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.

Name Change

Like the new template design?  New title, new purpose, and even a new little armchair in the corner of the background picture.  Soon, in a few weeks, a domain name change...ditching the 'goes global' theme, as it doesn't look like there is much going on for us globally these days.

I've come to realize that I do a lot of random observations - much to the chagrin of my husband, who I am afraid has grown a bit weary of my constant and continual reflections and comments on the nature of humankind and its evolution.  Random, I know, but I think about these things...like why Germans are better at managing themselves than Spaniards (or Italians, or Greeks, or pretty much anyone else on this continent for that matter...regardless of how they conducted themselves in the past).  Hint: I think it can be attributed to the old adage about the Grasshopper and the Ant story.  I also armchair anthropologize my family rather frequently, and perhaps it is true that I should keep some of these thoughts to myself.

So I've come up with a new purpose for this blog, and a redirection might be what I need to keep more interested and focused on posting more frequently.  Random observations on peoplekind...sometimes short and sweet, sometimes probably a bit too lengthy and rambling.  But always based in some sort of true-to-life experience on my part.

I'm sure my husband will be happy that I have found an outlet for this sort of mind-meandering that I so frequently indulge in.

Tomorrow's topic: why men have such a hard time being sick.

Okay, maybe not...that's not so much of a unique observation as it is a factual truth.  At least according to most women...

Sick Bug

So after ten months of fantastic health, my little guy has caught his first nasty virus.  He, along with the rest of the family, did have a bout with the flu back in February, but he seemed to weather it better, and just had a wee bit of fever for a day or so and was done with it.  This, in contrast to Jordi and myself, who spent the better part of five days battling high fevers and exhaustion, along with chills and lots of moaning and groaning.

Yesterday morning, as I picked him up out of his chair after a less than successful breakfast (which is unusual for our champion eater), he felt a bit warmer than usual.  After a quick thermometer up the bum, it was confirmed that he did have a bit of a fever at 37.7 C (99.8 F for those of you playing at home).  Not a biggie, though with all of our issues with Mati and fever seizures it is still hard for me to adjust to the fact that life can carry on a bit better when Keane falls ill.  We went on with our plans for the day, but around lunchtime, I discovered that along with the low-grade fever, he had also developed a bit of a rash.

So, off to the doctor we went, to find that due to the holiday schedule of the doctors, there was only a pediatrician in the mornings, and we would have to see one of the doctors that catered to adults.  She gave him an exam and pronounced that he just had a heat rash.  Really?, I thought, thinking that the body temp was a bit higher than normal to be considered a heat rash, but both she and the pediatric nurse on duty did not seem terribly concerned, and so kept my thoughts to myself.

Fast forward to last night, after the temperature shot up to 39.3 C (102.2 F), Keane throwing up his dinner, and being generally much crankier than usual (as he is the sunniest, most content little guy you are likely to meet - why else do you think I flew twice to the US, by myself, with him) and the heat rash theory seemed to be obviously inaccurate.

The fever raged through the night, and unlike his sister, it has been discovered that Keane does not enjoy the taste of orange-flavored Dalsy, the brand of children's ibuprofen available here.  When trying to administer it at around 5am, he promptly vomited all over my jammies, his diaper, and our pillows.  Nice.  So had to dilute it with water and drip it on his pacifier (and on the bed, new jammies, and self).  He was not pleased, but the fever did start to drop.

Upon awakening for the day, I sent Jordi in search of suppository Ibuprofen and Paracetamol (Tylenol, for those of you still playing along from the States).  He returned with just the Paracetamol, saying that the pharmacist was flummoxed that he didn't like the flavor of Dalsy, and that it didn't come in an up the bum version.  Paracetamol doesn't seem to do much for this fever, and Keane was again most displeased with the bum method, so we did battle once again with the Dalsy, along with some wet cloths, and the fever has been gone for a few hours now.  Let's hope another fever spike is not part of this evening's agenda.

The rash is persisting, and I can't quite figure out what he has, though Jordi reminded me that Matilda had something very similar a few years ago.  Most bugs that come with a rash (Roseola, Fifth disease, Measles) typically have the rash appearing after the fever, not on the same day the fever starts.

Who knows?  It will be nice to have my baby boy all better again, eating well, and filling back out to his normal chubby self.  It will also be nice not to have to stick things up his bum and hope that he doesn't shower me with vomit after every meal as well.  Joys of parenting, right?

I love this metaphor.

WELCOME TO HOLLAND

by
Emily Perl Kingsley.

c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.

Mati, you are my Holland...love you, you big crazy goofball.  Maybe you're just speaking Dutch, and that's why sometimes we have a tough time figuring out what you are trying to tell us!

Saint Martin

That is the name of a lovely canal in Paris, near to where I spent one summer six years ago.

It is also the name of our daughter's neurologist.  Of course, his name is not Saint Martin exactly, but the Catalan translation of this name.  We had yet another meeting with him this past week to discuss Matilda's condition, progress, medication, and seizure control.  It must be said, before updating on our most recent visit, that Dr. SM and I do not have the best relationship.  I think he finds me to be an outspoken American, and he does not like when his patients' parents ask questions.  And I ask questions.  What mother doesn't?  Apparently, all of the other mothers he deals with, as he tends to get quite argumentative with me when I ask him to look at our daughter's case on an individual basis, and not to just pump her full of drugs because that is 'how you treat Dravet Syndrome.' (Said with a stern look, and a cursory glance at Jordi as if to say: 'Why on Earth did you marry this pushy American woman?')  Matilda does have the genetic mutation that is associated with Dravet Syndrome, and she certainly does have many of the characteristics - but her mutation is in a different position (whatever that means, though apparently it is a good thing in this case), and therefore she is not presenting as severe as many of the other children who have this diagnosis.  She has far fewer seizures, always associated with a fever, and though she does have some difficulty with motor control as well as speech and cognitive delays, she is progressing with the aid of her speech therapist, psychologist, and physical therapist.  We had to fight for those things, however, as when I first questioned this doctor of the possibility of getting her started with physical therapy about a year-and-a-half ago, his response was: 'Motor skill issues are part of the syndrome.'  As if this means that she is hopeless, and there is no way to improve her coordination.  Dick.  (Sorry for the expletive.)  Anyway, he really hates it when I ask about different medications or lowering certain ones (especially when I suggest that the reason our daughter has stopped eating/sleeping/walking well/etc. has something to do with one of his precious prescriptions that still has yet to get our daughter's seizures under control).  Again, dick. (Apologies.)

So on to last week's appointment.  I had encountered another mother whose daughter has the same diagnosis, and she has been seizure-free for 15 months.  Her medication is different than Matilda's, so we wanted to ask about this med for Mati.  However, knowing the doc's love and respect for yours truly, I made Jordi ask him.  Man, the response was off the charts.  He got really pissed off, pounded the table, looked directly at me (recall that I did not utter a word!) and said 'It is always the same with you, you want to change everything.  If you don't have confidence in your doctor, you should change.  It wouldn't bother me. (Note: I actually think he would prefer it - maybe he was being mean to me in the vein of how guys are mean to girls when they want the girl to break it off with them.) There are just two ways to treat this syndrome, with this, this, and this, or what you are currently using.  You didn't like the previous three medications (Note: Matilda woke up EVERY night from 2 to 5 am, hyper and ready to party - would you like that medication?  Maybe she could have bunked with Dr. SM for the six months of sleepless hell that was Stiripentol.) Switch doctors, it wouldn't bother me.'  Again, this was all directed at me!  There were two student doctors in the room, both looking baffled and a bit wary of their 'mentor' doctor.

What shall we do?  To find a new neurologist would be difficult, as he is the chief of the neuro crew there. Maybe with Obamacare being upheld by the Supreme Court, it is a signal to us to make the move to the US where most doctors seem to have a better handle on bedside manner.

Vila Olimpica

This week, we have become squatters.  Sort of, anyway.  A parent from school offered his apartment to us for a week this summer, while he is out of town, as kind of a housesitting gig.  The place is in Vila Olimpica, the former olympic village for athletes during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona.

About a 10-minute walk from the city beach, and steps from the movie theatre that plays movies in English (not that we can actually go, with two small people taking up most of our time and energy, but still nice to have it nearby!).  We've enjoyed being here, however, not due to the apartment's location, but more so because we just have a bit more space to move around.  The apartment is just 10-15 square meters bigger than our own, it is also a three-bedroom with a balcony, but that extra bit of space makes a big difference.  The kitchen is eat-in, the bedrooms are suitable for double beds, not just twins, and there are TWO bathrooms!  Which, of course, leads us to the continuous discussion: how can we get more space?

Right now, we live in Jordi's grandmother's old apartment, which we have refurbished for the most part, and due to this, we don't pay any rent.  This is a godsend, as our salaries are painfully low (though I feel a bit bad complaining about that, considering that 25% of people in this country have no salary at all to speak of).  Regardless, free is about as inexpensive as it gets.

But we need a place with a bit more room for two growing people (one of which has extreme hyperactivity) to move around, and to have something like yard would be amazing.  That is impossible in our current location, as houses with yards go for around 1.5 million euros.

What to do?

So I started this blog...

...with the intention of writing if not every day, at least every few days.  And then suddenly over a month and a half has gone by, and I've not written a word except for my weekly grocery list and notes to and from my daughter's preschool.  Time slips away too easily, and making time to digitally journal my life has gotten shoved onto the back burner.  As has cooking (though that may have more to do with the fact that it is blisteringly hot here in Barcelona, and I have zero desire to turn on the stove in our tiny, unairconditioned apartment), cleaning (though to be honest, I've never been too spectacular at that anyway), and reading books made out of paper (no excuse there, I can chalk that one up to wasting time on Facebook and reading celebrity gossip rags...can you believe that Tomkat has come to an end???).

What have I been up to?  Well, potty-training my daughter, which is quite the challenge, and has been going on for the better part of a year.  Her developmental disorder throws a wrench in all of that, and so we're trying a method using picture cues and a schedule, as she seems not to be terribly bothered by diapers and is quite content to wear them for the foreseeable future.  However, we have to get this accomplished by September, as our school requires children to be trained, and if she is not ready then we'll have to look for an alternative option.  Cross that bridge when we get there - I'm still hopeful.

Also, Keane and I have been quite the travelers.  Last weekend we headed to Paris with a dear friend and my former teaching partner.  I love that city, and was excited to see it again - will dedicate a post to the trip in the next few days.  Also we went back to the US for a week for family reasons.  Good to see the family, but under sad circumstances.  We miss you, Paul.

Finally, we are out of our house for a couple of weeks, living as gypsies in the city while a former teaching colleague and his family take up residence in our apartment.  We promised him that he could stay there back when we were still planning on making a trip to the US in the summer.  When that got shelved, we really couldn't back out, as he had paid for a day camp for his boys, so we asked around school to see who needed their plants watered while they were away for the summer, and scored a couple of housesitting gigs to cover the two weeks.  Right now we are staying in the Vila Olympica, near the beach.  These are the former apartments of the Olympic athletes from the '92 games.  Sort of cool, but I'm a bit shocked that they didn't all have central air.  The breeze is nice, but on a night like tonight it gets a bit sticky for sleeping.

Next week we move to a great place behind my favorite shopping mall, which has Jordi excessively worried.  I wouldn't be surprised to find that my bankcard has mysteriously disappeared come Thursday when we change apartments.

So there you have it, a new entry.  July resolution: write more often.  And learn Spanish.  And improve Catalan.  And eat more salads.  Read more books.

Oh right.  I have small children.  Perhaps I'll just cross the salad bit off of the resolution list to free up some time.  I usually just eat the leftovers off of Matilda's plate anyways.  And she is most definitely not into salads.

Good morning, America, how are you?

I woke up on Thursday morning in Barcelona.  I went to bed Thursday night in Denver.  It still amazes me that this is humanly possible.  Even more so, that Keane and I managed to make it through the entire traveling experience with minimal meltdown moments, and jet lag induced freak-outs during our stay here.

Upon landing in Atlanta for our connecting flight to Denver, I was amazed (as always) at the friendliness of everyone around us.  Maybe it was partially because I was toting the cutest baby in the world, as well as dragging an enormous red suitcase behind me while simultaneously pushing a stroller teetering with my diaper bag and purse.  But I tend to think that Americans are just pretty much friendly and helpful people for the most part, and as we made our way through customs, finding our new gate, and boarding the second plane, everyone we encountered seemed to want to lend a hand to help us out.  Same upon our arrival in Denver.  For some odd reason, in this airport, you must take a train three stops to collect your baggage.  Odd.  Anyway, people were quick to make sure we were able to enter and exit the train with a minimum of discomfort, and a myriad of folk smiled at my sweetly sleeping infant snugly strapped to his mama.

Our time here in Denver has been short on quantity but full on quality.  We came for my cousin's wedding on Saturday, and were able to see relatives from California and Colorado that I had not seen since my own wedding.  My mother is one of seven children, and most of my many cousins managed to be here, and we tore up the dance floor until they loaded us on the buses to head home.  The ceremony was beautiful, at a gorgeous farm outside of Denver, the food fabulous, and every single detail perfect.  And to wrap up the night, some Bon Jovi and Def Leppard dance time while my parents thoughtfully kept an eye on a lightly sleeping Keane so I could have a little free time.  Of course, alcohol was not on the menu for me this time around, so I was a bit more reserved on the dance floor at first...but 'Pour Some Sugar on Me' has the tendency to loosen up the moves, and it was a fabulous evening.

Shopping was another key highlight of our time here, as nothing quite beats Walgreens, and I am not embarrassed to say I made my parents take me there three times during our stay.  Which pretty much means I made a Walgreens run every single day.  Bless you, Walgreens, you have everything I need, and you are not enormously exhausting like Wal-Mart.  I wish we had you in Spain.

Tomorrow, we will be back on the plane to NYC and on to BCN.  Hopefully, my little man will give a repeat performance of total awesomeness on the flights home.  I can't wait to give my little Monkey Lou a big hug.  And sleep.  Lots.

Dress disaster

So I have this perfect go-to dress for weddings, black with this cute kimono sash.  Great length, can wear a normal bra, and has a v in front so I can feed Keane without having to retreat to a bathroom and haul my whole outfit over my head.

And it has disappeared.

It is not to be found in any of our closets, nor in Jordi's parent's house, where we store a lot of our clothing during the off season.

Keane and I are heading to Denver next week for a wedding and I was really counting on this dress to be my outfit of choice...seeing as this was not to be, however, the only other alternative was to go shopping.  Despite trips to three different shopping malls, I did not find one single item that fit the bill.  I managed to purchase something at a Mango store, but upon trying it on at home, I found the length far too short to be appropriate for a family wedding, and this problem was only compounded when I added heels to the ensemble.  Much more appropriate for working the pole, if you know what I mean.

So I reached out to a few teachers at school, and have managed to find a few suitable options for  next week, thank goodness.

With a nice pair of Spanx, I might just manage to look respectable...even while whipping the gals out so that Keane can have his evening meal (though it might actually be his breakfast since I plan to try to keep him on Barcelona time while we are away, since it is just four short days...we'll see how that turns out!).

Correfoc

So last night was the 'Correfoc' in our little town.  This is when drum squads, dancing demons with giant sparklers, and plaster dragons with exorcist-type spinning heads spewing flames and  parade down the streets.  All neighborhood residents are encouraged to move their cars, close their windows, and wear non-synthetic clothing, in case a rogue sparkler gets away from one of the demons.  I imagine the correfocs in the bigger towns are much livelier, but last night's display was quite enough for me and my two sleeping children.  Mati slept through the whole thing, while Keane seemed a bit concerned with all of the noise...i.e. he freaked out.  I tried to take a video of what you could see from the balcony...

Here is more info, courtesy of our friends at Wikipedia:

Correfocs (Catalan pronunciation: [ˌkorəˈfɔks], Western Catalan: [ˌkoreˈfɔks]); literally inEnglish "fire-runs") are among the most striking features present in Catalan festivals. In the correfoc, a group of individuals will dress as devils and light fireworks. While dancing to the drums of a traditional gralla, they will set off their fireworks among crowds of spectators.

Correfoc in Valencia

The correfoc can come in many forms. Some are simple parades using fireworks and effigies of the devil. In Sitges, it is common for a crowd to line a street, while participants run through a tunnel of fireworks. In Barcelona and Tarragona, the correfocis run during the Festival of La Mercè, in September.

Another typical Catalan folkloric expression of this sort takes place in L'Arboç. The highlight of the village's feast is the Carretillada. In the evening of the feast day, the town square is made to look like Hell. For nearly half an hour, "devils" burn theircarretilles (carts), jumping around ceaselessly, while a large "sceptre of Lucifer" and the "pitchfork of the Diablessa (she-devil)" shoot fire-jets and other pyrotechnics. Every year, the carretillada is a bit different, because the 'colla' (group) does not give up novelties that are added each year to add to the spectacle.

Back to work...

So, after hemming and hawing for a year or so, I'm definitely going back to work full time next year as a classroom teacher.  I was desperately holding out for a part-time position, or even a move to ELL or Reading Support teacher (as not having a classroom offers more flexibility, even if it is full time), but the director said both options were not going to happen, and that he really hoped I'd consider coming back to grade 2.  So...I am.  I like teaching classroom, and enjoy the special bond that a teacher creates with their group of kids...but it was a real struggle last year with Mati getting sick fairly often, and fitting in the many doctor's appointments that she has.  Add in my pregnancy appointments (here we are on the Catalan health care program, and you really don't get much of a say with your appointment times!), and I was constantly rearranging my schedule so the specialists would be teaching my classes while I or Matilda was off having medical fun times.

The thing I am very excited about is my teaching partner!  She seems like a good fit, and moved down from grade 3 to grade 2 last year.  She is really into collaborating, which is great for the kids and also great for cutting down the work load.  I had a fantastic partnership in Bonn with another mother who knew the value of getting in and getting it done, as well as a couple of amazing collaborators I was partnered with in Chicago (you know who you are, ladies!).  My most recent year of teaching was not filled with much collaboration, as that was not the style of my teammates, and I often found myself quite isolated and a bit lonely in my classroom with my 16 students.  Next year should prove to be much different, as we have already started talking about writing a year long curriculum plan, and trying to be on the same page as much as possible.  Happy times are ahead.

Now, just have to go to the public daycare next door, and hope for the best with the lottery.  That way the little man will be well taken care of while his mama, papa, and sister are all at school together.  But the first step is the open house ('open doors' it is called here) next week.  Here's hoping my Catalan is up to snuff, and there are plenty of spots available!

And we have our answer.

Well, turns out that Monkey was being a right pain in the ass the past few days because she was getting sick.  And around here, getting sick usually means a seizure, so...

It happened as we were on our way back from the coast towards home.  I've often reflected on how she never has had a fit while we were driving in the car.  Can cross that off the list now.  We were about 25 minutes from home, and both little ones were napping in the back seat.  I periodically turn around to check up on our girl out of habit every couple of minutes.  One minute I look back and she is sleeping peacefully in her car seat, a couple of minutes later, looking back reveals that she has gone rigid, head fully turned to the left and tensed, eyes open but not seeing out the window.  I jumped to the back, Jordi stopped the car, and we gave her a valium to stop the fit.  I sat in the back holding her, while Jordi jumped back into the driver's seat to speed us towards the children's hospital about 15 minutes away in case the seizure didn't stop.  It did stop, finally, after about 15 minutes (an eternity compared to the fact that for the past couple of years they've only been lasting about 30 seconds to one minute).  She has a fever, and is now resting on the big bed next to me while I hold her wiggly younger brother (who is 7 months old today!!).

Here's hoping the fever drops in the next few hours and we remain fit-free for the next few days...

Not so much holiday...

So we've rented a 'Casa de Pages' or country house in the town of Begur, which has lovely proximity to several small beaches and coves.  It is a bit to chilly to hit the surf, however, so we've been letting Monkey Lou run amok in the sand, attempting to keep her out of the ocean (no easy feat), and going on walks about the town.

The past two days it has been a bit rainy, so we've been taking drives around the area.  I find that driving with both children securely strapped down in the back seat to be oftentimes the most relaxing way to spend an hour.  It is really the only time one of us isn't chasing after our daughter or holding the little guy, who is not terribly fond of spending time on his own.  Quite the opposites, these two - one runs as fast as she can away from us, while the other holds on as tightly as possible.

Monkey has been very difficult to deal with these past days.  Granted, as I've mentioned before, she has a rare type of epilepsy that manifests itself in various ways.  While she does not seem to have the same amount of seizures as other children with this diagnosis, she is increasingly showing greater signs of developmental delay, language delay, cognitive issues, and attention difficulties.  I've read that the hyperactivity should start to wane at about age 5 or 6, but that is still a good two years off, and I wonder sometimes if we will all survive until then.  She is very difficult to control, and has absolutely no awareness of the dangers that surround her.  We are trying not to be helicopter parents, but it is difficult when your child will happily run in front of a semi-truck or off the edge of a cliff with nary a look back.  So, 'vacationing' with her can be quite stressful.  In a new place, she seems to have double the hyperactivity levels as she explores, grabs, chews, and tosses anything she can get her hands on.  Today she threw several temper tantrums, and at one point we both just sort of gave up and left her to her own devices for a short while which resulted in her grabbing a drying sweatshirt from the line and dunking it into a mud puddle on the porch repeatedly.  She had great fun, and had no understanding as to why perhaps this was not the best plan, given the chilly temperatures.

At home, we can put her in her soundly Monkey-proofed room, with a spy camera so we can keep an eye on things, and go about having some semblance of alone time.  Here in our country house, this is not an option.  This has actually resulted in us having more stress that what is typical, and has essentially made our relaxing week on the coast a bit less than idyll.  Our house is near the center of town, an ideal location, but is on three floors, with rather wobbly stone steps (just great for our kid with motor skill issues), hard tile uneven floors, and a rather musty odor.  Each morning, Jordi bleaches the hell out of the floors, and each evening they are covered by a layer of grit that we can't seem to get in front of.  It really is a country house, and the lovely photos in the ad left out quite a bit of information.  No stairs were pictured, and I suppose one of us should have noticed that the kitchen also was not photographed.  In fact, there are two kitchens, and they aren't terrible...after a good attack by my husband the bleachmaster.

Well, one more day here, and we head back home.  Easter festivities await, and Jordi's mom has been working all week on creating the Monas (easter cakes) for her grandchildren.  Great fancy confections they are, with loads of chocolate decorations.  A diet will be a must following this week of indulgence (there is an Indian restaurant in the town we are in, and I managed to satisfy my cravings with an approximately 5,000 calorie meal this evening, topped of by a bag of dark chocolate almond clusters from the local Xocolateria).

For now, all three of my family members are asleep and I should probably hit the hay as well.  Another day of Monkey wrangling ahead of me tomorrow - here's hoping whatever bug has been up her backside these past couple of days takes a rest tomorrow.  Vacation is almost over, and I think I can safely say that Papa and I are more exhausted than when we got here!

FInally!

Finally we are headed out of our poblet and up the coast!  We tried to escape once, back during February break...but if you recall, our German-engineered wonder decided to go kaput, and we were back home in a little under two hours from our departure.

But hopefully, today we will truly escape for the week.  We have a little house in the town center, there are lovely beaches and coves within a twenty-minute walk, castles and windy streets, and local crafty things to spend money on.  And it is Semana Santa, which means all of the holy stuff will be happening as well as everyone prepares for Easter.

Here, Palm Sunday is quite the festa, as children are given elaborately woven palms to take to church (which they wield a bit like weapons), and some of the adult palms can get a bit out of control.

Jordi's mother already gave Monkey her palm, and she promptly tried to 'pat' her brother on the head with it, mistaking it for a giant hairbrush.  Though he nearly lost an eye in the conflict, he didn't seem to fussed about it.

As for the American portion of our Easter celebrations, I contracted my mother to send over some old school Paas egg dyeing kits, malted eggs (which are already gone, eaten entirely by yours truly), chocolate bunnies, and some easter grass.  We'll be doing the egg hunt next Sunday when we have returned home. The real challenge is to find white eggs to dye.  Last year we had to go to a specialty egg shop to find them.  The plain white chicken eggs were housed right next to what was advertised to be a pair of ostrich eggs, but what to me seemed to be large enough to house a baby T-rex.  Exotic, they are, white chicken eggs.  But the color just doesn't really work on the brown...looks a bit depressing.

Well, off to pack.  A much different experience with a baby and toddler in tow...chairs, toys, books, art supplies, tricycle, baby carriers, and the list goes on and on. The car will be so packed, I'm not entirely sure we'll actually have enough room for the children.

Bona Pasqua!