Bugging Out

I am not adapting well these days.


Ugh. Some cultural differences are easy to just get over. Some are not. Where I come from, if there’s a bug or a rodent in the house, you get rid of it. Or you call a guy and he gets rid of it. Or he comes and sprays something that probably will someday kill him, too, but then all the little unwanted things are dead and you forget to worry about the exterminator’s health.

But. Here. Here in this godforsaken hell-hole of a bunch of nature-loving freaks….

Oh mah gawd. GAAAHHHHH!!!!!!! We have spiders in the garage the size of my palm– OK, not that big more like O’s palm- larger than anything I am comfortable with. My husband argues “they aren’t poisonous”. Well, no, technically, they are venomous, not poisonous. And maybe, as he says, they rarely bite people. (I don’t believe that he’s never been bit by one because he doesn’t pay that much attention to what’s going on around him or even on his body and he probably wouldn’t have noticed it was a spider bite just a red itchy spot that went away after some time.) But this guy proves they can bite and it will hurt, even if you won’t die from it. Ick. But Germans still seem to embrace these disgusting things.


Now, moving on to to other lawfully protected species. Wasps. Did you know that in Germany you aren’t supposed to kill a wasp’s nest?

Wait, whut?


Are you serious? Are you freaking kidding me? They are F—ing WASPS for crying out loud. And they have nested in the rolling shudders on O’s window. Our landlord told us to just roll the shudders up and down a lot and hope they go away on their own. You know what that does? Pisses them off. Like, a lot.

I do not understand Germans. Wasps serve no purpose in life other than to screw things up. They kill bees. Don’t you freaking hippies know that there’s a bee shortage in the world right now???? Kill the wasps. Oh, but no. If you google it in German, you’ll find on every forum where someone needs to get rid of a nest that “wasps are important predators in our ecosystem and it would be a shame to kill them”. Well, guess what. They never ate the damn aphids that killed my cilantro, so they really serve no important purpose in my ecosystem.


This is what my life has come to. I am seriously losing my shit over insects. And my husband could care less. Being so intellectually evolved and all, he has no caveman instincts to protect his cave. Grrrr…..

If they weren’t in the bleeping wall of O’s room, I’d go all redneck and fashion a makeshift blowtorch and burn their nest to nothingness. As it is, I’m going to put on something low-cut and flirt with the fire department. Internet rumors say they “might” help you if you can prove that the wasps are a danger or if the nest is too close to where children are. Let’s just hope they don’t tell me to just keep his window shut…


Adaptable Mamma is expanding!

No, I’m not going to start doing podcasts. I mean, I am literally expanding. My pants don’t fit anymore. I can only wear the half of my shirts that are flowy and baggy and the slim-fitting ones have been packed away in a box. But its good growth. Because it’s not just me growing, but our whole family!

Coming December 27, 2014! (or really, whenever it's ready- we know how babies are)

Coming December 27, 2014! (or really, whenever it’s ready- we know how babies are)

That’s right, folks! I wasn’t crazy enough cooking and cleaning up after my two boys. Cutting the dog’s thyroid and blood pressure pills into quarters and eighths wasn’t time consuming enough. Teaching a course that has no book and making my own curriculum and materials up as I go was getting to be too easy. We’re adding another family member to the family!

I am both excited and terrified. Hmm… much like the last time I was pregnant. I guess all pregnancies are both different and the same. I’ve already been pregnant and given birth in the US with a doctor I adored (I still recommend people to him that say they don’t like their doctor). This time I’m getting the German experience which is a little bit different. Ok, probably a lotta bit different. Let’s just hope my labor lasts long enough for the drive to Tübingen, so I can maybe have doctors who understand some English around…

I love my child, but….

Peaches Geldof- thanks for supporting my theory that most women must be on something if they are full on “attachment parenting” parents.


I’m writing this post from the bathroom the tiny water closet with just the toilet in it. Now, I’ve had this thing where I really don’t like being in a bathroom with the door closed since I got stuck in the tiny bathroom in the Pre-K room at St. Theresa. But I’ve come to learn to love hiding in this very tiny tiny room with a functioning lock on the door. Even then, though, sometimes I can’t enjoy pooping (or pretending to poop) in peace. Case in point: As I was writing that last sentence a small voice called through the grate on the door “Mommy!!! I have to go! Are you in there, mommy? Are you trying to poopoo? Is it coming out?” (We discuss poop quite openly in this house, apparently)


We’re on Day 3 of O not being at kindergarten. May 1 is a Labor Day sort of holiday here in Germany. So the kindergarten was closed Thursday and Friday, too. How lovely! What makes this time even more special is that my child is at that age where he asks A LOT of questions. Like repeatedly asking, “When are we going to …?” Or asking, “But, why?” in response to anything that comes out of my mouth. As the title of this post implies- I love my child, but… I swear, it’s like he has this special patience detector. And right when I start to run low on patience, that’s when he attacks. Endless questions, whining, repeating the same things over and over, clinging to my legs. Gah!!! I mean, I know that someday I’ll look back on these times and laugh, maybe even miss the way he has to be physically attached to me in some way at EVERY MOMENT. And I must obviously love O. My brother used to be the same way as a little kid. I punched him quite often. So my restraint of not knocking my kid out is proof of both my increased maturity and my motherly love, right? :)



Note to attachment parents: I admire you for doing what you think is right for your kid. I just really, really don’t understand y’all. I think our brains are just wired differently.

My life, as told by Sophia Patrillo

Picture it: Germany 2014

A young(ish) wife gets off the train after spending the day working in the city. She makes her way through the streets of the small town. It’s a beautiful sunny day. Suddenly, she sees him: her husband, sitting outside a cafe eating an ice cream cone. She smiles thinking she’ll surprise him. As she walks on she sees someone else sitting at the table. She doesn’t know this person. Maybe her eyes are playing tricks on her. The sun is low, maybe she only thinks the two are at the same table. She makes her way forward debating whether she, too, should have some ice cream— her waistline is not as slim as it once was! As she approaches the table, she realizes she’s made a grave mistake. The other person is sitting at the table with her husband. She’s shocked.

That young woman was me. And the other person at the table, was my own son. His hair was so long and wild, that he looked like a new person after a haircut! Look how grown up this child looks:

All smiles after a haircut and an ice cream cone.

All smiles after a haircut and an ice cream cone.

I am so thankful I had a C-section

Yes, you read that right.

Tonight, my very insightful 3 year old asked “How did I come out of your belly??” Now, I’m not the kind of mom to sugar coat much on the biology/anatomy front. I believe in honest age-appropriate answers. He knows that sometimes women have big bellies because they are growing babies. But I was relieved to be able to answer honestly, “Well, honey, the doctor had to cut my tummy a little bit and pull you out.” I mean, let’s face it, explaining vaginal delivery is not exactly age-appropriate for any age.

Just another little gripe session

I’ve made a decision. I’m buying our house. Let me re-phrase that, when we have money saved in like 8 years and we can buy a house, I’m picking it out. I might let my husband express his opinion, but I will make the decision by myself.

This apartment has been nothing but one problem after another. The kitchen is a disaster. We bought a fullsize dishwasher b/c the small one we had was way too small. We measured everything and thought, ok, perfect, just enough room for a regular sized dishwasher. Well, guess what. The wall is crooked! So, while there is enough room at the front to put the dishwasher in, but it stops about 2/3 of the way and gets stuck on the wall. Our old apartment was pretty awful, and I will admit that this place is an improvement. But seriously y’all, I was only able to deal with the old apartment because I could close my eyes, take a deep breath and remind myself that it was only temporary. Now A says that we have to stay here until we buy a house (in 8 years)! Gah!!!

Oh, and the only reasons I relented and accepted this apartment is because the rent was slightly less and it had a yard for O to play in. Guess what, he doesn’t like to go outside and play by himself.

If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going bang my head on the wall. I’ll try the wall where the dishwasher belongs, maybe I can knock off some of the plaster so I can get my dishwasher in place ._.



Update: Our landlord came over tonight. He had to take out a cabinet next to the dishwasher, but now the dishwasher is under the counter and working. Oh, and now there is only one cabinet and an oven in between the sink and dishwasher. One less foot of dripping water when I load the dishwasher! Now, where in the heck am I going to stick this cabinet???

I think I should add “drinking more” to my New Year’s resolutions

I’m considering learning voodoo. Or perhaps finding a special novena to pray. Maybe I should just burn some sage and glue salt to my ceiling to keep the bad juju from falling in on our heads.

Whatever I do, I’m going to have to do it quick. You see, as someone not quite cut-out for confrontation, I’m running out of options. Our upstairs neighbors are, nicely put, asshats. One or both of them drinks (really) heavily. They fight roughly 5 times a week. Loudly. Throwing furniture. Till 2 am sometimes and then they’re at it again at 7 the next morning. Rumor has it he beats her, and by the looks of her face, I believe the rumors. Oh, and they’re in their mid to late seventies. I keep thinking that I’d be too old for this shit, so they are double-y to old to be living out a Rhianna-Chris Brown love affair.

We’ve called the landlord. We’ve called the cops several times. The cops came once, but when they rang our bell, Penny started barking and the people upstairs shut up for the 5 minutes the police were here. They basically said unless someone calls out for help, they really couldn’t do anything. I’ve taken to playing music rather loudly during the day. Which, when I go out in the hall or down to the cellar, I can’t hear it, so then I have to wonder, How f—ing loud are these people? I mean, we can hear entire arguments. He was calling out for help the other day and Armin heard her say something to the effect of wanting an apology for something. We eventually called the cops, who then called an ambulance. Supposedly the old man fell… Fell? Drunkenly stumbled? Was pushed by his wife? Who the heck knows?

The funny part is, when we moved into the building I worried that we would be the loud ones.