Warsaw Mommy Blog

Oh, man. Three-day-weekends are exhausting with two small kids. Also? Max decided on Saturday that Astroboy is the best! Movie! Ever! And since Piotr downloaded it onto the computer, and since burned DVDs do not work on our piece-of-crap (yet we got it for free, so I will only complain a teensy weensy bit about what a piece of crap it is) DVD player in the living room, and since we have one computer, and since the whole long weekend was rainy and miserable and grey, Max basically held the computer hostage the whole damn weekend. On the one hand, I was thrilled to sit with him and watch Astroboy and laugh heartily (well, I did so for the first six times we watched it, then the amusement passed, most definitely), on the other I could not get him to go away for an hour, so I could get to my blog. And I missed it!

But. It’s Tuesday. Max is back at playschool, Ewa has just come to take Alex off my hands, and I can SIT DOWN AND WRITE. Also, I can answer work e-mails, translate four texts, copy edit four more and get ready to teach later today. Oh, and put on my ‘I will not be sitting on the floor today’ clothes, leave my hair down (it’s called my ‘nobody will be pulling my hair today’ look), put on foundation and lipstick and wear perfume. In other words: today, I will once again look like a woman who actually cares if somebody drools in her hair. Yesterday I didn’t, so much. Today: DON’T MAKE MOMMY LOOK MESSY! SHE IS VERY BUSY AND IMPORTANT! RELATIVELY SPEAKING.

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OK, first things first. Yes, it’s Tuesday, so we should be doing an ‘Over To You’ Tuesday. But we are not. Sorry, sorry! I am afraid that I am waiting for a couple of people to send me some texts, but their lives are too hectic right now, and so I will get things later this week. So, next Tuesday we’ll have something for you… and it will be goooooood.

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Next up: I was given a ‘Sunshine Award’ from Karen at MomAgain@40, and I was to pass it on to 12 people. I meant to do that on Saturday, but see above re. ‘Max’ and ‘Astroboy’ and ‘computer held hostage’. And since I have quite a bit of work to do, this will be done tomorrow. Oh, please believe me: I promise. I promise, promise!

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Rummaging around in my grab bag of stuff that I’ve been thinking about over the weekend… two photos of my sons showing a more hidden side of their respective personalities:

Alex is an incredibly sweet little boy, but can’t you practically hear him bellowing, “Wench! Get me another beer!”

And here is Max, not in motion. Or talking. Or climbing up something defying death as he does so. Ummm. It’s very odd to see. Though his hair is comfortingly unruly.

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And one more thing to round up this rambling, shambling post: on Friday, I did something that I have been thinking about and talking about seemingly forever. Yes folks… I joined the gym! And bonus! Yesterday, I ACTUALLY WENT! My 10 minutes on the step machine damn near killed me, but the weight-lifting was fine (I’m not very sore today, though my inner thigh muscles are expressing a bit of surprise that I asked them to lift 65 kilos in three sets of 15 reps), and my 20 minutes on the treadmill afterwards may not have been at warp-speed, but I was certainly not ambling along, enjoying the view or anything. So, since I believe in being powered by peer pressure, do feel free to ask me once in awhile how it’s going at the gym, and I’ll be sure to rush off and frantically work out for two hours just so I can report back – as my eyelashes hurt me and my butt proves that yes, actually, there are muscles in here, hello! - that ‘The gym was fine, thanks!’.

Guilt. A powerful motivator. Don’t you think?

Happy Friday, y’all!

Hey, isn’t this award pretty? I love orange, I love blue, I love flowers. I especially love orange flowers – and since I stared at a stark grey Warsaw winter sky for about four months, I am loving blue skies at the moment. So this award is pushing all my happy buttons, for sure.

A million thanks to Karen at MomAgain@40 (hi Karen!) for giving me this award. She’s over in South Africa and is raising a teen and toddler at the same time. Because, you know, she is tougher than biltong.

OK, here are the rules of this lovely ‘Sunshine Award’:

Put the award on your blog;

Let them know about their award by posting a comment on their blog.

Easy-peasy! Except for the fact that Alex is just about to wake up – I hear movement and singing from upstairs – and so I will need to cut this short in about 60 seconds (type, woman, TYPE!). So I’ll post my 12 bloggers soon. By tomorrow for sure, I promise.

Also! Quick shout-out to Brenda at MummyTime; she is once again hosting ‘FlogYoBlogFriday’ over there, so drop on by and link up… OK?

Wow, yesterday’s guest post from ‘J’ has certainly elicited some strong responses… Maybe now I’ll weigh in with my views, yeah? And just so you know: I have talked to ‘J’ many many times about his life choices, and my life choices, and so nothing that I say here will blindside him. I think a good rule of thumb for living my life is: never write or say anything about anyone that you have not already said to their face. And I have said many things to ‘J’s’ face which he didn’t agree with, but then again, I am offended by much of what he says and almost all of what he does.

Let me begin by saying that I know all about the party lifestyle; I had my own single life, though mine was the Hong Kong version. I had money flowing into my bank account like a waterfall, I had no dependents, I was single so didn’t have to check in with anyone, I travelled on a whim, I ate out every single night, I had a shoe collection that would be the envy of Paris Hilton. It was all about me, all the time – and God, I loved it. LOVED IT. So I know all about ‘J’s’ life, all about the fun and the parties, all about the life of ‘mememe’ and disposable income. I know it because I had it.

It has to be said, also, that ‘J’ is absolutely not unique. In my 15 years of living outside of Canada, I have met ‘him’ over and over again. Being a foreigner who refuses to adapt or learn the language, one who has bucketloads of money and perks, is not as rare as people like ‘J’ think it is. Really, the guy is a dime a dozen in expat circles, from Madrid to Dubai; from Hong Kong to Warsaw. Any place there are people with money and other people who want to be around money, people like ‘J’ bunch together and they flourish within that tiny little circle of like-minded individuals and their hangers-on. Oh, also? It’s worth noting that not ALL Polish ‘girls’ are the way that ‘J’ has described them: I am sure you are fully aware that if one is only taking note of (fakely) busty bimbos who have their heavily-made-up eyes out for gold cards, then this is what you’ll inevitably find. But I know of many frighteningly smart Polish women who are fiercely independent and who would never give anyone like ‘J’ the time of day. And no, they’re not all ugly ‘with great personalities’. Some are stunning – beautiful inside and out. Frankly, none of them would ever debase themselves by putting out in exchange for a few drinks and a fast car and a trip back to some luxury apartment. Truthfully – and I have said this to ‘J’ more than once – the ‘girls’ who do this are barely one step above prostitutes. Sleeping with a guy for a night out and a drinks tab? Really? Urgh.

Finally, let me explain that if you had told me even 6 years ago that by 2010, I’d be (a) married, (b) a mother of two, (c) a flat-owner, I’d have laughed hysterically in your face. Married? Me? Who the hell wants to be married, seeing the same person every day forever and ever? Kids? Me? Never. Talk about never having the freedom to do anything ever again! A flat? ME? I planned to travel forever, to stay in one place for a few years and then move on to a better job, a more exotic location, a change of party scene. A husband and kids and a flat meant – to me 6 years ago – permanence, baggage, stuff to worry about, loss of mobility and freedom and order and money to do what I wanted. In short: these things represented a sort of death of the self, a death which I was not about to voluntarily accept.

Well. That was all fine. Until I broke my foot in Hong Kong and suddenly realised that nobody cared about me. Where were my party friends when I needed groceries? Or a lift to the hospital? Or someone to re-fill my pain medication? Or to sweep my floor? They were nowhere to be found, boy. Imagine my utter shock when the people who rallied around me at that time were work colleagues, and neighbours, and people I did yoga with. Not one single person I drank with and blew crazy amounts of money on or partied with showed up. Not one.

Talk about a wake-up call. Here’s what I learned: if you build your life on meaningless relationships, then there is no support system when the chips are down and you need help. I mean, yes, people from work and neighbours and exercise buddies are good (undoubtedly a step up from drinking buddies) but still, they are not REAL relationship with depth and breadth and longetivity. They are still about that job, that flat, that class. As soon as one of you finds new employment, or moves house, or joins the boxing class, that connection is broken and it is lost. It’s fleeting.

I had to think hard about what I wanted my life to be. I realised that living alone in the party whirl meant dying alone, and as much as I loved my single life, it meant that at the end of the day, I was still just one person. Maybe if I’d had real friends, things might have gone differently. But it’s hard to make those deep connections in cities like Hong Kong, where most people are on short-term contracts and where money is such a dominant force in day-to-day life. I realised that there I was, half-a-world away from my family and childhood friends and to all intents and purposes, I was totally alone. So I knew it was time to make some decisions.

The story of Piotr will be told another day, but just know that when I saw him again after 7 years, we clicked. Nobody was more surprised than I was. Nobody. One year after this encounter, I was in Warsaw and we were living together. Then 3 years later, we had a flat and Max; almost 3 years after that, Alex came. And so this is my life now: there are other people who share my space, there are mortgage payments, there are toys strewn across my living room floor, there are sleepless nights and teething pains and toilet training woes. My bank balance is WAY lower at the end of the month than it used to be, and my wardrobe is much less glamorous and more functional. I do not travel, I cannot even just take off for the weekend. I have to handle tantrums and wipe shit off bums and I have to buy new winter boots for Max and forego things for myself in order to do so. I have almost no alone time. I have forgotten what it’s like to sleep beyond 6:00. I spend my weekends in the sand box and at the doctor and in child-friendly cafes. The gap between my life BC (Before Children) and now is as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Do I miss my single girl life? Oh, hell yes! Some days I want to go back, but here’s the thing: I never want to go back and stay. I just want to visit, you know, just drop in for a day or two. Just relish and revel in the freedom and be totally selfish and not feel badly about it or wonder if the boys are OK or want to call Piotr to make sure Alex has had his allergy medicine. I want to have temporary amnesia, and forget all about this life I have… but I want to come back. The thought of never seeing Piotr or Max or Alex ever again takes my breath away – it’s unimagineable.

So. Yes, I understand ‘J’. Perfectly. I know what he has, I know the power of its attraction. I get it. 100%. I found it interesting that he wrote in his guest post: ‘I’d never want anything like (Michelle’s) life for myself.’ I believe that. I do. On the other hand, I had his life and now I have this one and on the whole, I’d never want anything like ‘J’s’ life for myself. Never again.

And this is why:

No, it’s not the glittering party life of my past: I’m not wearing any make-up and I’m sitting on the kitchen floor in my pyjamas. It’s not glamorous, and it’s sadly lacking in fabulous shoes and copious amounts of sushi. But it’s my life. And I’m keeping it.

I’m baaaack! The overnight stay in the hotel was fabulous – nothing like getting a free night and a full-on fantastic dinner with no worries about making the bed/ doing laundry/ washing the dishes. Right?

So, getting on with ‘Over To You’ Tuesday… this week’s guest is a bit of a departure from our first two guests. First, ‘J’ has no desire to be publicly identified (more on that a bit later, in his own words); second, he does not have a blog; third, he is a carefree, single, living-it-up guy here in Warsaw, and I have known him for about 5 years. Not well, but he is the friend of a friend, and I asked him 3 weeks ago if he’d be willing to offer his perspective on living in Warsaw as someone who does not have a significant other and does not have kids and does not blog. He kicked it around for awhile, and agreed, then changed his mind, and then changed it back. So here he is, ‘J’, party boy extraordinaire.

(Quick note: ‘J’ was concerned about not writing well, and gave me the green light to edit to make things flow better. I did so, but he has signed off on all my changes and ‘fixes’ – just FYI).

‘I ran into Michelle about a month ago, and when I found out she had had another baby I rolled my eyes at her. And she saw me do it. Whoops. But she’s got a pretty even temper in situations when many others would not, and so she asked me right to my stupid face why I had done that. I didn’t really know what to say, so she answered her question herself: she said, “I know you’re the ultimate single guy, J, and I suppose you are bored to death by my domestic life. You also think I’m an idiot. Right?”

Well, yeah. Right. Bang-on, actually. I told her she’s known me for awhile, and she knows damn good and well that I have no interest in kids or a wife or settling down, and I just don’t get anyone who wants to do that. Totally beyond me. And to her credit, yet again, she didn’t jump all over my ass (which has happened to me in the past, many many times, when I’ve said I hate the whole idea of being tied down and changing shitty diapers), but just kind of looked at me thoughtfully and told me about this blog. She said something about a guest post, and maybe I’d like to contribute. I laughed my ass off at that, since what the hell do I have to say on a Mommy Blog? And she said that’s the whole point: the guests write about their lives as foreigners in a foreign country, but don’t need to be mothers, or even parents. She said the first post was actually by a guy in Vienna who didn’t work there and didn’t have kids there. I checked it out, and sure enough, all this guy does all day long is ride his bike and take photos and take the Merc out for a spin and butcher German, all while his wife works her ass off. So I saw what Michelle was getting at, and said OK.

So, fine. My life in Warsaw, as a single guy looking for a good time with no strings attached. Let me first say that Warsaw may not have the rep as being a party town compared to places like New York or Prague, but it has quite a night-life. This is mostly because of the girls (no, I don’t call them ‘women’. They’re not). Polish girls are HOT. They have huge tits (most of them are fake, but who gives a shit?) and are tanned all over (fake, but who cares? And I do mean they are tanned ALL over) and are long-legged and have long (fake) blonde hair and loads of make-up and tight clothes three sizes too small and CFM boots and are super-slim. Perfection. They are also way more feminine than girls from the States, or Canada, or the UK, or Germany. They just know how to treat a man: they get how it’s their job to be beautiful and say not much, and to wear short skirts and be slim. It’s the man’s job to have money and to show the girls a good time. And I have plenty of cash, and I am good at partying. So I get the girls, no problem. In Poland, girls are still impressed by a fast car and a gold card, and don’t play all the bullshit feminist games. They don’t care about being smart, they don’t try to win arguments, they don’t have opinions. They know that it’s a big turn-off to bitch and whine and think too much.

Yeah, I know how this sounds. Sure. But most men think this way, to be frank, and I’m one of the few who actually admits it. I had the chance to take a better-paid job with my international company in London, but I turned it down. I just can’t stand the thought of living and working among British girls; they are cold, they are not as good-looking, they argue and they bitch. If I wanted that, I’d move back home. But I don’t want it, so I’m staying right where I am. I am living every man’s fantasy, but like I said, most guys won’t say that and then they get suckered into ‘falling in love’ with some girl. Then it’s marriage and babies and no more freedom and no nights out and shit on the sofa and puke on the clothes and no f’ing LIFE. Everything goes straight to hell when you fall in love and so I make a point of being around girls I will never be remotely interested in doing more than sleeping with. Polish girls are amazing in bed, by the way, especially if you’ve splashed out all night. They know what it means to be grateful. Not like Western chicks, who are never satisfied and let you know that.

Michelle asked me what my life is like in Warsaw as a foreigner, and truthfully, I don’t feel at all like I am a foreigner here. I don’t speak any Polish, since I only talk to people in English and if a girl can’t speak my language, I’ll just go find a hotter one who can. I work for an international company so everyone in the office speaks English. I don’t live in a ‘Polish’ building, but instead I live in a luxury apartment complex which is about 80% English-speaker occupied, and the remaining 20% are stinking rich Poles who speak English. I don’t travel on public transport (my job provides me with a car and my driver speaks English). I have read about Michelle’s experiences in Warsaw with language and culture and so on, and I know it’s all true – but for her, not for me. She’s marrried to a Pole, she has kids so she deals with doctors and teachers and nannies, she has clients who speak no English or French so she has to talk to them in Polish, she actually speaks Polish pretty well. But she needs to; she is interested in being part of things here. I don’t and I’m not, and I am living proof that you can live in a foreign country and never even try to adapt or learn the language – and you can still have a great life.

Basically, I am living the dream and I have no regrets and I really don’t care when people (women) call me selfish or egotistical or childish or a bastard. I am all of those things, but I can be. I have chosen to be single and spend my money on nights out and toys for boys, and since it’s just me, why the hell should anyone else (women) give a shit what I do? I don’t have to think about anyone but myself, and I do what I want when I want – and I like things this way. I don’t need to apologise for being smarter than all those morons who got trapped by whining women and who now wish they could have my life. If you want my life, just leave her. I get that it’s harder to do that if you have kids, but again: that was your choice. You live with it, or you don’t, and then accept the consequences.

Michelle asked me if I wanted to use my name, and I said no way. I mean, first, I know that people here in Warsaw read her blog and some of those people may try to figure out who I am. And I am not interested in having pissed-off people (women) knocking down my door to tell me what an asshole I am. And second, I really wanted to be honest about my life here (Michelle said that unless I was totally honest there was no point in doing this), so being anonymous means that I can be honest.

I like Michelle’s blog, and I find the glimpse into her life here interesting, but I’d never want anything like her life for myself. I like that she gave me the chance to show you guys the ‘other side’ of living in Warsaw, the life without sick kids and sleepless nights and bottles and f’ing Thomas the Tank Engine. That all sounds like my idea of hell. And I’d like to thank Michelle for being open to letting me basically trash her life choices on her own blog. Grace, man. She’s got it.

I know this blog is open to comments, and I know that most of you are women and mothers. So let the grief-giving begin.’

Does anyone else see a striking similarity between Vermeer’s painting ‘Girl With A Pearl Earring’ and Alex with a scarf wrapped around his head? Or am I just looney tunes?

Ooooh! You know what makes a Monday morning a good one? When you drop by a blog that you really like, and read that the blogger got an award. It’s good, right? I mean, I really derive joy from someone else’s success – I love to see others get recognised. But you know what makes it really really good? When my blog also gets a shout-out, and I get passed on the award, from this blogger I really like and who I am happy for.

So. First things first: the blog I like is Kristy’s Pampers and Pinot (cool name, huh?) and the award she got which she has passed on to me is the ‘Life Is Good’ award. Here it is, in all its rainbowy and sunshiney glory:

Now the fun part. I am to answer a few questions, and here they are:

What do you do when you’re bored?
Read. Blog. Eat chocolate. Make a ‘to do’ list to show all the things I could/should be doing instead of being bored. Stare at the list. Sigh. Eat more chocolate.

Are you an autumn, or a spring?
Autumn, no doubt. I even colour my hair a chocolate brown with auburn highlights. No blonde here, boy.

Quick! You’re stuck at an airport for hours, and the only options are crossword puzzle, or an old novel nobody’s ever heard of. Which would you pick?
The novel. And I’d probably love it.

Jane Austen or Emily Bronte?
Emily Bronte, hands down. I loved ‘Wuthering Heights’ (the idea of some insane guy running around a moor and shouting out a dead woman’s name has always struck me as quite a memorable mental image), and no matter how many times I have tried, I just cannot read that damn ‘Sense And Sensibility’ or ‘Pride And Prejudice”, although I loved the BBC adaptation of P and P. But I still can’t read the book.

Do you feel prepared for the five other questions coming your way?
Yeah, what the hell.

Who’s your hero?
My mother. And Phan Thi Kim Phuc.

Favorite word?
Hmmm. I have so many: Shimmer. Glimmer. Shine. Waterfall. But for some reason, I just adore the word patchouli. Yeah, I have no idea.

Are you one of those “checklist” people, or are you a “wing it and hope everything goes well” sort of person?
Ummm. A bit of both. I love check-lists (see above re. ‘What do you do when you’re bored?’) and I actually use them to great effect in my professional life. But I sometimes reach the point of being all check-listed out and I rebel against organisation and any form of rational decision and then I just throw caution to the wind and go for it. So far it’s worked out pretty well, mostly I think because I do it rarely, and so I do it with such gusto it has to be a triumph.

What phrase has stuck with you in your life?
‘And I – I took the road less travelled by. And that has made all the difference.’ That, and ‘For fuck’s sake.’

If you were to choose between coffee and tea. . . which would you go with?
Coffee. Every. Single. Time.

And now? And now? I get to pass this award on to six more people… so here we go. Here are just a few of the blogs that give me that ‘life is good’ feeling:

1. Jennifer at Mud Pies For Mommy – she does this cute feature, ‘Things Kid Say Thursday’, where she quotes her two sweet little boys… and they come up with some great (and funny!) stuff. Always sure to make me smile.

2. Tracey at Just Another Mommy Blog – Tracey homeschools her three smart and funny kids, and as such, seems to have an overwhelming amount of positive energy and great experiences. And? She rocks the red lipstick like nobody’s business.

3. Karen at MomAgain@40 – this woman has guts, boy: she has a teenager AND a toddler. At the same time. Yep. And Karen is bright and cheerful and totally in love with both of her kids – a joy to read.

4. Marilyn at Live First, Write Later – with three kids at the moment, and another one due in August, Marilyn somehow manages to be a frelance writer and editor as well. She draws inspiration from her children, cooking and taking time for herself; she lives first, and writes later and I love this.

5. Jennifer at Studio JRU – I’m a pretty lax Catholic, but I am always open to being inspired by the faith of others and as such, Jennifer’s blog is a place I go to read about her beliefs without feeling like I’m being lectured or patronised. You know what I admire? People who live their religious beliefs and she is one of these people. And she makes some really beautiful art, mostly inspired by Bible verse… I think this one inspired by Psalm 23 is my favourite.

6. Kelly at Be A Fun Mum – OK, I’ll admit it: some days being a Mommy is definitely NOT fun. It’s just not. Then I go see Kelly and she has some great idea for something to do with Max, or she has some lovely art project up that is easy and affordable, or she has a great story about her motherhood experience, and she reminds me that actually, yeah, it’s fun being with my kids. Reality check!

So, that’s me done… over and out. Ladies, I’ll look forward to seeing your award up on your blogs, and reading about whether you’re an autumn or a spring, and what you do when you’re bored, and whether you can get through ‘Pride And Prejudice’.

Oh! I almost forgot: tomorrow’s ‘Over To you’ Tuesday will be moved to Wednesday since I will not be at home tonight, nor all day tomorrow. And why, you may ask? Well – woohoo! – I am off to a fancy hotel for dinner later, and then I am staying overnight, and then I will stay for breakfast tomorrow, then I’m off to some meetings and then to do a bit of teaching. But back to the fancy hotel for a sec, right? Well, it’s a new client and I am writing all the text for their new website and I must – I simply must – stay at the hotel and try the food and sleep over and all to get the full experience. Otherwise, how on earth can I write about the hotel? Really? How can I?

Happy Monday, ya’ll…. and we’ll catch up again on Wednesday.

… THIS happened.

Max was present – I was about 4 months along at the time, hence the ‘flowing’ dress – and despite being pregnant, I made it to almost 2 AM at what turned into a wild Polish wedding party which resulted in a vodka-inflicted broken ankle for my brother and one guest passed out across four chairs in a vodka-induced coma. Good times, boy.

So Piotr’s Mom is coming this weekend, and the plan is to hand her the boys and make a run for it. Where we’re going, we know not,  but we will be rugrat-free for a few hours and plan to enjoy every. Single. Second.

Ooooh, here, Mommy! Here! For you! I love sharing. Especially a delicious crispy corn puff thing that has the consistency and flavour of styrofoam at the best of times, but which I have dropped on the floor (only twice, though), and stomped on and slobbered all over and gnawed on and which now has the texture of a cotton ball.

But it’s for you!

I must admit that for about a year, I have felt a teensy bit of anxiety about Max watching TV and DVDs. I mean, I feel on some deep level, way way down in my gut, that sitting on their butts and watching moving pictures is not the most stimulating or challenging way for kids to learn. I know that there are amazingly educational programs out there and I know that kids can learn colours and how to count and about manners and shapes and things like that, but somehow I feel that it would be better for Max to actually go outside and we can practice colours and count birds and he can say hello to other kids on the playground and point out that cars’ wheels are round. You know? When I taught English to kids in China, we were always told the amazing benefit of not showing the kids a picture of an apple; bring in a real apple! Don’t hold up a picture of a rabbit; bring in a stuffed animal bunny! In other words, we were to use realia whenever possible (this is a REAL word used by educators, by the way, and I hate it hate it. It makes me thing of genitalia. I can barely bring myself to type the word here now, let alone utter it. Some words just have the effect on me, and realia is one of them. Gah. Bludgeon is another).

Anyway, got sidetracked there. Apologies. So the only reason I haven’t pulled the plug on the TV is because it has become very clear to me that Max is an active watcher – there’s not one passive bone in this kid’s body, apparently, and he won’t even zone out in front of the boob tube. He watches intently, he asks questions about what’s happening, he re-enacts particularly interesting scenes with his own toys and makes up dialogue and alternate endings. He follows up and asks me what happened next, he thinks about a logical next step or conclusion. He remembers things and he will spring surprise questions on me three days after watching something, such as worrying about some cartoon snail that got stuck in the rain and is he OK, Mommy? Is he hungry? What do snails eat? Can we go look for snails? Can I bring one home? And so on…

So, this is all pretty OK. But the thing is, I am a reader. I love books. This house is bursting at the seams with books (all mine); we have a bookshelf in our bedroom which holds towering piles of books, and another huge bookshelf at the top of the stairs, heaving with them too. I never leave the house without a book in my bag – never – and I use my travel time on the bus or metro to read a chapter or two. In the evenings after the boys are asleep, I often go upstairs and get into bed and read a bit. It can be anything from Harry Potter to a Sophie Kinsella piece of not-so-challenging-writing to a history of Poland to my beloved Canadian writers Robertson Davies and Margaret Atwood, or something up for the Booker Prize. I’m not a literary snob who only reads the classics and award-winning literature. I’ll read pretty much anything, as long as it entertains me or teaches me something and is well-written (yeah, I know that Sophie Kinsella kind of misses the mark on the ‘well-written’ thing, but I think Becky Bloomberg is kind of funny. In a very non-challenging way).

So. Books. I have bought Max so many books over the years, mostly in Polish but I have scouted out some Dr. Seuss and Robert Munsch books in English, and so I am delighted that he seems to have developed an avid interest in reading lately. Wait, let me re-phrase: he has developed an avid interest in books lately, though we do not actually read them. Instead, we sit together and we talk about the pictures and he makes up his own story and the conversations. Every once in awhile, he’ll point at some text and ask what it says, and then I’ll read it to him, but for the most part he’s content to just snuggle up with me and talk about what he sees.

This is all good. But in the past few weeks, he has fallen completely and totally in love with being told stories. It started at the allergist when he had to sit for 20 minutes without scratching as the red allergic reactions raised and swelled on his tiny little forearms, and he was crying and fidgeting and I was desperate to distract him, so I sat beside him and put his head on my shoulder and started telling him about the first thing that came to my mind – which ended up being a (true) story about the raccoon that used to live in the storage space in our family’s garage back in Canada. This creature would just lurk up there – the storage space was a section up near the roof and could only be reached by a ladder, though it was open so we’d see that thing’s beady little eyes shining at us as we walked from the car to the door – with her babies and steal our garbage and be a general pain in the butt. But for some reason, the raccoon came to mind and so I told Max about her.

Well. ‘Fascinated’ is not a strong enough word to describe his reaction. He forgot about his itchy forearms and asked for another ‘raccoon story’. And another. And another. My repertoire about the raccoon is sadly limited, so I began to make up stories which got progessively wilder: the raccoon took my brother’s bike and went for a ride; the raccoon jumped down on my head and stole my ice cream cone; the raccoon took the family car for a spin; the raccoon lost her baby and my mother helped her find him. Max was so enchanted by the raccoon that he has been asking for raccoon stories ever since. I told him one this morning as he ate his cereal.

Of course, Max being Max, he would not be happy unless there was some context and some extension, so he has since started requesting “a raccoon story with Thomas and Puh-sy and Zigzag Ma Green and Doc Hudson.” The cast of characters is assembled based solely on the toys within his visual range, and so the combinations are eclectic and extensive. Here is a sample conversation, one which we had just yesterday:

Max: Mommy, I want a raccoon story.

Me: OK. Who should be in it?

Max: Me. And you. And Gordon and Sir Topham Hat.

Me: OK. Got it.

Max: And Sally and Mr. The King. And we go on a picnic.

Me: No problem.

Max: And the raccoon falls out of a tree. Onto my head.

Me: But of course.

Max: And everyone eats lemons.

And such is my skill at thinking on my feet/ pulling stories out of my butt/ spouting total child-friendly crap, that I can actually come up with something funny. And bonus! I even manage to insert a moral into this mishmash of complete and total nonsense. Yesterday I made up some crazy story about everyone enjoying a lovely picnic when the raccoon fell out of the tree onto Max’s head and everyone laughed, so the raccoon got mad and challenged them all to a lemon-eating contest but what they didn’t know was the raccoon had some sugar and while everyone else ate the sour lemons, she was secretly putting sugar on hers and she won. And the moral was something like, ‘making lemonade out of lemons’ or ‘picking yourself up when you fall’ (out of a tree), or ‘don’t laugh at others when they fall, ’cause they might just turn around and kick your butt in a lemon-eating contest’. Or something.

Anyway. The kid is three-and-a-half. As long as there’s food in the story, and something falls onto his head, he’s happy.

He’s not a very tough crowd.

Oh, hurrah! Here we are again – ‘Over To You’ Tuesday. And since y’all are here to meet our special guest, and not listen to my inane ramblings, let’s get right to it, shall we?

Today, I have the pleasure of welcoming Lulu from Cherry Blossom Adventures. She’s married to Shun and they have an absolutely adorable four-month-old baby named Noah; this sweet baby is being raised in a bicultural, billingual environment and has FABULOUS hair. Lulu is 25 and Australian and she met Shun when she was 19 while on university exchange in Tokyo; they did the long distance thing for a year before she returned to Japan… and there she has stayed. She has a degree in Japanese (so yes, she speaks the language – impressive, huh?) and a PR minor in journalism. They communicate in Japanese 90% of the time at home, but a year spent in Australia together has helped her husband’s English a little (meaning that she can yell at him in English to do the dishes and now he understands, even if he still chooses to ignore her).

Lulu is currently a SAHM to Noah but would love to get into some freelancing work, or work from home; she used to work as a preschool teacher in Japan before Noah was born. She dislikes liars and cooked carrots, but loves cherry blossoms, chocolate, the colour pink and a good book. And without a doubt, she is addicted to the internet!

And now, Lulu will introduce us to the ‘nod and smile’, an essential survival tool in Japan. Take it away, girl!

‘Since living in Japan, I have pretty much perfected the ‘nod and smile’ that I use when Japanese people give me unsolicited advice, make unusual comments about me or my child, or try to communicate with me in English when they clearly do not know how to speak English.

I pretty much perfected the nod and smile to deal with issues that arose with my in-laws, some of which occurred before my husband and I even married – like when they wanted to tell people at my brother-in-law’s wedding that we were engaged (when we weren’t),  because how else could they possibly explain the reason behind us living together. But most of the occasions in which I’ve used the nod and smile have taken place since we married a year ago, mostly because of our completely different cultural perspectives on things like marriage and child-rearing.

I learnt long ago that it is best not to argue or respond to infuriating issues or comments with outrage, because people here just don’t get it. For some reason, people believe that they have the right to say whatever is on their mind, no matter how un-politically correct, ridiculous or impolite it is. So I just nod and smile, maybe say thank you… and then proceed to do whatever I want.

The Obaachan (older ladies) are the worst. When I was pregnant I would often get told to wear MORE clothes – even in the height of summer – because the baby might get cold (even though it was 35 degrees Celsius out and ridiculously humid). I was also told on numerous occasions that I was “SOOOOOOO big” at certain stages of my pregnancy (although that is nothing compared to the man who said to my friend while we were picnicking in the park, “Wow, I guess all Americans really are fat”, when in fact, she was eight months pregnant).

One thing I cannot handle, however, is when people touch my baby.  And they do.  All the time. Some people will go so far to move the pram cover back to get a better look and perhaps touch his skin while making comments about how white he is, how long his nose is, how cute he is, and how big his eyes are. I often get told that he looks too hot or too cold or that he is crying – as if I haven’t realised my baby is crying. These are the times that I nod and smile, and perhaps say thank you, so that I can continue on my way without fuss (and then I roll my eyes when they are out of visual range).

The strangest comment, though, was one that I received just recently. I was walking along the road back towards our apartment, with Noah (my four-month-old son) in his stroller facing me. An elderly lady (she was 87 – I know this because she told me) stopped me to have a look at Noah. Now, this is not uncommon; usually I just ignore the stares or the people that literally stop dead in their tracks to watch me walk by with the baby so they can perhaps sneak a glimpse of him.

On this particular day, though, I was in a good mood and the weather was really nice, so I stopped and she looked into the pram at him. I explained that he was four months old, his father was Japanese, and that I was from Australia. She proceeded to tell me he was so big and so foreign-looking and I pulled out my best nod and smile and said thank you (What else am I supposed to say to: “Wow. Your baby looks so foreign”?), and she told me she had three children and grandchildren and was 87 years old and then she said to me in Japanese, “You should wear a scarf because your boobs will get cold, and then the baby won’t want to drink the milk because it will be too cold for him.”

I was gobsmacked. I was wearing jeans, a sweater and a cardigan that was open over the sweater and it was about 18 degrees and I was actually a bit hot because it was a sunny day. My boobs were in no way on display… at least I didn’t think they were.

The nod and smile I had perfected over the years did not happen. In fact, I think my mouth dropped open and I just stared at her. I was so shocked I cannot even really remember what I did, but I think I just feigned ignorance, took no notice of her comment and said my goodbyes.

That was definitely a first. And it was the one time that the nod and smile has completely failed me.’