with, which I speculate is a very important career skill one needs to attain. But at least for now, a good movie, a great friend, and a dessert which combined chocolate AND peanut butter certainly trumps rubbing elbows with the rich, powerful, and almost surely superficial.

Life....Run With It!

The finish line!

Before the race....we are SWISS RUNNERS!

Happy and sweaty after 5.5k

Besides the obvious differences, like not being able to understand anything being announced, or the perilous, wonderous feeling of bumpy cobblestone underneath my brand new purple asics running shoes, I wasn't sure what to expect from my first 5.5K in a foreign country. Arriving on saturday afternoon, I made my way to the Baslerstadtlauf (after much contemplation have decided that this means Basel State Run) registration. Arriving in the Munsterplatz (cathedral square), there were all the normal trappings of any respectable race (giant Adidas blow up start gates, sponsor posters, gear tents), yet in Basel they contrasted with centuries old gothic architecture, stained glass, and tudor style 15th century homes. Race registration proceeded slowly yet efficiently (yay Swiss-Germans), and in no time I had my number bibs, safety pins, and nifty ear warming head bands with the name of the race.

A few hours later, after checking into the hostel on the way 0ther side of town, I found myself nervously jogging and stretching near the starting line. Waiting for my race to begin, I watched hundreds of gangly little girls take off sprinting, pony tails flying straight back, forming right angles with the ground from their vibrant gusto, speed and energy. This was truly a breath of fresh air, considering that in Geneva, I've only ever seen one group of little girls' practicing soccer, and telling other Swiss that I played since I was 5 results in the translated "Oh la la, you must be very masculine!" I breathed in the energy and excitement lingering in the air, stretched the final kinks out of my legs, and got ready to represent the Mitten in my (ok in KC's, but it's on loan) throw back Bad-Boys Piston's shirt. After the 3-2-1 countdown in German, which I won't even attempt to spell phonetically, I took off....and by took off I mean got stuck shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the pack. Once the crowd thinned out a bit, the run started off downhill, through the Marktplatz street where the finish would eventually be. There were thousands of people lining the streets, cheering "Hopp, hopp, hopp," with the occasional "allllllez," thrown in after. The course then started a climb through the city's historic old town, leveled out over a long bridge crossing the Rhine river, then back down again through the Marktplatz square. When studying the course map it looked like one big loop....but I completely lack any German literary skills, and therefore wasn't able to pick out the part which surely had said it would a two lap course. As I commenced the descent to the street we had taken off from, the dreadful "oh my God I have a whole other lap to go" feeling set in, but thankfully not for long.

Halfway across the bridge my legs started burning and getting very heavy, but I knew that once I had crossed it would be, literally, all downhill from here. Starting the descent to the finish line, I stuck out my chest and chin, pumped my arms, and let gravity and the cheers of HOPP, HOPP! do their work (all the while praying my feet would stay the course on those wobbly cobbles of stone). Happily my feet did not betray me, and I passed at least 10 people coming into the finish, and hit the stop button on my watch right as the race officials passed their paddle sensor over my bib to get my official race time. Instead of chip timing, where the plastic timing chips are connected to your shoelace, they have wires in all the race bibs which they scan as you come through the finish. I'm still debating which I prefer, having someone bending down ripping the chip off your shoe, making them a potential prime puke target, or nearly being socked in the stomach/boob with a bib sensor paddle. I continued through the finish to receive a finishers medal, a shoe bag, and a water bottle filled with some overly sugar laden drink that I promptly spit out, "fed to the street" as Julie, my running partner in crime would say (you'd think with the hundreds of drinkable fountains all over the city they would provide a little H20 but....). Leaving the race quarters, I was only mildly disappointed that there were no free bananas or bagels being handed out, as these would have made the perfect travelling breakfast/lunch/dinner and snack.

After the race, I wandered around looking for my friends in a loopy, happy, post-race daze. I felt like an excited little kid who had just got off her first rollercoaster, babbling with excitement about how fun it was. My time ended up as 28:34. In the past, I would have balked and berated myself for being too slow/too fat/too lazy, or any assortment of self disparaging comments about my "dismal" performance. And while certainly not my all-time 5K PR of 21:10, I'm taking my 28:34 and running with it, as a good baseline for a new PR. The PR of a woman who doesn't boggle the numbers of caloric mental arithmetic during the race, thinking about how many calories will be burned versus how many she has already consumed for the day. A time that is my personal best, and a self that is striving to be my personal best.... enjoying running for how it makes my mind and body feel, enjoying food for nourishment and energy, which lets me do all that I want to do, and enjoying my life that is rich and full, where the former two play a supporting role to the sweetness of relationships and a fulfilled, contented everyday existence.

3 sheets to the wind

After spending friday night alone in this old, creaky, 1700's farmhouse (along with frightening dreams of Jack the Ripper), I was none too pleased to descend the stairs saturday morning and hear loud, frightened screechy noises, coming from Flora's apartment. Two possibilities were flitting through my mind: either that a child was being tortured, or there was an angry cat behind the door. Luckily the second turned out to be true, although not so lucky for Flora's room. Apparently the cat jumped in through a small window in the kitchen, and then went ape-shit in her room....knocking over dishes, spilling bottles, and generally scratching the hell out of everything. I felt bad for not investigating more- I actually thought she was cat-sitting!

Fast forward to sunday- where one of the au pair families opened their home for me and 4 other girls to cook a "traditional American Thanksgiving," which was amazing and included all the staples (giant turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, sweet potato custard, cranberries, green bean casserole, and of course, pumpkin pie)- I returned home stuffed to the gills, and just passed out in my bed for a long Thanksgiving nap/sleep.

This morning, I woke up, took the boys to school, and came back for a powernap (napping does seem to be quite a theme for this blog...hmmmm). I woke up refreshed, rejuvenated, ready to start my day. I noticed my sheets smelled funny, and thought, "man, I must be sweating A LOT during the night...." I grabbed the duvet to remove the sheets, and then it caught my eye. Two dimpled, cylindrical little presents from the renegade cat, resting on my pretty pink sheets. I immediately went into panic mode- grabbed paper towel and disposed of the offending caca, as they would say here, then frantically tore off all my sheets and deposited them straight into the washer.

If nothing else, at least the kids (and Michelle) found this story hilarious, and now want me to tell it over and over again, getting particularly excited at the part where I am about to discover my "two little presents." Before I picked them up from school, I had taken my sheets from the dryer, leaving them in the laundry room so I could iron them later (another fun fact of European living- dryer's are small and nothing escapes unwrinkled). Me attempting to learn how to iron a sheet and duvet cover could practically be an entire entry in itself, suffice to say I almost scorched myself, my sheets, and Flora, as she was attempting to position my body and arms into the correct motions to help me succeed in making my sheets less wrinkly than before they came out of the dryer. After dinner I went into the laundry room, prepapred for battle, and was confused when I didn't find the sheets hanging from the line where I had left them. I looked around for a second, until my eye caught the neatly folded pile of red, blue, and pink fabric resting on the ironing board.

I picked them up, still damp from the steam, and breathed in the fresh, laundered scent. Flora had already had 3 loads of clothes to wash, dry, iron and put away, not to mention the rest of the cleaning and cooking she does everyday. Yet she still found time to do me a favor, to save me an hour of time and possible serious bodily harm. Even though for her it probably took a mere 5 minutes, that was still 5 minutes of her time in an incredibly busy day, that she spent doing something to make my life a little bit easier.

Touched and grateful, I remember that mere hours ago these were the sheets I wanted to burn. Now they hold a sweet memory which will be cherished every time I lay in my bed, and am reminded that no matter how busy or stressed I am, that going a small bit out of your way for someone else can really brighten their day- even if their day didn't start with their head in the litter box!

A Day in the Life of Meggie Poppins

6:55am: My body now wakes me naturally at this time, 5 minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Truly a welcome change from earlier on in the year, when I would awake many times in the night, panicky and sweating thinking I was late, would start to dress then realize it was 4am. Although recently, with the kids sick every other two days, I frequently wake up, straining to hear the dreaded sounds of kids crying in the middle of the night, somberly accepting the inevitable, that any plans will be broken in favor of taking care of, more often than not, kids who are only sick by overprotective au pair-family standards (ie- cough=possible hospital visit and 2 days off of school)

7:10am: Lie in bed with my eyes closed, eeking every last possible second of rest under my cozy comforter. Wait until signs of life are heard from the kids, then proceed to jack-in-the box out of bed, throw on pants and a t-shit, slip into my crocs (the Suisse have this thing about ALWAYS wearing slippers or "house shoes," very odd and unexplainable), and get the morning started. Porridge making, old-fashioned style on the stove follows, and after my good morning scream of "BOOOOOO" from Toby and Benji, I proceed to prod and nag until they've gotten dressed, then dole out the porridge, feeling like the orphanage director in Oliver with his big pot of steaming gruel.

8am: Getting ready to leave for school, I bundle the kids up "A Christmas Story" style (I am eagerly awaiting the day when Benji will yelp, "I can't put my arms down!"). Walk/drag the kids across the street to Toby's school, say goodbye, and run to catch the Tram to get Benji there by 8:15. There is a high school or collège just down the block from Toby's école, so I am getting really good at offensive line blocking for Benji, one elbow out forging a pocket through the masses of smoky European teenagers, the other holding on to little Benji for dear life.

8:30am: After helping Benji take off his coat and put on his slippers (it is SO weird), I breathe a sigh of relaxation that the "morning shift" is done. Come home, have a caf'é or three), toast & jam, and some amazing bi hazelnut yogurt, which I have to hide in the back of the fridge just in case Benji ever decided to scour the house in search of some allergic dairy delights.

8:30-3:00pm: Ahhhhh, free time (well at least on M, T, and TH). How this wonderful, gaping void in my day gets filled depends on how aambitious I'm feeling. Somedays, it's straight for a run after breakfast digests, then cleaning, errands and possibly some reading to boot. I try to make most days of the "ambitious" genre; it leaves for less time to be homesick, and question my decision to be here in the first place. But other days (maybe once once, ok twice a week), I head straight back into my bed after breakie, my sheets and blanket still retaining the night's glorious warmth. You might think, whoa what a lazy ass!! And to be honest, a lot of times I think that too. But I'm graduated from college, and the world of 6am to 6pm work looms on the horizon. This may be the last time in my life where I am free to take a morning nap, and I am damn well gonna take advantage of it.

3:00-6:00/7:00: Back on Duty, I brave the crowd of "International Mommies," who look like they've jumped straight from the pages of Glamour to the playground, to pick up Benji from school. Nearly ever day after school we head to Coop (FYI, not as in chicken-coop, but co-OP, with French accent of course), the Swiss version of Kroger's. Michelle's system of having me, who doesn't actually do any of the cooking, order the groceries results in things constantly being forgotten and needing to be bought. Therefore, I am practically on a first name basis with the entire Coop afternoon checkout staff. Groceries successfully purchased, we pick up Toby, then head back to the house to do homework and play until the parents get home. Theschedule on the wall says 6pm, but I don't think there has been a day yet when they have been home before 6:30.

6:30-11:00pm: Once Michelle comes home, the curtain is drawn and my jazz hands ready. I recount any information/gossip I've learned at the school, and over-enthusiastically recall any cute, smart or funny anecdotes I've heard from Benji or Toby. This part of the day I actually detest the most. So much of it just seems so fake, because when I am done I really want to be done. Having to hang around and act like I am thrilled to discuss how amazing Benji did at his reading, or how incredible it was that Toby wiped his own butt is NOT how I want to spend the first precious moments of my night. I really am growing to love Toby and Benji, but they're not my kids, and small doses are preferable to ensure that I don't OD on them before the year is up. But I don't want to be completely negative about the family, because 95% of the time I really feel incredibly lucky that I have such intelligent, cool, and down-to-earth employers/friends. A friend of mine, who for top-secret au pair purposes shall remain unnamed, works for a woman who holds a university degree, yet spends her days getting her hair done, going to "gymnastics" (aerobics), and setting the table for her dinner parties two days in advance. And while I can't always related to the latest gossip from international development circles, or to strategizing political career manoeuvres, at least I am being exposed to interesting and different lives I would never have gotten the chance to know about, had I not taken the chance and moved across the ocean. So after the (always amazing) dinner, I will chat with Michelle and Marc (thankfully usually not about kid stuff), then go and e-mail, read, or watch some illegally downloaded Grey's. Pretty normal stuff actually, almost akin to what I would do at home.

I've been rather melancholic and introspective as of late, thinking about the fact what I do here isn't all that different from home, and worrying that I'm not, as planned, "figuring out what I want to do for the rest of my life." But on an evening run the other day, de-stressing after having all my plans ruined and staying home with a not-sick-sick Toby, I was thinking about how years from now, if I look back on this year and all it was was the year I au pair-ed in Switzerland, ran my first marathon, and made some friends from all around te world, it's ok. I won't lie, I had high hopes that I would have an epiphany and realize my purpose and calling in life, or at least meet the the man of my dreams.....but if not, I'm becoming OK with this year being exactly what is: my year living la vie d'une fille au pair.

Trippin'

The "Bern Bear", canton emblem Rooftop view from the cathedral--doesn't nearly do it justice!
Les filles
Bears in a bear pit

Saturday morning through Sunday night was devoted to travelling and seeing Switzerland. The cities we hit were Bern, the capital, and Luzern, a medieval town in the midst of the mountains and next to a beautiful lake. Words can hardly express the beauty, history and quaintness of everything seen and experienced, though I can recap some of the highlights. For Bern, the weather was warm, crisp and gorgeous, the perfect day for walking and site seeing. The streets were uneven cobble stone, along with the rows of houses and their rooftops which just never quite met at a right angle, yet were orderly in that uniquely (Swiss) German way. An amazing Gothic cathedral dominated the city-scape, with a breathtaking view of the rooftop terraces to reward the 400 plus steps you climbed to reach the top. The clock which supposedly spurred Einstein's development of the theory of relativity was an impressive structure, but wholly anti-climatic in its hourly chime (no cuckoos, booohoo).

More random highlights from Bern included the ascent to the Rosengarten, where we crossed path with thousands of (really cute) goats being led to high pastures, the only caveat being the plethora of tiny piles of goat poo that are surely forever embedded in my shoes. In the rose gardens we were attempting to take a photo of ourselves, when a (cute) guy offered to take it for us. This inital 5 second exchange turned into a half hour conversation with him and his friend, both adorable even if reeking of alcohol and still in their going out clothes from the night before, and ended in plans to meet in Luzern later that night.

Very appropriately, Bern ended with a visit to the bear pits. Exactly as they are described, sunken cement pits where bears roam and are gawked at by tourists. The bears looked so resigned and so tranquil, I pondered aloud," what would happen if you fell into the pits?" Mel, my pink-haired engineer friend replied, "they'd probably play with you!" Au contraire. This morning Julie informed me that last year, a man committed suicide by jumping into the pits and being mauled to his death by the bears. Sidethought: am really thinking of sending a picture of the bear pits, the official emblem of Bern (a bear, of course), and the bear-suicide story to Stehpen Colbert for a nasty Halloween fright. Maybe I'd even get the Swiss capitol relegated to the "wag of the finger" side of wag of the finger/tip of the hat. Just a thought.....

That night we hopped on a train to Luzern, checked into our hostel, and met up with Alex, the guy from the Rose gardens, and his friends. They were all dressed nicely, and probably had been planning on going to a club or bar, but upon first sight our intense backpacker scrubbiness immediately deterred them from attempting t0 go anywhere even semi-classy. So instead we took wine, beer, and of course my pink nalgene bottle filled whiskey and diet coke, and sat on a bench by the lake and talked. We recounted our tales of "au pairing," crazy families, and school aged kids expecting someone to wipe their ass for them. They talked about their perceptions of America and Americans: how friends that have visited say that everyone is so fat, "like over 300 kilos!," of how much they hate "BUUUSH," and asking us to please make sure that he doesn't stay in office any longer. Not a late or crazy night, but the whole experience of meeting random people in a park, then meeting up and drinking with them while learning about a different culture is the epitome of backpacking. Très agréable, in my opinion.

Unfortunately the next morning we woke up to a steady drizzle of rain, and clouds blocking the view of the mountains. But still we forged (dragged) on to see a museum with lots of Picasso's work, a famous bridge with painted panels in the roof (described to us by one of our new friends as, "the one that all the Japanese tourists take pictures of"), 3 gorgeous churches, and the medieval city wall and Ramparts. By 6:55, when the train departed, we were all thoroughly exhausted and content at seeing two amazing cities in 2 days.

On the train ride home, we kicked up our smelly feet for an hour or so, but eventually had to let some people sit down next to us. Luckily they were cool and French speaking, busting out meat, cheese and wine, and evident "joie de vivre." Mel and I are both obsessed with learning/speaking/listening to French as much as possible, so we eavesdropped into their conversation, then decided to join the locals and polish off the rest of our bottle of wine, thus bidding santé (cheers) to well-spent weekend.

Shalom Shabbat

Flora and I in the midst of Hurricane Challah

Shalom shabbat, means "peace be with you for the day of rest," although my part in the staging of it was anything but peaceful! Friday afternoon I took on the role of Jewish housewife, and spent the better part of my afternoon making challah, the sweet bread for the start of shabbat. My first attempt ever at making bread was, of course, not without debacle. For starters, I freaked out because I couldn't find enoug yeast, called Michelle at work, and felt like an idiot when she guided me to its location, literally right under my nose. After soaking the new-found yeast in water, adding egg, sugar, butter and over a kilo of flour, the dough tasted good, but was incredibly sticky due to the olive oil, used out of necessity since we (of course) were out of what it called for (vegetable oil). I stuck my hands into the bowl, "punched" it down as the recipe called for, and got ready to braid it into the traditional three strands.....but removed my hands with nearly all the dough clinging to my digits!! I was thanking god at this point when Flora walked up, and was able to help me add flour to the dough to render it less gooey, something I am pretty sure Benji or Toby wouldn't have been able to do (they lost interest after they got to lick the bowl). It was a huge flour-y, doughy mess in the kitchen, but we emergedvicrotious over the tenaciously sticky Challah. Into the oven and half an hour later I hear Flora scram, "Maggy-eee, come see the challah!" Flashbacks of putting the wrong soap in the dishwasher and the subsequent foam party in my kitchen sent a knot to my stomach, as I imagined the horrified look on Michelle's face if she came home to over-yeasted dough emanating from her oven. I sprinted to look.....but alas, SUCCESS! The challah was a lovely golden brown color, hollow when tapped, and had filled the room with a sweet, pungent odor. Perfect, the only caveat being that it was monstrouslyovergown, 4x the size of a normal loaf!

Toby goes to an intensely Jewish school (which Marc and Michelle chose for its proximity to the house, not religiosity), and is obsessed with all things Jewish. So for him, Marc and Michelle try to do as many traditions of Shabbat that a "real" Jewish family would, even if we were are having daire and meat on the same plate. The children and the mother lit a candle together, the boys and men all work yarmulkes, and the kiddush, a decorative narrow metal cup was passed around for everyone at the table to drink from. We dug into the delicious challah, and I thought about how cool it was to be fulfilling my secret childhood wish to be Jewish (even if it was only for an hour). I wanted to stand out, be different......plus, I had watched the Rugrats Passover special about a hundred times, and was obsessed with "Molly's Pilgrim," an afterschool special about a 10 yr. old Jewish Russian immigrant who showed up all the snobby girls by being awesome at gymnastics (to my 8 yr. old eyes, the absolute epitome of cool). For me the shabbat dinner was more than just interesting and scrumptious, it appeased and evoked the desire of my curious school-aged self to stand out from the crowd, and to learn ways of life much different from my own.

Sitting at the table after dinner, full and happy from some amazing red wine, Michelle proclaimed, "this was great. The homemade challah was sooo much nicer than the (of course bio) store bought kind. We should do this every friday." Surely she only made this satement not having seen the state of trauma her kitchen had endured mere hours earlier, not knowing how much challah dough her children had greedily consumed.

The only fitting way to end this story, and to express my opinion on any future challah making endeavors....OY!

Mixed mushroom risotto

Not to be pathetic, but sometimes my main motivation to get through the day is knowing what's planned for the nights dinner. Sure, I can throw together a mean tuna sandwich and spinach salad, but knowing that come 7:00 pm I will get to sit down to an amazingly delicious hot meal can really motivate me to get that run in, or to not lock myself in my room during the all too common temper tantrum.

So I'm sure you can understand why come Friday night, I was half devastated when Marc called to say that him and the boys would be leaving for Chamonix immediately when he got home, and could I please tell Flora (their housekeeper) that she wouldn't need to make dinner.

The menu for the night was cauliflower soup, and mixed mushroom risotto. Already having bought over 15 francs of dried and fresh mushrooms for the recipe, I decided to ignore my almost complete lack of cooking skill and attack the mushroom risotto, head on. I asked Flora if it was difficult, and she said, in her cute Filipino accent "no, this one, it is easy!" I read it through and had a few questions, (how the hell do you peel a leek??) and Flora asked if I would like her to stay and teach me to cook. I told her, "no, I'll be fine on my own," but as I attempted to soak the dried mushrooms, turned my back for one second and had porcini mushroom water all over the stove, it became apparent her assistance would be needed. I think she took me on as a bit of a charity case, her traditional views rendering the situation a dire one....... "MaggYEE, you need to learn to cook, because one day when you will be having a husband, you will need to know!"

For the next hour, we peeled leeks (it's really not that hard, and they are delicious!), sauteed garlic and chopped mushrooms. I also learned about her children, her life, and as Bill Clinton would say "her story." She worked for 2 years in Kuwait for a royal Sheik's family, with 7 (!!) other Filipinas who were on their staff. 7 in the morning until 7 at night, they worked cleaning the house/palace, and "caring"for the children....which included being blackmailed by them to cover up their forbidden trysts. Until one time when they went on holiday to France, and she was able to run away in the night! She has been in Geneva for 7 years, taking care of children and working for different families, most of them crazy (one woman who would follow her around, dragging her index finger on every surface she had just cleaned, searching for any last traces of dust). Three of her children still live in the Philippines, and one in the U.S. Her daughter who lives in the U.S. met her husband through the internet...they emailed, he came to the Philippines once, and decided he would marry her. She still supports her 3 children (who all have their own children) her niece, her nephew, and her alcoholic husband who just had to have liver surgery. I was sitting in aww at how someone, who probably doesn't make very much money in the first place, could support 6 adults as well as herself. She told me, "MaggYEE, it is hard. When I want to buy something nice for myself I hold it up and think, will my grandchildren get enough to eat??"

This to me is unthinkable. I looked at the steaming pot of nearly-ready mixed mushroom risotto and thought about the incredibly elaborate nutrition it contained. I thought about the Paris Hiltons of the world, and how one could spend $100,000 on a single shopping spree, when people are going hungry, and much worse. I thought about my own situation living abroad, being teased by my family about how I would surely end up squashing grapes in a basement, à la Bart in the Simpsons. I thought about how I laughed it off, because I knew that if things got really bad, I could hop a plane and be home to comfort, luxury and love in the morning.

Hearing Flora's story, having to escape from a horrible working situation to find another that would be only slightly better, made me take an internal inventory and realize just how lucky I am. Hearing how the other half lives, having a house, a yard, 3 cars, a hot tub, a pool and a dog makes me seem like a Sheik (or the female equivalent) in my own right. Lucky too, in getting to meet someone raised literally in a different world. Knowing women will voluntarily go as "mail order brides" to try and better their lives is a good reminder to not get too comfortable or wrapped up in my own life, and lose sight that people are suffering, everywhere and everyday.

My first attempt at "real" cooking turned out pretty damn good. The rice was al dente (ok that's italian but it still gets italics), the mushrooms were juicy, and the garlic flavor was perfectly balanced, not too strong but still pungent. But I know it only turned out so highly delicious bbecause of the gracious help of someone who has made a job of cooking others' meals since she was 16 yrs old.

Part of me feels blessed that I am lucky enough to be 22 years old, and still such a bad cook.

Toby

Toby, the boy in the box.

So many words to describe him, the most accurate that come to mind being delightful and maddening, lovable and exasperating, all at the same time. When I arrived he was curious but ambivalent about me, mostly copying his brother and telling me about their toys, and singing their favorite chanson, "One little caca, floating in the water.....Two little cacas, floating in the water... " (you get the idea, they're going through a poop phase). But after the novelty of my presence in his house both wore off and sank in, that I actually was, in fact, staying, he was progressively more ornery and resistant to me and anything I asked him to say or do. Unbeknowst to me before my arrival, Toby had been cared for by Flora, the family's housekeeper, ever since the day he was born. Kids are incredibly perceptive, and Toby picked up on the "transition" from Flora to me as their primary caretaker, and became ever more difficult. For the entire time that I've been here, Toby has been obsessed with "collecting newspapers for Flora" everytime we go on the tram. At first this completely puzzled me, until one day I saw Flora looking at the newspaper classifieds saying, "Oh lala, I need to find work, it is so hard in Geneva to find work." Obviously, Toby got the message, and wanted/s to do everything he can to aid his beloved Flora. Unfortunatly, that has has put me in the unfavorable position of evil usurper in his wide eyes...needless to say not the greatest way to start off in a new family.

Little by little, things have gotten easier. But it has been a slow process, and I know he still hasn't fully warmed up to me. My asking him to put his pyjamas on, or telling him that he can't have "toast bread" (as Flora and therefore the kids call it) for breakfast will usually no longer result in a full-fledged screaming tantrum, but with Toby you can never be sure. He can be mean and vicious to, and his "best of" reel includes: "I will cut off all your hair and put you in the sea," "I will take you back to the aeroport," "Je vais te tuer" (I'm going to kill you) and the most recent "I will send you to go back where you came from, I'll send you back to Michigan!!" When he starts with his threats, I am struggling between laughing and feeling like a faux-pair. But at least I don't get his worst threat, which he reserves for Michelle: "I'm going to throw you in the sea and the piranhas will eat you all up!"

And then are the (more rare) times when he is an adorable little koala bear, shimmying up the "trunk" to give big bear hugs and bisous. So lovable and happy, his body limp like a little rag doll flopping in your lap, I feel loved and lucky that I get to be part of such an amazing little kids life. So much energy, so much creativity, so genuine and innately happy. It's contagious, and being around Toby when he's noe un petit monstre is an uplifting elixir to the soul.

Watching him on my floor play with a box for the entire duration of this post, happily chatting and curiously asking questions (always to be followed with a "why," and then anothe), fill me with fondness, warmth and memories of my own childhood, and remind me of how much I was (and still am) loved and missed.

I don't think I'll ever find amusement out of scooting around in a box again, but watching Toby play, and delightfully proclaim "Look Meggie I have a new bottom!!" makes me happy to think that once upon a time I was small and full of wonderment, squealing with joy in a new found square derrière.

Spanning cultures with a can

Getting out the dessert plates for our fruit salad last night, Michelle said, "Right, I think we definitely need some whipped cream." My eyes glimmered. Anyone who knows me will know why, and if you don't then let's just say I never exactly grew out of my childhood can-to-mouth whipped cream spraying phase, and could devour a can toute seule (by myself), and still go back for more.

But my hope faded when she didn't open the fridge and search the upper shelves for that magical metal can. Instead she asked me to run downstairs for the real variety....she actually consumed whipped cream as it's description implies: cream that is whipped, not the gas propelled chemical variety that I know and love.

As the food processor was whirring, I told her about the Redi-whip American variety, and how someday we'll have to have it so she can try what I know and love as "whipped cream." She gave me a quizzical look and replied, "I know that, we have it here too. It's just that if we are going to have it, we have to plan ahead."

Utter confusion on my part, yet she continued.

"We have to have it on a night where we all eat together, and preferable have guests. That way there won't be any leftover to tempt us. I could easily eat the whole can by myself."

No wonder me and Michelle get along so well, we both have the "whipped cream binge" gene. I burst out laughing, telling her that I am exactly the same way. I feel relieved that other women, especially successful, smart, professional women, have also finished an entire can in one sitting (or standing). I think to the time when I went for a bike ride, with the sole purpose of stopping at Krogers to buy my favorite brand, and promptly returning to reward my exercise with some fluffy goodnes. I feel like less of a freak knowing there are other women (probably from every continent) who have in some way or another engaged in exactly the same behavior.

And being reassured of that simple knowledge is more comforting than 10 cans could ever be, knowing no matter where you are or what you do, you're not alone.

Heidi for a day

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiicola!

It's great...to be...a Michigan Wolverine! (errrrrrr...cow)

Bar-in-a-dog....WOOF!

Mel, Julie and me


After staying up late on friday night, watching Eurotrip while gorgin on Italian coco puffs dipped in Nutella, we (myself, Julie from U of M, and Mel the pink haired engineer from Colorado) woke up at the butt-crack of dawn to go into the mountains, and watch the festival of Desalpe. It takes place in the mountain village of St. Cergue, and is the day when farmers move their cows from the summer high paturages, to lower ones for the winter.

We boarded the train with another sprinting finish, after unsuccessful attempts to navigate Geneva public transportation in the wee hours (buses just don't show up! I wonder if the driver slept through his alarm....). We changed trains in Nyon, another city on the lake, and then took a little red train up the mountain. Sitting on that train, you could definitely tell its destination was a tourist attraction: out of 50 or so people in our car, the only language I heard being spoken was English!

Arriving in St. Cergue, we walked the main street and checked out the vendors (mainly cheese, baked goods, and handicrafts), wondering what time the parade would start. We ventured down a hill and tasted absinthe cookies (YUCK!), and saw a whole cow being roasted on a spit! (But really, what better way to celebrate les vaches then to slaughter, roast and eat one while its brothers and sisters are walking past....MOOOOOO?!?)

Suddenly, we heard commotion from up the hill on the main street...the cows were coming! We took off sprinting, fishing through purses to assume camera ready position at the top. We reached the main street just in time to get a couple charming shots of cow ass, completely missing out on their flower crowns, elaborate bells and adorable faces. At this point I was thinking, "god this is like the tour de France, everyone makes a huge deal over it and it passes before you can blink or get a photo!" Needless to say, I was starting to get a little pissed that I'd forfeited one half of my precious sleeping in days.....

Thankfully several more herds of cattle descended through the streets. They were really cute, *almost* enough to offset the noxious smell permeating the fresh mountain air. My favorite was the one with the maize and blue couronne (I definitely had the urge to run out and play the "da da da, da da da da da da, da da da da da ...GO BLUE cheer on a REAL cow bell, but I was able to restrain myself), and the one named Kristoph (shout out to KC, love ya cuz'!), which was beautifully embroidered into his bell collar. The other highlight was that the "Friends of Bernese Mountain dogs" club was there, and no less than 20 beautiful black, white and borown pups that reminded me so much of my little Kodi baby. One group had even decorated their dogs with flowers, and had them pulling carts with little kids in the back through the village streets (SO adorable!). There was also a St. Bernard that made Kodi (120 lb. Newfoundland) look like one of Paris Hilton's lap dogs, with a traditional wooden water barrel around its neck. When I went to pet it, I heard its owner telling someone that "c'est l'alcool dedans.... (there's alcohol inside), and that they were handing out to the farmers as they walked their cows down the mountain!

At this point the streets were "toutes mouillées" (all wet) and practically covered in muddy cow pie. Julie and me both got hit with "souvenirs" from our bovine friends, mine splattered right across my Michigan sweatshirt (maybe the cow crap gave them a little extra oomph to beat the golden gophers??) Oh well, at least I only had jeans and a hoodie on.....a wave of perverse pleasure washed over me in seeing a woman who tried to make bermuda shorts with heels work at the cow festival, and had splatterings of cow dung all over the bottom half of her legs, not to mention little piles stuck in cocentric circles around the point of her heel.

The rest of the day was for napping and bumming around, since the family went to Chamonix for the weekend. I spent some time looking for flights home over Christmas, and actually found one at a decent price, which means I now have a tough decision to make, and quick. I need to make a list of all the pros and cons, and start deciding STAT. But today is a cloudy, rainy day...and some thé, le canapé, and the Fountainhead are calling my name. Important decisions to be made plus tard.

Do the HOOKY pokey

I rolled out of bed at 7am like normal, pulled on my gauchos and went to make the morning porridge (on the stove of course, microwaves being explicitly shunned from the household). I look, up and there's Michelle in her night gown. My heart sinks, I know what's coming next. "Benji's sick. He woke up at 6am saying he hurt all over. I gave him some medicine and a few minutes later he was fine. But you know, something's going around so he should stay home from school." Oh sweet self-justification.

A few minutes later, Benji appears in the kitchen, and happily and matter-of-factly explains he's not going to school. Gets dressed, eats, then goes upstairs to get his slippers. I hear some pounding, and Benji telling Michelle, "Mummy watch how good I can skip!" More pounding, then seconds later Toby wakes up, realizes Benji isn't going to school, and immediately starts up with intense histrionics. This all continues for a good 15 minutes, then once Toby is calmed down, Benji starts up again because he doesn't want to play his violin. Then like clockwork, Toby is screaming again because Marc wanted him out of the room while they were practicing. Meanwhile I am in the middle of this temper-tantrum tornado, trying to hold back my own tears from being so overwhelmed by all the chaos, and being so disappointed/pissed off that I have to cancel my plans for the day (hiking with another au pair friend then meeting with a random guy she met to practice french), and work 7 hours without pay.

My own waterworks finally kicked in while I was writing an email to my mom. Thinking back to when I was in elementary school, I don't remember EVER getting to stay home for 10 minutes of a transient stomachache. My own mom was pretty hard to convince that you were sick, the criteria mainly being throwing up, high fever or some kind of rash. I hated that she was so tough, but tangible evidence was her baseline criteria. Of course this caused lots of morning debate in deciding you were going to stay home, and on some occasions saw the arsenal of my acting skills deployed in full force. But still, I liked school, and don't think I missed for than 3 or 4 days a year.

That's why this new environment is so challenging to me, because my own upbringing was based on a "least restrictive environment" philosphy I was allowed to do things (ie-not wear a hat outside for fear of sun cancer, stay up late with my parents, and look after my self from a pretty young age) that I can't see my charges doing until they've moved out for college. My own upbringing was extremely laissez-faire, while my new environment is meticulous, calculated and protective, and I have a hard time understanding and believing in it.

And for the icing on the cake.....Benji asked when we could watch T.V. ("because mummy said so," in extemely whiny tone). I said we are going to wait until Toby gets home, and he stated, "well, I get to choose because I am sick." I told him that "No, we are all going to decide together on what to watch. And now you are going to write your numbers 1-20."

No sooner had I closed my mouth from this last sentence, he had already begun clenching his stomach and squealing, "Oww owww the tummy ache is coming, back, I need to go lie down on the canapé (couch)."

6 years old and mastered the art of playing hooky. Touché, kid, that must be some kind of record.

Faire la fête

I'm wondering who thought, "hey let's drink pure alcohol then spit it at fire?"

Les filles au pairs!



Sing this blog entry to the tune of Tom Petty's "American Girl." I'll start you off:
"Oh yeah, alright,
Take it easy baby
Make it last all night (make it last all night)
She was
An American girl."

This song perfectly fits the tone of my weekend, the mini-trip to la fête des vendanges, a festival to celebrate the harvest of wine-making grapes. Upbeat, fast-paced, hopeful, and more than a little naive. It also helps that a pretty amazing wine-infused rendition was performed in our hostel, singing impromptu karaoke along with the portable ipod speakers on the bed.

The trip started in grand fashion, complete with dramatic sprinting entrance to the "voie"(platform) right as the train pulled up. After the hour ride to Neûchatel, we arrived at la gare and realized how crazy the festival actually way. Screaming, drunken teenagers surrounded us on all sides, and it was only 9:30! Of course we had to find our hostel first, which turned out to be no easy task. The trainstation was on top of a steep hill, and upon first descent I was kicking myself for deciding on my adorable, hot-pink wheely suitcase. Cobble stone, steep hills, and throngs of intoxcated youth...yeah, backpack would have been the smart decision. Finally arriving (or shall I say dragged by my out of control, rolling valise) at the main street, we realize we have no clue where to go. Armed with only the hostel address, we ask one man, who in turn asks an older couple, who proceed to telephone the hostel, and walk us there through the crazy masses of people! I was in complete shock by such an amazing random act of kindness, that I barely even noticed that I was whacking people with my suitcase every 2 seconds as I attempted to navigate la foule (crowd) and the cobblestone. Speaking French all the way (yay!), we finally arrived at our destination and bid au revoir to these nice people, complete with the Swiss "three point bise" (kiss on the cheek 3 times).

We arrived at the hostel to find our funkily decorated attic room missing beds-- we were to sleep on matresses on the floor, 2 inches apart from each other, with a mere curtain to separate them! To our (shock, intrigue, I'm still not sure what is was) we found 7 Caribbean-French guys and 1 girl also in the room, some sitting at a table drinking/smoking, some sleeping in their curtained pseud0-rooms. After I got over my intial, horrified thought ("oh my god what if these guys sleep naked, and toss and turn in their sleep") we chatted with them in french, and found out they were a DJ/dance group from Martinique, here especially for the Fête! We drank Martiniquais rum and red bull, and were taught the Martinique way to say "cheers" (San-TAY-o, the french way with a different accent). I also smoked some MJ with them, I figure when French-Caribbean musicians offer, you must accept.

Going out that night was fun, yet really overwhelming. The streets were wall to wall people (especially drunken teenagers, there were SO many of those), with different music playing everytime you turned a new street corner. Scents of every kind of ethnic food imaginable waft through the air, while confetti was thrown at you nearly every 5 seconds (one of the trademarks of this festival). It was a completely engrossing, multi-sensory experience. We drank some wine (I had found 20 francs on the ground so of course I bought), and soaked in the sights, sounds, and smells until 3am.

Saturday was for sleeping in, exploring the the street vendors, and eating sinfully delicious food. I had an amazing Gauffre, a sweet waffle with nutella and incredibly thick Chantilly (whipped cream). We all went out bought groceries, and had an amazing dinner of bread, cheese, pasta with leeks and zuchinni, and of course, wine :o) We ate, drank, and were merry in the hostel, then took our party to the streets. We maneuvered throngs of people, danced when there was a good beat, and did our own renditions of a number of long forgotten yet loved songs. I found kindred spirits in these girls who also loved musicals, and we all broke out in unison with "Any Dream Will Do," from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. I was flooded with wonderful memories of when I was 9, and got to miss school to go with my mom's class to see the play. I had memorized the entire CD then, yet hadn't listened to the songs in over 10 years. But apparently the lyrics were tucked away in the recesses of my memory, and I belted it out right there on the dock of the lake with the best of em'. It's funny how you can forget of things you once loved, and rediscover them with nearly the same intensity a full decade later....

The rest of the night included drunken bumper cars, more dancing, and of course finishing off our leftovers once we were back at the hostel. Sunday was uneventful, except for the amazing chocolate eclair and cappuccino I had for breakfast before heaving back to Geneva.

As a matter of fact, since it was also Toby's 4th birthday sunday, I had dessert for breakfast lunch and dinner that day. A fitting sweet ending, to the extremely rich main course of the weekend.

Bull in a china shop

What is it about Europe that causes me to be incredibly awkward at nearly all times of the day and night? Everyday, I go about my business making des bêtises (blunders) like it's my (2nd) job. First off, there's the damn electricity. I have a hairdryerwith the European pins, yet if I ever nudge it on past low power, POOF there goes a fuse. Result: scraggly, frizzy, semi-dry hair that never looks stylish and has cowlicks galore. I've worked painstakingly hard over the past year and a half to recreate the beautiful, long, "made from spun gold" (as my grandma used to say) hair that was mine before it was sheared by a scissor-happy stylist. But I'm finding that long hair and Europe are not a match made in heaven I haven't made up my mind, but when it gets colder I may be opting for a shorter, sleeker, hopefully chic-er Euro do'. I love my long hair, but I won't love icicles hanging from my scalp in the winter.

And then there are the language barriers. I have studied French for 8 years, and would consider myself more or less a fluent speaker. But in certain situations, there's no difference between me and someone who can barely squeak out "BONE-jerrr". Take today for example. I went to the train stationto buy my 150 franc card that will give me half off on all train travel in Switzerland. Standing in the ridiculously long line (another perk of Europe: incredibly slooooooow service in every sector imaginable) I tried to think how I could say "half off" in French. I went to the guichet and started with the obligatoire bonjour. I proceeded with, "Je voudrais acheter une carte demi gratuite (literally: a card to make half free)." A valiant first attempt, which I thought might be the money shot, but no such luck. Only blank stares from the fonctionnaire (who are infamous for being cranky and sullen) and the automatic lighting of my " I'M A FOREIGNER" neon sign. It took a good 2 minutes before together we negotiated the correct semantic path: une abonnement de tarif réduit (a subscription of reduced tarif?!?!?). Yeah, no. I like my literal American translation much better, thank you. I hand over my 150 chf, and go to tear the receipt, which is facing towards me, only to have it rip jaggedly down the middle. The fonctionnaire glares and says, "Madame, il faut attendre et je vous donne le ticket (Madam, it is necessary to wait and I will give you the ticket)." Oy. Feel face flush red, dying to get out of there (and since when am I now referred to as Madam over Mademoiselle?!? Ahh I'm old!) At last it's Merci, au revoir, and I have finally conquered la gare. I remember a chapter on train staions in high school french, but no lessons were given on how to deal with le snobisme ultime of the begrudging workers. I must write the textbook company and let them know how useful it would be to include this information.

Furthermore, spatially I feel out of sorts. In the kitchen, on the tram, on the street, I am constantly tripping and or bumping into things. The abundance of cobblestone, quaint and picturesque as it may be, does no favors to the hopelessly clumsy like me. It also doesn't help that over here I am essentially considered plus size. I'm not fat, but I definitely have plusieurs kilos to lose. Attempting to navigate the impossibly narrow spaces over here often leaves me feeling like une grande vache in comparison to the majority of skinny european women.

I'm being hard on myself, I know I am. It's only been a month, it takes 5 months before you feel like you fit in, blah, blah, blah. This is the advice that everyone who has lived abroad for an extended period has given me. But day to day living, the routine that's mundane yet extrememly difficult really wears on me- I've certainly had major waterworks at least once a week, usually for no specific reason. At this point, I have to remind myself what makes me happy- talking or emailing friends and family, reading, running, writing this blog, getting to know more about te new friends I've made. Reminding myself no matter how much I idyllize everything that is going on back home, the walks, the trips to Costco, Ricks, football games, all the things I'm missing....that I probly wouldn't be much happier doing those things without the transatlantic frame of reference to make them seem so appealing.

Right now, I just need to keep going. Keep living. Keep experiencing. And I know everything will fall into place.



Sidenote: Fun weekend! One day of beautiful weather, one crappy. Took a really nice boat ride on Lake Geneva Saturday, stopped in the gorgeous town of Nyon to get ice cream, and returned to Geneva. At night we went to Ubu Roi, which makes fabulously strong shakers, from which you take shots out of disposable little plastic cups. We met random military guys and I spoke quite a bit of French, which is now my new goal everytime I go out. After Ubu we stumbled (but ONLY because of the cobblestone streets, I swear ;o) to Springbrothers, had some bières and talked to more Swiss guys. They ended up driving us home, but it was OK becaue they actually had a D.D. I don't think I've mentioned this before but the Swiss don't really give a rat's ass about driving drunk, they do it ALL the time. Sunday was for being hungover ( I didn't drink all that much but had wine with dinner, vodka from my friend's stowaway waterbottle, then beer. 'Nuf said.) and for going to random places and friends' houses all over Geneva. Next week is my trip to Neuchatel, for the grap harvest (read: wine) festival. Stay tuned.....

Weekend Pics

Child's play

When do you stop being a child? In developmental psych 250, Shelley Schreier taught us that the new school of thought says childhood isn't really over until the 21st birthday (a terrifying concept for me, being that I had my 22nd birthday in june...according to that definition I am indisputably, undeniably, officially an ADULT. God that is TERRIFYING. ) But after spending the last month and a half with school age children about 90% of my time, I've become incredibly curious, nostalgic, and a bit melancholic about the notion of childhood- especially since mine is technically over.

Toby, my 4 yr. old, will sit on the floor for hours with his knees bent and bottom in between, with the kind of little-kid flexibility that can never again be attained, no matter how much yoga one undertakes. He'll sit and sing, and move a truck, or a lego boat (like right now) around and around contentedly for hours. Benji (6) loves games, and can play creations of his own such as "monster micheal" (really just hide and seek, but the counter has a white dishrag over his eyes, hence the "monster'' part) for hours on end, squealing with joy every time someone is found. Taking the kids to school, we arrive at 8:15 am. I have been up since 7, and am trudging along the sidewalk like a zombie with a gun to her head. But on the "kermesse" (green astroturf) there are 10 or so little boys engrossed in a very active game of football. I used to run early in the morning, but I never popped out of my bed excitedly and enthusiastically, as I imagine these young boys would anticipating a morning game of football with their friends. It was more of a duty to be fulfilled, desperately wanting to slam off the alarm and hide under the covers, but knowing that your body mind and spirit would be better off afterwards for going.

The question I've been pondering lately is, when exactly, do we lose this childlike ability to play pretend, to be naturally in constant motion, and to be joyfully and excitedly partaking in all of the "mundane" details in life? When does natural, free movement cease, to be replaced by the planned and forcibly executed excercise? Responsibility is one of the essences of adulthood, ie- forcing yourself out of bed to run when you don't want to- but when and why did adulthood become a struggle? Where along the line do we lose our natural tendency towards happiness, for the ensuing struggle everafter rediscover it?

I've heard a lot about Maslow from psychology courses (and my mom), whose philosophy had an ultimate goal of "sel-actualization," or reaching your highest potential. According to him, a self-actualized person lived in the moment, in a permament, happy, childlike state. I must wonder though, how many people can live in the moment if not all, at least most of the time. For me, it's difficult. If I'm playing blocks with Benji and Toby, I can't help but thinking of all the things I'd rather be doing (writing emails, reading the Fountainhead). And yet at these moments, I also feel longing jealousy at the simplicity of childhood: being content and happy playing blocks. I also have feelings of fear and guilt, wondering if all "play" with my future children will be a necessary semi-burden, something to get through before moving onto the next task on my "to-do" list.

Everything about my life right now is new and difficult for me, as this is the first time in my life I've ever taken on a real "adult role." Even at university, I knew that if I needed my mom or dad (sick, hurt, sad, etc) they would be on their way in no time. I felt that constant warmth of the security blanket that was (are) my parents. I had a soft place to fall, even if it was a rather long way (Ann Arbor to Rochester- approx. 90 miles). But now, in Geneva, I am the adult, I am the warmth and security, responsible for two precious little lives.

When Michelle comes home from work and Benji and Toby run to her open arms to be hugged and kissed and called "my lovely ones," my heart aches for not only for the tangible aspect of my parents' unconditional love, but also for a time long past where I knew that they were there to take care of me. Relying completely on myself for my needs, my happiness, my life for the first time is terrifying. There is a hole in my heart for the days when "responsibility" was remembering to make my bed, brush my hair, or do my spelling homework. Days when I too could play hide and seek and soccer with my cousins for hours on end, never once thinking that what we were doing would be considered "exercise."

I stil feel unsettled after writing this post. I thought it would help sort out my feelings or draw some sort of conclusion, but now I just feel more confused than ever. I know some of my family reads this blog, so if anyone out there has any comments or insights, I'd love to hear them.

To hoping I'll someday play hide and seek and legos with the best of them.....

Je me souviens (I remember)

I remember being 17 years old, sitting in 4th hour child development class with Mrs. Long. I remember having Erickson's stages of child development drilled into my head for the umpteenth time in 2 weeks. I remember being bored, and eating a Nature Valley granola bar not because I was hungry, but to pass the time. I remember someone barging into our classroom, instructing Mrs. Long to "turn on the T.V. now," then briskly turning and walking out the door. I remember the shock, pain and confusion of watching the plane(s) slam into the World Trade Center, not knowing if it was an accident, a horrible mistake or everyone's worst fear, a heinous act of terrorism. I was in a fog for the rest of the day, and don't remember anything else I did, but I do remember being sick to my stomach at night; laying in bed, sobbing for such a cruel crime and injustice against humanity. Sobbing for the children who lost their mothers and fathers, unable to help imagining my self in their positions at that very moment.

My parents' generations remember the death of JFK. My mom always tells me she was at the airport, with Sheila or Kit, when they announced on the PA that the president had been shot. Whether you admit it or not, such a profound event changes you, and at the very least is a good reference point in life for later reflection, because the memories of the time remain so vivid.

I remember being an awkward 17 year old, not comfortable with herself and still desperately trying to fit into a "high school clique," which I had been unable to do for the previous 3 years of schooling. I remember wanting to desperately to be "cool," to feel "normal," and to "fit-in" by drinking and partying and making out with boys, as was my perception of the teenage experience thanks to movies like American Pie and 10 Things I Hate About You. I remember having nothing to do on the weekends if Caroline wasn't around, and was ecstatic when later that year I fell into the International School crowd, made some friends and finally started going to parties and getting drunk. I remember being so unsure of myself and so craving the approval of my peers, that I would blush from chest to face nearly every time I talked to someone that wasn't in my small, close circle of friends. I remember the agony of waiting on my U of M application, and the disappointment I felt that at Soccer senior night, I wasn't being announced as "Meggie Smith, attending the University of Michigan," because then I would have felt like people really respected, admired or at least recognized that I had achieved something over the past four years. I remember flying home from visiting my brother in Arizona, my eyes so swollen from crying I couldn't even open them, after my mom had called with the news of my rejection letter.

Fast forward to today, September 11, 2006. If you had asked me then where I would be in 5 years, there is no chance in hell I would say, "Geneva, Switzerland, in a house from the 17oo's being an Au pair and writing a blog while waiting to pick the kids up from school." Today is a great day for reflection, to feel sad at what we lost, to remember who you were and to realize how far you've come.

Many people ask, "where were you today, 5 years ago?" I think we should also ask, "who was I today, 5 years ago?"

Hop Suisse (clap clap clap)

Les filles!

Swiss boys!






"Hop" is my current favorite French word. Really, it's not even a word, but a common and versatile sound with multiple meanings. It's not HOP as we say it , but pronounced "Uuph," with a French accent bien sûr. Wednesday night saw me to my first Switzerland soccer/football game vs. Costa Rica, in a really nice stadium to seat probly around 5,000. I was meeting Cassie and Ashley at the game, and then going out, so lets just say my pink sparkly top made me feel a tad out of place amongst the sea of red and white (I feel incapable of doing anything here without my (in)visible "I'M AMERICAN" neon sign). The match was great, (Suisse 2 Costa Rica 0), but my favorite part was their cheers. The favorite seemed to be "Hop Suisse (clap clap clap)," with arms jetting in front out to form what looked like a double hail Hitler "Zeik Heil." 'Twas hilarious. It was disappointing to find upon arriving that they stopped selling alcoholic beer at the stadium (why people drink non-alcoholic beer is beyond me. yugh!). But after seeing how crazy all the soccer hooligans were anyways, I understand the cessation.

After the game my two au pair friends (my "au peers," if you will) and I went out a bar then a boite de nuit (night club) with some Swiss guys from their towns. The drinks weren't quite so expensive at this bar (13 chf for red bull and vodka), and they do something that I hope american bars will adopt bientôt (soon): YOU get to tell the bartender when to stop pouring the liquor! It was amazing. So naturally my drink was heavy on the vodka, lite on the red bull (hey I've got to economize!). I got to speak French quite a bit, and got lots of compliments saying "tu parles très bien le français," which is always a much welcomed ego boost. '

The guys were cute, but they are SO different here. If you didn't know better, you'd think they were gay. They hug, kiss on the cheeks and sometimes lips, and grab each others' butts to say hello, and often dance with each other! That is definitely going to take some getting used to (and is very interesting from an anthropological perspective). We all downed some red bull and vodka's at the club, and danced until 5am (2am is for sissies). Cassie and Ashely both were with guys, so I got to be the awkward 5th wheel. So far, Switzerland has retained the "Sister Mary Margaret" in me. We finally got to Ashley's apartment (she has a separate au pair studio), and I crashed on the hardwood floor in her closet, not wanting to intrude on any shenanigans that may have been happening outside.

2 hours of horrible sleep later, I got up (the others didn't sleep, wink wink) and we decided to take a random trip to France, since Freddie (from London) had the car for the day. We went to Annecy, which is known as the "Venice of France." It is all gorgeous medieval buildigs built around canals and cobblestone streets, with a huge lake surrounded by the French alps. We had hungover pizza, shopped for awhile, had amazing ice cream (I got noisette,ont> I crave nuts when I'm out since Benji is allergic and can't have them in the house) then drove back to Geneva and bummed around all day. It was great to just be able to get up and go (to France!), without having to worry about kids or public transportation.

It was a holiday on thursday (Jeune Genevois, some old protestant thing), so of course we had to go out and celebrate. Springbrothers is an English speaking bar that does a "quiz night'' every thursday. We went and had some wine to warm up for the quiz, and I tried to sweet talk the bartenders into showing Michigan football games (rather unsuccesfully). The quiz was cool- I randomly got a question about the band ''The Monkees'' right. I had to leave at halftime, but our team (named ''Meggy Jo''....everyone got a kick outof my middle name for some reason) was in the lead when I took off (woot woot go au pairs).

Didn't get home until 2, and of course up at 7. To a hugely unpleasant surprise. Toby was apparently sick Thursday night, and wouldn't be going to school today(he looked fine to me and was all smiles coming down the stairs to proudly inform me of this). But things got tricky. Fridays I am supposed to drop the kids off and be free from 8:30 to 12. We never discussed what happens when they have to stay home. After 7 hours of sleep in 2 days, I was in desperate need of sleep, and seriously pissed off at the thought of having Toby all day. I broached the subject with Michelle, asking if she perhaps could let me know a little bit ahead of time if she thinks one of the kids wouldnt be going to school, so I wouldnt make plans'(or stay out late drinking). She looked hugely surprised and upset with me, saying "well it's your job to look after the children, and you should be getting enough sleep so you can be alert with them, and blah blah on and on"

But, um NO, actually it's NOT my job to watch them during the days friday, and I WAS planning on getting some sleep-- when he was AT SCHOOL. Things were really tense the rest of the morning, but I finally emailed her to try and clear the air. I was really upset, especially because I hate conflict in general, but it's infinitely worse when you've got your boss/friend/and pseudo-family all combined in one. She finally called me and said she "just realized 5 minutes ago" that the mornings were to be my time off. Not exactly in apology or even thank you, but at least an acknowledgement that is was MY time, and a concession that she shouldn't have acted so perturbed that I was ever so slightly (read: HUGELY) annoyed at having to work an extra 7 hours, UNPAID.

So not the greatest start to my almost-weekend. However I just got a package from home that I know includes several celebrity gossip magzines. So things are looking up :o)