It snowed this week. This is big news for everybody in Cologne, Germany’s warmest city, which though lacking sun nearly year-round, rarely hits the freezing point. Of course, when it snows, it never stays. I don’t wanna complain — I left the Arctic temperatures of my hometown behind very happily — but it is frustrating that winter here just feels like three months of cold rain, bookended by four months of moderately warmer rain. I grew up with a snowboard attached to my feet so whenever it snows, I am on it like black stripes on a bee. Though my original plan was to spend every day of this weekend in my sweatpants on the sofa, I broke it up with an hour-long trip to the sledding hill (in which I was allowed to keep my sweats on, yes!).
Even before we got to the sledding hill, there was no white stuff left on the ground because it got too warm. I didn’t realize what a luxury it is to live here until we went to Berlin in November and nearly got frostbite while waiting for train back…. when we disembarked in Cologne five hours later, it was downright tropical and Diva and I had to stuff our hats and mittens back into our pockets. I don’t really want to complain but seriously, two hours of snow is not enough.
In addition to sitting on the couch, reading everything Danish child psychologist beloved by all German mummis, Jesper Juul, ever had to say about how we’re all fucking up our kids, I baked cinnamon rolls because fuck diets; hibernating bodies need fat. In fact, we need that fat in the same way that kids need compliments (so fuck you Juul and your parenting techniques that follow the Law of Jante and teach some of the emotionally coldest mothers on the planet that praise is not to be given out to children). Which is to say, we are not starving in the Lederhosen household, neither physically nor emotionally, and we are not, despite my love of all things Danish, engaging in Danish childrearing techniques.
I read the Robber Hotzenplotz in English to Diva because I finally needed to figure out what is up with all these puppet shows starring Kasperle and I did not give up even though she corrected my pronunciation of Kasperle every.single.time. Couldn’t they have just Anglicized his name?
Speaking of Anglicisms, Diva’s getting really good at trying to figure out English words by herself. At Kita she learned about Sabre-Zahn Tiger and came home telling me all about the Sabre-Tooth Tiger. This was a big step for her… she usually doesn’t try to translate German words she doesn’t know. But she’s had her missteps. Like this week, when I was dawdling too long to get out the door and she called me a foul animal. For a second, I thought she’d been hanging out with some Brits and did the checklist of English-speaking kids we know who might have taught her to call someone foul (which, btw, I find an awesome curse that I underuse) before realizing she was calling me a sloth. A faultier. Which was a nice false friend… the literal translation would’ve been lazy animal and I couldn’t fault Diva for calling me that. Where has all my energy gone?
Finally, because I’m not just a big loser mother who hangs out in sweats licking cinnamon sugar from her fingers, I downloaded the new Bjork album and you should, too. Another damned good singer and feminist and I really hope these asshole reviewers stop bugging her about her divorce. A woman can exist without a husband, you know. Thrive, even.