It Ain’t Easy Being Three

It’s raining today in Vienna. What in the world does one do with a baby when it’s raining? I basically let her eat bandaids tear the bathroom apart because we’ve been trapped inside since 7am.

In totally non-bandaid-related news, months and months ago, I made some notes on my iPhone while my daughter slept in her stroller after I had walked the entire city of Vienna. I was sick of feeling like the only person who hadn’t had a picture-perfect transition to family life; that something was off kilter. When I had more than 45 minutes at a stretch to sit down at the computer, these notes eventually evolved into an essay about the myth of the instant family — or the difficulty of becoming three.

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I am so, so pleased that the ladies at The Toast published it last week. You can read it by clicking here. The response has been overwhelming — so, so many people go through this, it turns out! — and I’d love to hear from even more of you.

xo

Happy Pesach! Or As I Like to Call It, Thanksgiving.

As most of you know, Passover is all about deprivation, although of a lesser kind than at Yom Kippur the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. It is about getting drunk and sitting through the most drawn out, hunger-inducing meal of the year eating a lot of crackers Matzoh, and forcing asking the youngest child to open the front door for a ghost or a stranger Elijah. It is about spending a long, boozy evening with your extended family, or if you live abroad, your four wonderful Jewish friends.

Over here, at our house, we also think of it as Finding Your Spouse Day.

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We think of Passover as a kind of Thanksgiving, a moment to reflect on all we are thankful for — or as a kind of Christmas (well, not as Christmas because we’re Jews, but some equivalent holiday where magical things come true and you get lots of presents, and no, Hannukah doesn’t count). In any event, it’s a significant, beautiful holiday for us. Our favorite. Proof that Hashem love and the internet are real. That one’s bashert might exist.

This morning (and by “this morning” I mean 5:30am when the sky was utterly black) when I looked at our daughter (who, by the way, has decided to no longer sleep through the night because I made an official declaration that she was doing so), I thought, Why the hell won’t you sleep through the night anymore? Thank God for Passover (minus the enslavement and exodus), because without it, you wouldn’t be here!

Seven years ago, when I still had my nice, pre-baby figure was a lonely, single New York City girl, I was Seder-less. A wonderful friend urged me to host a goy Seder. I did. Then I wrote about it. Fast forward many, many years and a random man across the world read it and wrote to me.

And now we are three.

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The short version of this story is here.

The longer one (complete with an incredibly embarrassing video) is here.

The original piece is here.

The moral of the story is: write about being single and someone might take pity on you and marry you Passover really is about finding (or, you know, giving birth to) your chosen people.

May it be a happy, healthy, beautiful one for you and yours. Next year, in Brooklyn Jerusalem!

xo

PS: We’re bringing the little lady to her first Seder tonight. Wish us luck.

 

 

 

The Waiting Game

What does one do at 1,000 38+ weeks pregnant? This is an honest question. I am sure I am doing something wrong. My list includes:

  • Watch reruns of Homeland and weep (over what, exactly? Brody? Carrie’s insanity?) Apply for a Fulbright.
  • Buy a diaper genie and some diapers, while I’m at it Work on the book.
  • Enjoy my last few nights of getting up to pee every hour still not being able to drink.
  • Take a long nap walk.

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Obviously I’m conflicted. Here in Austria, most women go on you’re too huge and tired to work anyway so go home Mutterschutz at 32 weeks. This means they are legally obligated to stop working — so obligated, in fact, that a friend had her phone and email shut down by the company she works for on her last day. On a scale of Austria to America, this is a wonderful thing.

To be honest, however, I’m not exactly sure what the time is for (who am I kidding? It’s for watching Homeland) but it is certainly a much-appreciated gesture that acknowledges you’d rather not go into labor at work how much your life has already changed, with a nod toward the fact that it’s about to change a hell of a lot more. In other words, you might want to spend the next two months sleeping preparing for it.

Have I mentioned that you get paid while on this little “break”?

This is so un-American it almost makes me never want to go home uncomfortable. These days I don’t have a fulltime job, so I don’t get paid to buy a stroller this little Austrian benefit doesn’t really apply to me. But I’ve tried to go native, at least psychologically speaking.

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But it is harder than I imagined to do nothing — or rather, to accept that there is this reprieve, this break, in which you are meant to prepare for the biggest change of your life. In which you are meant to prepare by doing less. By slowing down. By putting your pregnancy, your impending motherhood, before everything else. Any mother in the world would say to me  — and many of my own friends have said — WATCH TV. SLEEP IN. REALLY. DO NOTHING. LET YOURSELF OFF THE HOOK. And yet, to misquote Colum McCann, the great world keeps on spinning, whether you’re pregnant or not. My husband goes to work every day, as he did last month and last year, and I have the nagging feeling that I should be doing the same (because back home I probably would be doing the same). But his mind hasn’t left the building He keeps writing and reading and pushing himself to get as much done before the baby comes, while I take a guilt-filled nap every afternoon.

I know that soon a leisurely day in bed will no longer be possible — but what happens next is so utterly unimaginable that it’s almost comical. I’m not even sure what metaphor would apply here. When else are you so completely on the precipice of something so hugely unknown and life-altering in so many ways? When you have to live with the mystery and wonder and instability and joy of not knowing when this will happen, and how, and who will come out the other end, and what life will look like afterwards? I keep thinking of something Cheryl Strayed wrote as Sugar about the birth of her first child: “It was a penetrating, relentless, unalterable thing, to be his mother, my life ending and beginning at once.”

What does it feel like to have your life begin and end at once?

These questions are almost too much to ponder. So instead I’m spending my time learning to bake delicious things I still can’t eat.

But I will let you know.

xo

Tea Time.

People, we have reached the stage where everyone here in Vienna is asking me, “Haven’t you had the baby yet?” “Have you started drinking the tea?”

To which I reply, of course, “40 weeks is ACTUALLY TEN MONTHS. IT’S A VERY, VERY LONG TIME.” “What tea?”

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Apparently once you hit 34 weeks, it is customary to start drinking mysterious teas that you must go to a special Apotheke to get. These aren’t of the standard raspberry leaf variety that you can pick up at any health food store and have been put together by, say, Lipton. You also can’t get it at a BIPA, which is akin to a CVS. From what I can gather — which, let’s be honest, is usually not the whole story — these are special concoctions made on the spot for you by a pharmacist/magician in an off-limits back room. My midwives gave me a whole booklet of items to ask for. It took me three hours of translate the seven-page leaflet and includes a recipe for a power bar I am meant to eat while half-clothed and screaming my head off in labor.

A list of concoctions I should be consuming.

I first heard about these teas from the women in my lovely Pregnant-and-Uncomfortable Ex-Pat-Ladies Weekly Bitch Fest Mom’s Group — a lifesaver, really, so far from home — since most of them are due a few weeks before me. Sitting around at a juice bar staring in jealousy at the ladies sucking on fresh Apple/Mango/Celery Drinks drinking water (because of my borderline Gestational Diabetes diet I can drink nothing else), I would hear them ask over and over again, “Are you drinking the tea?” and also, “Have you started acupuncture?”

In New York, I was addicted to acupuncture — in fact, I had the best acupuncturist ever — but I have yet to try it here, mostly because I am terrified of letting someone I can barely say hello to stick a needle in my ass/forehead/armpit. Back home, if you were to tell your O.B. that you were doing acupuncture to induce labor, the doctor would probably laugh at you might humor you.

Here it is standard practice at the end of pregnancy. In fact, you actually do it at the hospital.

Let me tell you what else is standard practice:

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This massage oil goes you know where.

According to my midwife — who got into a squat right in her office and demonstrated the technique for me — this makes labor easier because you’re all…oiled up. She also said that starting at 34 weeks, I could do it with Olive Oil.

There are so many reasons I am happy to be giving birth in Europe even though the Austrians won’t give the baby citizenship and apparently the nurses in maternity wards give newborns fennel tea — FENNEL TEA!!!: A midwife-centered birthing culture, Kindergelt (a monthly allowance for each kid), free health insurance, a law that makes women stop working up to two months before the baby is born, and a standard one-year-long paid maternity (or paternity) leave. But mostly for these hilarious moments. How often does someone tell you, with a totally straight face, to get your husband to massage olive oil up there?

xo

PS: I realize I’ve been woefully bad about updating you on the pregnancy. This is out of sheer laziness wanting to keep some things off the interwebs. If you’re feeling like the last time you checked, I wasn’t pregnant at all, here are two posts to get you up to date: Number One and Number Two.

Mein Problem

Yesterday in German class we learned I can’t even tell you what we learned, I understood so little of it about possessive articles in the nominative form and in the accusative form. (I honest to God had to look that up. This is how completely it went over my head.) This basically entails learning the difference between eure and euer (their, or their, one is masculin, one feminin); when to use ihr (her) and when to use sein (his) and when to use ein (a). This explanation would probably bring shame to my husband, the linguist.

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I’m a week and a half in, and class has made me feel like a two-year-old learning to speak been fine so far. Here’s a typical scenario (in German):

LEHRERIN (teacher): Abby, can you read the sentence and fill in the correct answer?

ABBY: The apartment has _____  rooms.

LEHRERIN: How many rooms?

ABBY: Uhm, The room has three. No four. Four rooms!

LEHRERIN: Vier! Sehr gut!

And so on. Here I was thinking I had a master’s degree.

I was progressing like any two-year-old would progress, only much more slowly at top speeds until yesterday. But then. Oh Lord. As we spent hours of my life I will never get back the entire session going over the difference between ein and einen and when to use which (I’d tell you, but I just don’t know, and also why would you care?), I couldn’t help but feeling like I was back in 10th grade math, the moron struggling to understand the difference between sin and co-sin. My poor father, the scientist, spent hours making me want to rip my hair out helping me understand the principles behind whatever we were learning that week. “Can’t you just give me the formula?” I’d ask. (There was always a formula! But my father wanted me to understand the damn logic.) He stared in disbelief, probably panicking about how much money he was wasting sending me to a not-terribly-good-but-expensive-school.

I survived math class by reassuring myself that I’d never need it after high school. I was cocky an artist! When would I need to know how to solve for X?! All too often, it turned out. In 11th grade, I even had the balls to say to a very underpaid kind teacher who was working excruciatingly hard to help me understand something completely inane incomprehensible, “When will I ever need this?”

“You won’t,” he said. And therein ended my math career.

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I sometimes wish I could say the same here. But it is undeniable that everyone in Vienna speaks English I need German. Still, I can see how much less I need it than other people in my group. Every day I sit next to the class know-it-all a young Iraqi dentist. He is 23 and was forced to leave Iraq due to “terrorism by tourists” (English is our common language, so not everything is always terribly clear). He drives me insane, whispering the answers under his breath while I’m still trying to work out what page we’re on is sweet as can be. Between me and the Italian woman, who sits to his right, he can never hear the teacher he has his hands full, explaining everything to us a second time. (As an aside, I love it when the Italian is asked to read aloud: “Die Tasche” always sounds like “Deee-AA Tas-chA.”)

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But for all the energy I spend being pissed that he’s picking everything up faster than I am, there is no denying why: He needs it.  English saves me almost every time — it is very rare to find someone who cannot speak a word — and if English doesn’t work, my husband does. The Iraqi kid’s English isn’t bad (in fact, it’s possible that it’s terrible, given that I think he left Iraq because of terrorist tourists), but he cannot play with the language the way I can, making myself understood at all costs. (Let’s not also forget that I’m an exceptionally good mime, so this helps me, too.) And much more importantly, he is starting his life and his career over. He cannot go back to Iraq, and is waiting for the rest of his family to take refuge here, too. I can picture him hunched over his notebooks at night, studying the crap out of “der tische” (the table) and “die lampe” (the lamp) because soon, if he wants to use his good, Iraqi education, he’ll have to learn all about the parts of the mouth, the instruments of dentistry, the Austrian rules of licensing, etc. etc. etc., in German, not to mention how to converse with people with their mouths wide open.

I just want to make sure I’m not the mom who can’t understand what her child is saying to her friends order a coffee properly.

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Obviously it reminds me of all those cab drivers one encounters in New York who were marine biologists and award-winning physicists in their homelands and then learned English just well enough to support their families by carting Manhattanites to LaGuardia. Necessity is, indeed, the mother of invention. My learning curve here is stilted because my husband English is my crutch, and I know that I will never hold down a job in German. I don’t have to. This is exactly the opposite of the experience I had in Paris learning how to sit and stand properlygetting it meant getting out of pain. Not getting it meant another day in agony. You can bet I learned the crap out everything I was taught — practicing at home, taking copious notes — just to save myself. But in Paris, I did look around at all the other geriatric students thinking, I am desperate. Why the hell are you here?

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I still ask myself this, as I sit in a tiny university classroom with five 20-year-old Turkish boys, two super blonde Polish girls and my Italian and Iraqi friends, learning how to say “the fork.” Why the hell am I here? The question is now both comical and no longer completely weird. And yet. Here I am, lucky and unlucky to be struggling to say “Where is the bathroom?” And yet there are rewards. The other night I went out with one of our loveliest new friends and her lovely girlfriends, and while I didn’t understand much of what any of them were saying when they spoke to one another at breakneck speeds, I was able to order for myself, ask the waiter to pack up my schnitzel, and find my way home on my own.

These days, this is a victory.

xo

Willkommen zurück*

Today I learned the German word “Wolle.” This is a word I should have learned months ago — it’s simple enough, and useful — but despite the fact that we now live in Vienna, I have avoided learning German a very small vocabulary.

The word came up today as I did laundry, which I have done nearly every single day a few times a week since we moved here (because apparently I have become a housewife). In New York, I sent my dirties off to the ladies on the corner when I was flat out of underwear once a week, but for various reasons — the lack of a dryer, a husband, a very small machine — I seem to constantly be hanging our wet socks and pants all over the apartment.

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In Europe, we call this a dryer.

Anyway, socks and T-shirts in hand, today I faced the washing machine and took in this daunting image:

Seriously. What would you choose?
Seriously. What would you choose?

Okay, the words might be too small here for you to read, but let me reassure you that there are a lot of them. A plethora of cycles! One of them washes for 90 minutes (!), another for 8 (this must be to wash your thongs dish towels). All through the fall, I picked a setting at random because I don’t really know how to do laundry couldn’t be bothered to actually look up any of the words. But since I am about to enter linguistic hell take a five-day-a-week German course, I decided to turn over a new leaf, so I picked up my husband’s our Deutsch/English dictionary and discovered what any moron mildly curious person could have guessed eons ago: Wolle means wool. I’m practically trilingual already.

 

This is the Vienna that greeted us at the airport.
This is the Vienna that greeted us at the airport.

 

We just returned to Austria from a whirlwind winter in sunny California, Nevada, Montreal and New York. In all those places we were visiting family and friends and were surrounded by people who speak English we love and know well. In New York, especially, once I no longer wanted to hurl where I lived for 12 years, I relished my ability to eavesdrop on strangers’ conversations fend for myself. I also loved having dozens of friends right at my fingertips (literally, since for the first time in 5 months I had a phone that actually worked).

This story of moving across the world and starting a new life is an old one — so many people have done it, with incredible success and aplomb. My parents lived in Paris when my sister was a toddler, and although my mother hated it it wasn’t all Pinot Noir and warm baguettes, their eyes still get a little twinkly when they talk about wandering in and out of galleries on Saturday afternoons and consuming vast amounts of unpasteurized cheese. I thought I’d be one of those people who took to Europe without a hitch. But I am continually startled by my resistance: to adapting to life here, to admitting that we actually live here, to the reality that learning German is not a fun hobby but a necessity.

 

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Or perhaps there is a larger, beautiful shock to it all: As a friend pointed out to me in New York last week, “If someone had told you two years ago that you’d be pregnant and living in Vienna with your husband, would you ever have believed her?” Despite the fact that I often have to pinch myself when I think of my great good fortune in the husband and pregnancy department, and even though I am over the moon about the idea of living a European life, maybe sometimes it takes us a while to align our realities with the unexamined fantasies — or presumed life — we had built for ourselves. (Mine basically involved all the things I am now so lucky to have, but in a Brooklyn brownstone. Forgive me, it was a fantasy.)

 

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And yet, it is never that simple. When my husband and I spent last summer in a sauna, AKA: the hottest apartment in Brooklyn New York, I thought my fantasy had come true: I had my love and my friends and my job and my city all in one place. And yet. It felt a little like fitting a square peg into a round hole. Like trying to jam two separate lives into one old one. This isn’t to say we didn’t have a blast, but it wasn’t the perfect merging of worlds I had imagined.

This is all to say, perhaps this is a moment when my fantasies have to bend to my reality — or maybe my reality has to become more of the fantasy my friends imagine it to be. Or maybe I should just throw out the idea of fantasy altogether and just live the life that is before me: exciting, unexpected, foreign, challenging, lucky.

*Welcome Back

Well, Hello!

I forgot this blog existed I’ve been so absent! I’m so sorry. Mea culpa. Je m’excuse. I’ve missed you.

I can explain. I swear. I’ve been doing absolutely nothing very busy.

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Also, I’ve been unfaithful writing for another blog. You can read the whole explanation for my absence here.

Now that this news is out in the world, I’ll be puking without shame writing more about it.

I’ve been so touched by the comments on the site and would love to hear from you, too.

xo