Sleepy and sleepless in Barcelona

My children do not seem to like sleeping, alone or otherwise.  Last night, Mati refused to pass out until almost 11:30pm, at which time her younger brother decided it would be the ideal time to wake up and have his own party until almost 3am.  So he got treated to a midnight-ish showing of Baby Einstein and I tried to catch a few winks while trying to prevent him from whacking the computer with his face as he tried to get as close as humanly possible for the ultimate Baby Einstein viewing experience.

Yet, we managed to wake up nice and early at 6:30am to get ready for school and put in the second to last day of work before February Ski Week.  Today was face painting day at Keane's preschool, which actually meant that you had to send your child to school with something painted on their face.  Keane was not having his face painted this morning, no matter how much I tried to distract him with toy trucks and gummi bears...all I managed to get were a couple of wonky colored lines on one cheek before throwing in the towel.  However, when I arrived in the afternoon to pick him up, he was sporting quite the curly face paint mustachio.  He looked like a carnie from the 1920s.

How is it that I can't manage to get three stripes on his face, while his preschool teacher can paint a symmetrical 'stache with 12 other rugrats terrorizing the immediate area?  I think she must have done it while he was asleep. 

Home again...

So after three days and nights in the children's hospital, and continuous ups and downs with the fever, the doctors finally gave in and prescribed an antibiotic.  Poof! 24 hours later the fever went bye-bye.  I know that antibiotics need to be given sparingly, and that the development of some super-resistant mutant virus looms just outside the doorway, but virus or bacterial infection, the antibiotic always makes the fever go away for Mati, so for her health and our sanity, bring on the antibiotic, I say.

The little guy fought off his bug in a couple of days and has now returned to his somewhat clingy and mama-centric self versus a constant need to be attached to my hip/neck/chesty area.  My second grade class also endured the epidemic, and during the week I seriously debated hanging a quarantine sign on the room...despite watching videos on the proper method of handwashing, coughing methods to minimize germ dispersation, and keeping most work solo versus group, the highest attendance for the week was 16 out of 22, and even then, one of the girls went home with fever by the end of the day.  Most kids were out for a minimum of four days, so here's hoping that attendance is better next week...since so many were out, we got a bit behind on what we are supposed to be mastering, so they'll will be working at doublespeed next week so that we can get that double-digit addition hammered out before the February break.

I myself have a cold and am trying to minimize my own germ impact in the house, which is difficult with two ragamuffins using me as a climbing apparatus for the better part of the day.  Plus, the littler one has become fascinated with wiping his boogers on my shirt, while the bigger one has decided to employ the bizarre and gross habit of rubbing her runny nose on the carpet when I can't get to her in time with the kleenex.  Ew.  Where did she learn that method???

Raining and Pouring

Not literally.  Here in Barcelona, the weather is still just as lovely as can be.  I am speaking of the figurative raining and pouring, as in we are still at the hospital, the fever is still coming and going for the most part, though I am hoping it has finally gone for good.

Mati has some infection markers in her blood, however, so they are keeping her another night.  And I have just gotten a call as I sit here watching her sleep that my little Keane has a fever at his preschool and must be picked up.  Thank goodness for grandparents.  I've done my best the past couple of days to try to stay on top of things with work and a sick kid, but my husband and I are quickly reaching our stress limits.  I've gone into work both days this week, taught the classes I needed to teach, and headed to the hospital during my prep times with minimal coverage from substitutes.  I think that this is more than most would do...

Add to all of this that my class of second graders seem to be experiencing some sort of epidemic.  I had 12 students today out of 22, and two went home sick during the day.  Good lord.

I need this adorable Hazmat suit.  And a spa vacation to the Bahamas for a week.

And a nap.

So six months later...

What happened?  I went back to work.  Not to whinge or anything, but having two kids under the age of five (one of whom has some special needs, and the other of whom is just plain needy) and working full-time is basically kicking my ass.

But, I do need to make time to do things I like to do, and today I felt like doing this so, hooray!...a new post just shy of six months after the last time I posted.

Perhaps it is because I am stuck at the children's hospital here in Barcelona, because my beautiful Mati has gotten herself some sort of unidentified bug that has given her a raging fever and three fits in less than 24 hours, which warranted a trip to the ER.

The fever started on Friday night, and progressed as it usually does, rising and falling, getting higher with each rise until at around 4am Sunday morning, while her papa slept with her at my insistence (always deadly afraid that she'll seize in the night and we won't hear her over the video monitor) the first fit hit. Keane and I slept through it, but were awakened after it was over.  Kudos to hubby, as it sucks to sit through a fit on your own...it can be the longest 60 seconds of your life, waiting for it to stop.  The fever went down with some ibuprofen and some wet towels, and the day passed pretty well, fever rising and falling until another fit hit in the late afternoon, followed by another an hour later, accompanied by a fever of 39.5 C (about 103.5 F) that did not want to hit the road, despite our best efforts with ibuprofen, paracetamol, and the aforementioned towels.  So I packed Papa and Mati off to the ER, as I always feel more secure when she's there surrounded by calm and collected medical professionals, and large oxygen tanks.  If you've ever spent time in a children's ER, it is an unpleasant experience, and I understand why hubby did not want to go, while I had to stay home with the little guy...however, my decision was validated when the docs decided to keep her for the night, and now for another night as well.

Happily, we are in an isolation room, which means no sharing the telly, and I have taken most of the day off of work, so I can spend it with my little girl.  She's still feverish, glazy eyes and random babblings punctuated by requests for water.  Also, not so intersted in making sure her glasses are on straight, as you can see.  Quite happy now though, as she has Peppa Pig playing on the iPad and is holding a host of her favorite toys from home, and is resting comfortably on her Yo Gabba Gabba! pillowcase emblazoned with her name, a thoughtful birthday gift from my two little sisters.

And I am sitting on the couch in a rather beat-up gap camisole with my nursing bra peeking out, as the thermostat is not adjustable and the Barcelona sun is beating through the window.

The view is amazing though...sucks to be in a hospital, but made marginally better by the view of the Mediterranean and the city scape out the window...

The Loudest Street in the World

I am convinced I live there.  Reasons why?

1. We live directly above the Post Office.  This means that exactly at 8:00am (7:55, actually), the big yellow truck roars up right under our bedroom window and loads up.  Directly under us sits the warehouse, so for about 15 minutes each morning (and each afternoon at 2:30pm) there is all sorts of screeching, dragging, stacking, and general noisiness happening.  However, it is important to note that the truck used to roar up at 5:55am until we learned that it was illegal to make such noise before 8am and we filed a complaint with the town hall.  Amazingly, no one had done this before us as it took just one complaint for the truck to change its hours.

2. The obnoxious granddaughter.  Our building is filled with old people.  Directly above us live a set of grandparents (who ironically have complained about our dryer running too often).  They happen to be grandparents to a third-grade girl who finds it entirely appropriate to scream 'Iaia (pronounced Ya-Ya!)' repeatedly from the street instead of ringing her buzzer from downstairs.  Her parents apparently approve of this behavior, as they are often found standing next to their daughter as she bellows for her grandmother from the sidewalk.  When this lovely child does enter the building, she can be heard shouting and yelling up and down the stairs, and through our ceiling as she gallops around her grandparents' apartment.  Three years has done little to help her calm down, and she is just as noisy today as she was the day we moved in here.

3. The yappy dog across the street.  There is a little white puff ball that inhabits the apartment directly across from us.  He likes to show his dominance from two floors up by barking at every dog that happens to cross the street below him.  The other dogs rarely respond in kind, as mentioned before, this dog is no more threatening to them than a marshmallow.

4. Carpentry shop below and to the right.  Sawing.  Cutting. Noisy truck to transport things.

5. Scrap metal shop across the street.  Big noisy truck unloading noisy things.

6. Bar down and to the left.  It is a bar.  Enough said.

7. Moto and Motorcycle repair shop across the street.  Lots of motos roaring up and down our street all day  (and all night) long.  I am not sure why so many motos feel the need to have engines that roar louder than jet planes.  I imagine their drivers will have serious hearing problems someday.  The motos seem to have a knack to tear down the street exactly when I have just gotten Keane or Mati to sleep.  It's awesome.  And illegal, not that anything will be done about it.  After all, this is Spain.  Which brings me to my final point....

8.  This is Spain.  The general population is LOUD.  And seem to have a complete lack of respect for those around them that might be bothered by their prattling on at three in the morning on the street.  Teenagers, children, old people...they're all the same.  Noisy folk.

Maybe I am just grumpy because I have a headache.

Maybe I have a headache because it is too noisy on this street.

Chicken or egg, it is always so much more pleasant here when I can keep the windows shut.  Then I can hide in my apartment and pretend I am back in Germany where people are quiet and respectful.

Of course, there I would be getting complaints left and right about being too loud myself with my noisy dryer and whiny kids...

Heading home

The past few weeks we have been housesitting in Barcelona, and today we head back to our apartment about 20 minutes out of town.  While I have enjoyed being in the city, I will be happy to be back among my own things, in our own space, and on wood flooring again.  Such stress comes with these stone floors when you have a clumsy daughter and a crawling baby who likes to pull himself up on everything and try to cruise about on his tippy-toes.

Still a long stretch of the summer to go before school starts, and much to accomplish.  Matilda still shows little understanding of potty use, though she is going more often than not in the potty and communicating that she would like to sit there.  Once seated, however, she does not do much...often times, I think she uses the excuse to get out of eating dinner or going to bed.  She has us under her thumb a bit, as when she says "Ca-ca" we have no choice but to respond...tricky little monkey.

So all is packed up, and just waiting for the little man to awaken so I can run to the grocery and replenish the goods that we used up during our stay here.  Will be buying lots of wipeys, lots.  We go through those like gangbusters.

Trying to have a more positive outlook on life these days, and so my positive thought for the day is that I am happy to have the apartment that we live in.  It may be small and a bit tight for the four of us, but we have much space compared to most of the other people living on this overcrowded planet.  And again, we have wood floors.  With extra sponginess underneath for our little adventurers.

The Bait-and-Switch

Yesterday, I opened up a newly purchased package of cheese to find that it had gone moldy (mouldy, if you are reading from any other English-speaking country).  So, of course, being of the American persuasion, I decided to make a quick hop to the grocery store to return it.

Not an odd cultural observation?  While I am apt to return things that are legitimately broken, don't suit the purpose for which they were bought, or have gone moldy (mouldy), many people here seem to find this practice strange and perhaps, a bit 'pushy American' of me.

For the most part, when I have had to return things or ask for exchanges here in Spain, this has been done with a smile and quick accommodation on the part of the seller.  Though, the general population here still appears to be a bit resistant to the whole 'customer is always right' philosophy.  Am I always right?  Most certainly not.  But when I do choose to make a complaint or return something, I usually have put in the effort to solve the 'Should I return this or not?' equation.  Simply put, Value of item + Satisfaction of just outcome - Effort expended to get my inherently lazy self out the door and complete transaction in a foreign language = X.

X = Sit at home or Head out the door.

So when regarding the moldy cheese yesterday, X equaled go time, and so I went.

First transaction: the lady at the customer service desk spoke Catalan, so I was golden.  I speak much better Catalan than Spanish, as Jordi's family's home language is such, and I have very little time to practice my (pathetic) Spanish skills.  She told me to find a replacement cheese and direct the cashier in her direction when in line to pay.

Second transaction: After getting replacement cheese, picked a line with a Catalan-looking lady at the helm (and taking a peek at her name tag, deciding it was likely she would be able converse with me in my preferred language).  Still, I always prep my speech in my head prior to interaction, as going off the cuff often results in a tied tongue, sweaty forehead, and a confused conversation partner.  Person in front of me finishes paying, and I step in front of the cashier, ready to interact.

And a decidedly South American-looking woman slides in behind my Catalan cashier with her cash tray, ready to switch shifts.

It was all downhill from there.

I said something like: Woman. There. Change cheese. Me American.  Me good Spanish no.  No. No.  Bad cheese.  No good Spanish.  Me want cookies.  Om nom nom.  Cooookies!

She (rightly) said: ¿Que?

I needed to rework my equation.