What There's Time For

Why were they being mean to Jesus?

This Saturday, we all let PaPa talk us into a train/walk/boat/train adventure in the Wachau and I'm pretty sure we're all glad we did, although Shmoogie could be the exception.  We tried to take a cute picture of her sleeping in the backpack (her only nap of the day) after the longish walk to the boat, but taking the picture woke her up and... well...

When she'd recovered herself a bit, she was excited to try some sparkling water from Mommy's glass, but... well...

Mr. WhyOhWhyPants behaved himself pretty well in the abbey, possibly because the very first thing that caught his interest was one panel of a 1502 altar artwork by Jörg Breu.  What is that man doing?  He wanted to know.  "Well, that man in the middle there in the red cape is Jesus and those other people are being mean to him."  

Why are they being mean to him?  "Well, when Jesus grew up he was a very good person and he did a lot of good things and that made some people angry so they wanted to be mean to him."  I turned to go, but Mr. WhyOhWhyPants stayed glued to the floor, tugging on my hand.  More questions, more tries at answers, more turnings-to-go, more tuggings-to-stay.

Finally, I got him to leave, only to have him ask to go back to see Jesus again and nearly cry when I told him no.  He calmed down when I promised that we would almost certainly see more pictures of Jesus before we left the abbey.

I thought perhaps he'd forgotten about it, what with all the gorgeous books he wasn't allowed to touch and the overwhelmingly gilded nave he had to be quiet in and the awesome staircase with a pristine mirror at the bottom that was clearly giving him vertigo...

Not to mention the Sachertorte with ice cream and whipped cream which he single handedly (well, double-handedly) downed in about five minutes on the boat ride down the Danube...

But then, 36 hours later, as we're all finishing up dinner, he asks again, Why were those people when Jesus had on a red cape when they were angry at him why were they being mean to Jesus?

And I answer again, something about Jesus being nice to poor people and telling other people they should be nice to poor people, too, and people who weren't poor not liking that very much.

And he asks, Why did they not like that?

And I come up with some kind of example, about how the people who weren't poor were used to having the poor people do stuff for them, like laundry, and they wanted to keep it that way because they didn't want to have to start doing their own laundry.  (An example which I am careful not to confine entirely to the distant past.)

At which point, he looks deeply confused and asks, Why would they not want to do their laundry? and I belatedly recall that he views "doing the laundry" as a special treat (a big machine!  with buttons!).

So then I switch to a more concrete discussion of sharing - What if at your school there were a bunch of kids who had Lightning the Queen shoes?  Really cool shoes, right?  (Yeah! Yeah!)  And one kid has TWO pairs of Lightning the Queen shoes.  And one kid doesn't have ANY.  Is that fair?  Wouldn't it be nice for the kid with two pairs to give one of them to the kid who doesn't have any?

And here's where we take a little tangent, about how Mr. WhyOhWhyPants really really wants some Lightning the Queen shoes... and we should go buy some right now.  And if he had two pairs of such fabulous shoes, no, he would not like to give one of the pairs to someone just because they didn't have any.  He would like to keep them both for himself.  Yes, even if he couldn't actually use both pairs.

Well, exactly, we tell him, that's how the people felt and that's why they were mean to Jesus, because he kept telling them to share and making them feel bad about it and they didn't want to so they just wanted Jesus to go away, so they were mean to him.

Not that the conversation ended there, of course, and the rest of the adults at the table eventually added their own spins on the story (with growing emphasis on how Jesus wanted people to SHARE and some lengthy discussion of the Golden Rule), and it has all somehow ended up with Mr. WhyOhWhyPants informing me repeatedly that when he next sees his friend (formerly best friend, loss of friendship greatly grieved, but apparently mostly the fault of Mr. WhyOhWhyPants, who I'm told tends to hit his best friend when his best friend doesn't give him every toy he wants, etc.) he's going to tell his friend that he should be nice to people.  And I explain repeatedly that it's much better to be nice to people so that they learn how to be nice and so that they want to be nice.  And he explains that, no, he just wants to tell his friend that he should be nice.

So I guess the whole telling-people-to-be-nice-might-end-with-them-beating-you-with-sticks subplot didn't really come through?

The Very Blustery Weinwandertag

We were, as our recent visiting friends can attest, not model parents last week.  No sooner had we picked them up from the airport than I was observed capitulating to Mr. PickyPants's demands for Nutella on his grilled cheese and ham sandwich in a desperate (and unsuccessful) attempt to get him to eat his lunch.

And then that evening, when well-laid plans to have the kids asleep for the babysitter completely failed, we left her in Mr. PickyPants's darkened room, holding a shrieking (overtired, teething?, freaked out about suddenly sharing a room with Mr. PickyPants?) Shmoogie and pleading with Mr. PickyPants to just lie down and try to sleep, OK?  

(She's an extremely competent babysitter, we pay her *well*, and both kids were in fact asleep within half an hour, but, still...)  

We totally enjoyed our Heuriger evening with a night view of the whole city at our feet (and refused to go inside despite the gusts and chill - the waiter was initially horrified, then tried hard to sell us some Schnapps... "its medicine... just call the doctor when you'd like some").

Then the next day, we dragged the kids out wandering through the center city (Schmoogie finally conked out in the stroller, poor thing), searching bumblingly for traces of the Roman settlement that started it all (unless you consider the Celts, who were already making wine from the wild grapes).

I think we were pretty good on Saturday; I stayed home with the baby napping and Mr. PickyPants chilling out with his sandbox while Mr. Right dropped our friends off at the airport again.

And Sunday, Shmoogie actually went down for her nap when we wanted her to and Mr. PickyPants was delighted to have the babysitter's full attention, so we Wein wandered nearly guilt-free for three hours.

The Wiener Weinwandertag is one of those totally awesome things so very Austrian and so lucky for us to have basically right outside our door for a few years.  One weekend a year, all the local vineyards (Vienna is the only capitol city with 700 hectares of vineyards within it, producing 19 million glasses of wine per year, says the website) put up little sheds to serve you their wine (and sometimes sausage, or roast potatoes, or cake) and you hike from one to the next, following the fairly well-placed signs, and being well taken care of by the handy crossing guards on the faster roads.

Last year, we saw all this going on and gradually figured out what it was and it looked so idyllic!  It was a perfect sunny-but-crisp fall day and we would have just jumped right on that bandwagon (to totally turn that idiom on its head) except that I was really, really pregnant.

This year, a gale came in overnight (the kind of gale that whistles through the trees and slaps the outside blinds around to wake you up and keep you tossing and turning the rest of the night) and a quarter of the way up the initial climb, I was not happy (the whole route is over 20 km - with 18 stations and 5 scenic overlooks! - we didn't do anything like that much, but we did do the steepest part right off the bat, on empty stomachs and with a cold).   My poor frozen ears were saved by the silk scarf in my pocket, the tails of which then whipped around my face the whole rest of the way.  And the first (and subsequent) glass of wine helped, too.

Still, fun.  Seriously fun.  What else could it be, really?  Exercise, invigorating gales, the threat of rain... tempered by wine stops, hot paper cones of roasted potatoes to warm your hands, Wildwürstel (game sausage) and Kuchen to fill your tummy...  And the kids at home with a babysitter.

Cheers!

Gentle Readers, Start Your Search Engines!

Time for another round of Where Did They Go This Time?!  (As I have no sponsors, prizes are completely dependent on my ability to produce them and I am behind on my handicraft list, so...  the thrill of solving the puzzle is all you get this round!)

 

Saturday, we drove a bit and toured an old gypsum mine.  It was active in the 1800's, flooded and was abandoned, then opened as a tourist attraction, then was turned into an aircraft factory by the Nazis, bombed, and eventually reopened as a tourist attraction again.  It was also a filming location for The Three Musketeers.  I've been in natural caverns before, but not a mine and it was creepy.  Mr. RockyPants was nervous.  And, most oddly, upset about "the people taking the rocks".  I kid you not.  I explained about how people dug out the rocks and used them to help plants grow (gypsum was/is? a fertilizer? never knew that) and he said, "But then they won't be alive anymore!"  And I said, What, the rocks? and explained that rocks are not alive.  Ever.  And he said, "Yeah, OK, but that's very rude!"  Which I thought was quite empathetic of him.

 The next day, we headed out to a stunning castle on a cliff for a "Fairytale Festival", where mostly we ate.  Yum.  My first actual Kaisershmarrn, with apple sauce, and it was delicious.  Mr. RockyPants demanded a good bit of it for himself, and was quite picky about exactly which butter-browned and sugar-dusted hunks of eggy dough were for him.  Turns out, he gets this at school on a regular basis (also with applesauce).  The castle is apparently quite famous, has been in the same family since 1681, and sports "Europe's largest surviving tournament grounds" (although they were hardly used in their time, it sounds like they see a lot of costumed action today).  Mr. RockyPants had to be dragged away in the end, desperately stuffing gravel into his pockets, as he is often wont to do, which I always tell him he should not do and, when pressed for a reason, I tell him that it is rude to take people's rocks away... and just as those very words were coming out of my mouth, I realized where his curious line the day before had come from.

 

Finally, a sunset trip to a garden!  We'd tried to visit in the spring, but it was bitter cold and we spontaneously went to a boat show instead.  Remember Mr. IwantaYachtOrAtLeastAPropellerPants?  Yesterday, the weather was perfect.  Insanely gorgeous and a tiny bit chill.  Ahhh.

 

All of this adventuring made for a lot of time in the car.  Time which led to some children napping sometimes, one child antagonizing the other much of the time, and me knitting most of the time (except when forced to use one hand to hold the offender's kicking foot for a Time Out).  Mr. RockyPants's sweater is well on its way to done (sleeve portion shown here) and I may barely have enough yarn.  Probably not enough for the late-requested pockets, but given that I had to pick a cup's-worth of gravel bits out of the dryer last night (I was so sure I'd checked his pockets!), that might be a good thing.

 

And I'm making slow progress on a hat whim.  More on that later.  Right now, quick!  Where did we go?  I'm looking for the name of the mine or the lake inside it, the name of the castle, and the name of the town with the famous garden.  Have fun fishing in the great information sea!

Swords to Plowshares

We've been to the aquarium once before and my first thought on seeing it was, UGLY.  Couldn't they have at least painted the concrete?  ICK.

Then we took the elevator all the way to the top and started off, surprised to find only a few small tanks on each floor before hitting the stairs yet again.  What a dumb way to design an aquarium, I thought.

Plus, heading down the stairwells, there were all these posters with dense German text and pictures of WWII-era nurses, soldiers, and forced laborers.  What does WWII have to do with fish?  I wondered, Or is this supposed to be extra interest for the adults?  Why shouldn't adults be happy with the fish?  Doesn't everyone like fish?

Eventually, enough bits of German broke through my foggy consciousness and light dawned, This aquarium is built inside a WWII anti-aircraft tower.  Oh.

Mr. FishyPants's favorite thing at the aquarium?  The jellyfish.

Also, the turtles (there's a huge sea turtle in the coral reef tank) and "the birds", which confused me until we actually got back to the open tropical exhibit (which has some pretty cool birds, but he didn't seem interested at all in them the last time) and he made a beeline for the swinging bridge in the middle and then ran back and forth across it for a while (until deciding it was time to go see the jellyfish).

 No school this week.  Closed for "cleaning and organization week".

With Good Reason

MarMar's epic visit is nearly at an end.  Mr. MopeyPants says most pitifully, whenever given the opportunity (and sometimes when not), "I don't want MarMar to go because I'm going to be lonely about her!"  Sometimes he stays teary for a while and sometimes he manages to recover himself, bravely but tremulously saying, "But then DiDi and PaPa are going to come soon and then I won't be lonely about them."

I will also be lonely about her (which is my new favorite Mr. MopeyPantsism), but I am also exhausted!  In the past 21 days, we have:

Flown... for over 8 hours, overnight, with two little children.

Walked... to Heurigers (2 of them), to playgrounds (3), to church (once), and from the Staatsoper to Stephansdom and/or the Hofburg (3 times).

Driven... to Styria, to Baden bei Wien, to the Staatsoper (3 times), to Kreuzenstein (twice), to preschool (a few times), to the pool, to another Heuriger, to IKEA, to the grocery store.

Cooked... lentil salad, soup, bulgar salad, cucumber raita, curried lentils, bar-b-que, caprese pasta, spaghetti, tacos, quesadillas, gooseberry experiments, many of them more than once.

Eaten... all of the above, plus roast chicken in the cold rain at yet another Heuriger, local-ingredients lunch at the playground in the clouds, a very nice Thai meal next to St. Peterskirche, the season's Eierschwammerl mushrooms (and french fries) at Kreuzenstein, plenty of croissants (whole wheat with gelled honey inside!) and vollkorn Riegel süss from the Bäckerei, gelato, and some peanut butter pretzels (though not nearly so many as Mr. MopeyPants).  (Mr. Right and I also had a nice Italian meal out alone!)

 Accomplished... numerous things big and small, including getting air conditioners running, acquiring and hanging several mosquito nets (also killing a large number of mosquitos with our bare hands), buying a few large plants for the previously bare balconies ("Look at my pretty balcony!" said Mr. MopeyPants), rigged a not-half-bad-looking set of shower curtains outside the kitchen windows to keep the heat out, permanently separated Shmoogie from her beloved surge protector and assorted cords, gotten the car's oil changed, picked up two sets of other people at the airport, and Shmoogie now sleeps in her crib (that's mostly Mr. Right's doing - he said "Jetlag is our friend," and we put poor exhausted Shmoogie on her stomach (she's old enough) in the crib... and it worked).

We have seen Stephansdom and the Spanischereitschule and the Thermalstrandbad and Schönbrunn (from the Gloriette) and the inside of Kreuzenstein, the outside of Kreuzentstein, and the ever amazing raptors of Kreuzenstein.  Also, wooly pigs and highland cattle and Lipizzaner foals.

We have done all of this with Shmoogie (who now shrieks at quite astonishing volumes whenever she is happy... or not happy) and Mr. MopeyPants (who, bless his little heart, is having such a HARD TIME being three) and more often than not, with the well-worn double-decker stroller.

I am exhausted.  With good reason.  I dare say MarMar will be lonely about us, too, but she may also enjoy her calm quiet trip home!  I will endeavor to enjoy a few quiet moments under the mosquito nets.

 

The Largest Sandy Beach in Austria

 I think I'm on about week 7 of "vacation mode" - which pretty much only means "not routine" - and I think it's starting to addle my brain because by the end of yesterday's excursion, in which Mr. SplashyPants tried to drown himself twice and Shmoogie choked twice (the first time, she cleared it herself, but afterwards I was watching her so intently, reassuring myself that she was really ok, that I didn't think to reach in her mouth for the gummy hunk of bread that had caused the problem and pretty soon she was choking on it again, which I then fixed through an interpretation of the baby Heimlich), I wholeheartedly agreed with my mother that it had been a VERY SUCCESSFUL DAY! (My mother's brain was addled long ago.)

It was successful, most importantly, in that both children were still alive at the end of it (always considered at least a minor accomplishment, but when they're both so bent on killing themselves as they were yesterday, I think it deserves special mention).

It was successful in that we actually found Baden bei Wien (with the aid of the GPS) and got gas before we ran out (did you know the GPS won't prompt you to look at your gas gauge?!).

It was successful in that we actually found the Thermalstrandbad in Baden, which was our goal.

It was successful in that once we found the Thermalstrandbad, we managed (with some difficulty) to figure out what tickets to buy (they're cheap!) and where to change into our swim suits.

It was successful in that Mr. SplashyPants so greatly enjoyed the pool and having "the largest sandy beach in Austria" (I understand some royalty a ways back took a trip to the Agean and liked it so well, they decided to make themselves a mini (very very mini) Agean in Baden) all to himself (it was cloudy and a bit cool) that he did not want to leave.

It was successful in that we did get home, via a much cleverer way than the GPS was trying to take us (please ignore that it took an hour longer than the GPS believed it should).

It was successful in that Mr. SplashyPants actually wailed, "I have to go potty!" in time for us to stop by the side of the road.

And it was successful in that after yet another day of "vacation," we're still having fun!  Right, Mom?  Right?

 

Farm Adventures

This should be a post about Mr. HappyPants feeding itsy bitsy fluffy kittens (Shmoogie did, too, but that was by accident) and admiring the cliff-edge rope swinging skills of his (good bit older) friend at the farm we went to back in December, but you'll have to use your imagination because...

I forgot the camera.  (Actually, it turns out I forgot that we HAD the camera in the trunk of the car all along.  Doh.)

And we got stuck in a traffic jam on the way home, which turned a two-hour trip into nearly four, complete with MarMar interpreting the spaghetti-mess of a map (and the German names thereon) while I tried to interpret HER (and the lacks-all-wisdom GPS) and keep the car properly behaved in extreme stop-and-go traffic and some crazy road patterns...

I'm tired.

But kind of glad we were in the air-conditioned car all that time instead of in the oven we affectionately refer to as "home".  :)

Lacking photos of today's adventure, I think I'll share the previously-overlooked Mr. NervousPants Feeds the Horses episode from near the end of our trip back home...

 We were visiting the very very lovely farm owned by some friends of my mom's (just look how lovely - like a big old pot o' gold!) and Mr. NervousPants was desperate to "see the animals".

MarMar explained to him about feeding carrots to horses and how you have to keep your hand flat so they won't bite your fingers, which all ended in Mr. NervousPants bravely offering a carrot to the sweet little donkey while MarMar wisely held his fingers quite flat.

He absolutely refused to feed the large, toothy, very-eager-for-their-carrots horses.  Because, he explained, "I'm going to be nervous with that one."

Can't imagine why. 

Things Not to Combine with Jetlag

When I was 15 and experiencing transatlantic jetlag for the first time, I can remember finding it so painful that I spent much of my dazed time wondering why in the world anyone would do this to themselves for a vacation.  I probably made some kind of vow to myself never to do it again, but I must have been too jetlagged to remember it, because when I married Mr. Right, I (knowingly?  I don't remember) signed myself up for quite the list of jetlag experiences.

I can tell you that the 16-hour difference to New Zealand is quite a wallop, but also that being on your honeymoon will make you happy no matter what the jetlag.

I can tell you that the 10.5-hour difference to India hurts.  A lot worse than New Zealand, though I know that makes no sense.

I can tell you while the 10.5-hour difference hurts under normal circumstances, it is much much worse if attempted in the sixth week of pregnancy, when just beginning to feel morning sickness.

I can tell you that - in comparison - the 6-hour difference to Europe is not really that big a deal.

Unless you're 7 months pregnant.*

Or a teething baby.

Or a really pissed-off toddler.

Or their parents.

Mr. HatesToTravelPants woke us up in a screaming terror at 11:20 last night and was slowly calmed down to the point of mere extreme chattiness just in time to be joined by a screaming Shmoogie, who then continued to scream (when not nursing or putting tiny baby teeth marks into Mr. Right's collar bone) until we all trooped upstairs for a 1:30 AM snack of brown bread (Shmoogie and Mommy) and honey yogurt (Mr. HatesToTravelPants).  I think we were all pretty much asleep by 2 AM, although I don't actually remember how that happened, though I know MarMar was involved, and also baby ibuprofen drops.)

*Referring to LAST summer - I am NOT just about to have another baby.

Hunny Bunnyseed

I had some notions that I'd find the perfect pattern and yarn for myself before leaving Austria and finish the roadtrip with a sweater (or most of one, anyway).

Lo, it did not happen.

Instead, I knitted Hunny Bunnies (free pattern from HeartStrings FiberArts) right across the Eastern third of the U.S. and back.  We had to stop for stuffing and neck ties (crucial rule when gifting to siblings - items must be easily distinguishable, but otherwise identical) at a Jo-Ann's in Indiana before giving these two to Mr. GenerousPants's new friends at our second stop.  (He was willing to part with them eventually, at least in part because they are not grey like his Hunny Bunnies.)

My plastic darning needle broke part way through the assembly of two more (finished so much in the nick of time that there is no picture) - one for someone who needed it and one to be delivered to a brand new baby cousin!  I finished the stitching with a crochet hook.

Seeing one in its new owner's hand, Mr. GenerousPants informed her that, "It's a Hunny!"  Asked if she could call it 'Hunny Bunny', just like his, Mr. GenerousPants looked concerned and said, "No," but then when asked what it should be called, he said, quite sure, "It's just a Hunny."  So, there.

By the time we were on the long final haul of the trip, it became clear that I was not going to be getting a replacement needle.  I took my foldy scissors to the old needle stub and smoothed it out enough to get through assembling five more.

My mom chose the smaller greyish one.  Gina (!) chose the big brown one.  And the rest are for babies!  Special miracle little babies of people I love.

Oh, the Lord is good to me!

And so I thank the Lord!

For giving me the things I need:

The yarn and the needle and the bu-uh-ny!

The Lord is good to me!

Scenes from a Road Trip

Prior to departure, Mr. SplashyPants is running around and giggling like a maniac with his grandfather, who, getting rather tired himself, asks, "Where does all the energy come from, Mr. SplashyPants?" and Mr. SplashyPants says, quite seriously, "Uh.... it comes from Austria."

***

At many, many points in the 10 hours of driving on day 1, the 4 hours on day 2, the 4 hours on day 3, the short drives about town on days 3 and 4, and the 3 hours on day 5, Shmoogie cries.  At many, many points, Mr. SplashyPants cries, too.  But mostly, when Shmoogie cries, Mr. SplashyPants yells, "STOP CRYING, SHMOOGIE!  THAT'S TOO LOUD FOR ME!  IT'S NOT FUNNY!"  We tell him we understand the crying is annoying, but Shmoogie is too little to understand, which only causes him to intersperse STOPCRYINGSHMOOGIETHAT'S TOOLOUDFORMEIT'SNOTFUNNY!'s with very calm recitations of, "Mommy, Shmoogie's crying is really annoying."

***

At the house of good friends we haven't seen in a long time, our hostess is saying grace over dinner, Thank you, Lord, for this day, for this food, for good friends and safe travels... [about here, the solemnity is interrupted by giggles as Mr. SplashyPants holds out his ear of corn for the speaker to hold instead of his hand]... Thank you, Lord, for the chaos of children...  and right here, grinning as if he understands the joke entirely, Mr. SplashyPants throws out a hearty, "You're welcome!"

***

We stop the car, safely and not so safely, for (1) repeated yelling after requests to be quiet, (2) Mr. SplashyPants piping up, "I'm not safe" from the back seat and being discovered to have squirmed out of half his harness, (3) Mr. SplashyPants saying, "I can go peepee in my diaper" when he is not, in fact, wearing a diaper, (4) Mr. SplashyPants somehow unlatching his door while traveling at 60 MPH.

***

Upon flushing the toilet at McDonald's, after a discussion the previous day about lawnmowers being loud because "they don't put anything in to muffle the noise," Mr. SplashyPants informs his father that, "The potty is loud because they don't put anything in to muffle the noise."

***

After playing joyously in the pool with Daddy for a long long time, Mr. SplashyPants and Daddy are out of the pool and dressed in dry clothes.  Mr. SplashyPants remains fascinated by the toys still floating tantalizingly close to the edge.  Reaching for them, he is warned several times to be careful, and Mommy starts to think maybe it would be a good thing if he falls in because then maybe he'd be more cautious...  And Mr. SplashyPants reaches just a little too far and goes in head first.  Before Mommy even begins to react, Daddy has set down his (glass bottle of) beer and leapt across the pool in a single bound, scooping Mr. SplashyPants out before he hardly knows what hit him.  Afterwards, Mr. SplashyPants only wants to know, "Why can't I fall in the pool?"  A bit later, somewhat dried out and calmed down, Mr. SplashyPants is asked if falling in the pool was "exciting" or "scary".  "It was sc..." he says, then cuddles into Daddy's chest and says instead, "I'm OK."

***

Driving to the reception following the wedding, Mr. SplashyPants wants to discuss the goings on of the wedding ceremony, particularly when did he come to sit with Mommy?  (Mommy had sung a psalm early on, so DH was in a different pew with both children.)  "You came to sit with me when you gave me the Sign of Peace and I was very happy to get the Sign of Peace from you; that was very nice of you," I say.  "Yeah," says Mr. SplashyPants, and thinks for a little while, "Where is it?"  Where is what? we ask.  "Do we still have it?"  Have what?  "That what I gave you at the Church."  Oh!  The Sign of Peace?  "Yeah!"  That's just another name for a hug, sweetie, you gave me a hug at the Church.  Mr. SplashyPants thinks this over, then says decidedly to himself, "We had to leave that at the Church.  It had to stay at the Church."

***

In the elevator up from breakfast the day we're headed to see his uncle in St. Louis, Mr. SplashyPants tells his fellow passengers, "We're going to pack our bags and go see Aunt Louis!"

***

(My apologies for the disappearance this week - it turns out to be awfully hard to find both computer time and an internet connection while on a crazy roadtrip with two small children.  I'll be back in normal form soon, I hope.)