Epic Party

Kedves x,

Most, hogy elkezdtük be- és el-rendezni budapesti életünket, arra gondoltunk, hogy folytatjuk egy kedvenc Bostoni hagyományunk, és meghívjuk a barátainkat, kedves ismerőseinket egy kellemes estére.

Ráadásul azt is fontosnak tartjuk, hogy megismertessünk olyan értékeket, amelyekről nem biztos, hogy eleget tudtok. Így lesz ez most is. Csíkszeredai barátom Részegh Botond elhozza legújabb festményeit, Dragomán György részelteket olvas fel a Botond képeihez írott novellájából, Palya Beát pedig talán ezekből inspirálódva hallhatjuk majd.

Ha lenne kedvetek velünk és barátainkkal tölteni egy estét, gyertek el November 24-én 19.00-tól.


Várunk szeretettel,
László, Janet, Iza es Leo.


PS. Kérlek jelezzétek, hogy el tudtok-e jönni.

Thanksgiving 2012

Cancelled.

phew.

instead:  mama drinking mulled wine, then pinot noir at local cafe.  tata putting kids to bed.  mama blogging and attending to email correspondence.  eavesdropping on an ESL discussion between two middle-aged psychologists on a date. they are jotting notes on a shared napkin.  He is German, ya.

Pink Martini is playing on the radio.

grandma made kolbasz (sausage) and mashed potatoes for dinner.

thanks indeed.  i'll take it.

Theater Project

Hello, All!

Happy Thanksgiving!

We rehearsed today and decided to change our schedule.  Please give us your feedback about the following dates:

Tuesday, Nov. 27, 5 - 7 pm, at Ulysses Language School.  Characters needed:  Alajos, Franny, and Rozi.

Tuesday, Dec. 4, 5 - 7 pm, at Janet's.  All characters needed

Monday, Dec. 10, 5 - 7 pm, at Janet's.  All characters needed.  ****This date is changed to Monday because Aniko is not able to come on that Tuesday.  We could do it Monday with her OR meet on Tuesday without her.

Tuesday, Dec. 18, 5 - 7, at Janet's. All Characters needed.

Saturday, Dec. 22, 7 pm  THE SHOW!


thanks,

janet

To Hear a Blind Man

registered somewhere alongside cars, trams, and the sounds of Hungarian:  click, click, click, click.  I move to the curb before I fully realize that this is the sound of a blind person making his own way down the city street. this I love.

a toddler's mood escalating toward a tantrum is redirected toward joy upon the discovery a young man on a small white bicycle doing spins and jumps in the square.

watching students flow out of a university building.  not a primary colored parka or a pair of sneakers to be seen.  

having grandma put the kids to bed while we walk ten minutes to the theater.

the new Belgian restaurant that opened on our block.

roasted chestnuts from street vendors.

the old women selling flowers.  the bent-in-half posture, her headscarf.  the way she grasps in both hands a bouquet of flowers freshly cut from her own garden.  when you buy a bunch, she slowly wraps the wet stems in newspaper.  she is unfailingly polite.  she is old.  her flowers are fresh and fragrant.  of course I buy two bunches, one for each child to carry home to grandma.  

the Roma women lofting brassieres into the air at the metro entrance.  imploring you with the promise of a good price.

Christmas markets and mulled wine.

the automatic and effusively generous offer of help when boarding a tram with a stroller and two toddlers.

no car.  only public transportation.  

walking everywhere.

pacing yourself with the crowd.

choosing to stand on the right or walk on the left down the escalator to the metro train.

being deeply immersed in a novel on my iPhone while seated on a tram and at the same time scanning the doorway at each stop to see if my seat can be offered up to a commuter who needs it.

not multi-tasking so much as living-connected.

Duck Feet

Iza, where are your dirty clothes?

in the Hancock.

Where?  Oh, you mean the hamper.  

Today:

The kids dress themselves.  Leo eats two bowls of oatmeal drizzled with honey and adorned with a smiley face made of raisins.  Iza eats one bowl.  

Then down three flights of stairs.  Leo descends the entire way bumping on his bottom.  

Through the park. Down into the metro.  

Three stops, including going under the Danube.

A stop at the new "Food Fusion" shop where the kids have discovered they can get a little cup of milk. Leo, who is happy to delay going to nursery school, suddenly develops an insistent need for a bit of milk from this shop.  I also buy sweet potatoes, an unusual food here.  I buy the sweet potatoes because the young man who runs the shop does not have a way to charge me for the little milks.  I have tried to pay him, to offer it as a tip at the coffee bar.  Nope.  So now we have sweet potatoes.

Up to the ovoda (nursery school.)

Leo proudly shows his new winter shoes to one of the ovi teachers.  She looks at me and tells me that it is unhealthy for his feet to wear his shoes inversely and that they must be changed.  I say nothing and I do not change them.  Because here is the deal:  The kid is having tantrums.  He obviously is not happy with all the changes that have been foisted on him--change of country, new home here in Budapest, going to nursery school, speaking in Hungarian.  If the little guy wants to wear his shoes inversely, then that is cool by me.  Of course I explained to him that morning how the velcro should be fastened such that the flower design in on the outside of the foot for all to see.  But he disagreed.  Yes, he chose the same dark purple boots with a floral motif as his sister.  The boy knows what he wants.  And he wants to fasten them inversely right now.  Fine by me.  Let's just say, this particular teacher is doing her job by laying down the rules.  But my job as a parent is to respond to my child first.  My kid needs to feel like he has some control over his life.  Let him wear his shoes as he wills.  

It is stressful to lack the language skills to explain my point-of-view and parenting philosophies.  I did not appreciate being told her opinion about what is best for my child's feet.  Really?  Did she think I didn't know or didn't care that his shoes were on backward?  And really, universe and podiatrists, is it really unhealthy that my child goes through a phase of wearing his shoes inversely?  Will he walk on  hobbled little stubs because of this laissez-faire parenting style of mine?

Dear ovoda teacher, please read:  UNCONDITIONAL PARENTING by Alfie Kohn.

Kisses (and no tantrum!) and then I retrace my metro route home, stopping at a local cafe to meet the husband.

Green Tea.  Warm tuna sandwich.  

We discuss our upcoming party, our children's future and education, Hungarian bureaucracy, and Boston real estate.  He asks me our wedding anniversary because he needs it for some paperwork.  I don't know.  We finally manage to find it because I remind him that he has scanned all our documents into the Intertubes.  April 21, 2006.

Then I step into a local design store and buy a new espresso maker--the stovetop kind.  I have one. It doesn't work despite all the voodoo I've tried.  Fingers crossed for the new one.

Back up the three flights to our apartment.

Minutes later two other actors arrive so we can rehearse our play.  Of course we take a cake break.  Not your typical Hungarian cake break as Stefan stopped by our local vegan shop and picked up some "reform" cake.  Very healthy stuff.  Not exactly within the parameters of what you are used to when it comes to cake.  Very granola.  

The actors leave.  I eat all the remaining cake.

Then I nag the husband about being late to pick up the kids.  Today is his first occasion to pick them up from nursery school.  

My mother-in-law is still on Skype.  So I step out and buy a few items from a local Hungarian designer's boutique.  I return. Grandma is till on Skype.  

I make tea.

Now I blog while I wait for the family to come home.

Tantrums:     0

Number of trips up/down three flights:     4

Cups of tea:     4

cups of coffee:     2

Days left until our performance:  16

Tantrum

Today my son had three full-blown tantrums.  If you think a tantrum is a trifle. You are dead wrong.

Motherhood didn't "change" me at all.  I didn't become someone different.  In fact I become a radical version of myself.  Motherhood cracked me open and let loose the Pandora's box of my collective self comprised of my history up until the moment before I pushed my daughter into the world.  Pandora's box, let me specify, is used here as in something that seems like merely a natural rite of passage--woman becomes mother--and yet has far-reaching consequences.  It turns you inside out.  It turns you upside down.  It doesn't change you at all.  It reveals who you were all along.  Needless to say, this is not something anyone can possibly believe if they read it in a book.  Nor can they believe it even when told by a very close girlfriend who has become a mom before them.  It cannot be learned.  It has to happen when your tiny baby cannot smile at you or cuddle you.  She cannot hold you, but you cannot hold her enough.  Your arms go numb and still you hold her.  Your entire being is aware at all times of her.  You know that she is your best self and yet you have no way of explaining what that means in actual spoken language.  So you sing lullabies.  Off-key and without stop.

It used to take years off my life when my babies cried.  And when I say cry, please know that they can scream in what seems like bloody terror.  I felt my blood chemistry lose vital strength.  I could feel my skin tighten around my glazed eyes and break into lines.  It was an out-of-body suffering.  It was terrible.  And then your hormones stabilize, somewhat.  You begin to understand that the little one is vital and resilient.   You get more than four hours of sleep in a row.  Sleep, that is a whole thing.

Now when my son throws a tantrum at the age of three and a half, the Pandora's box is opened--here used in the sense of letting loose all the dark stuff from within me.  Yes, I know he is riding the storm of his emotions.  I know I am not supposed to take it personally. I know he is not trying to be difficult or hurt me.  But when he gets backed into a tantrum and becomes a raging, weaponized munchkin, I don't want to wait it out. Or hug him.  Or empathize.  I want. the. screaming. to. stop.  I want to dodge the bullet.  Or fire back.

I distinctly remember reading parenting books before I had children that addressed the need to walk away and cool down.  I absolutely remember thinking with total certainty that I would never need to walk away from my darling child.  Ha.

The problem with a toddler throwing a tantrum is that you can't walk away--they will follow you screaming and pulling at you.  It's a logistical nightmare.  Or consider when a tantrum happens while walking on a major city street, in inclement weather, with a slighter older preschooler also along for the ride.  There are serious safety issues at stake.

Recent scientific advice suggests that the best response to a tantrum is to do nothing.  Just wait until you have a tantrum on your hands and see how difficult it is to do nothing, but do it in a way that communicates your loving presence.  I would rather, at times, literally do nothing.  But I hope that is not what they best scientific advice intended.

I've had friends on Facebook mention days when "raging bitch mom" appears and they have to figure out a way to put her back in her cage or medicate her.  Or at least feed her.  This is what I did not know about motherhood, especially parenting a toddler (or two), the raging bitch is inside me too.  And it ain't pretty at times.  But, once again, it is back to the resolve:  wait it out, stay close.  Don't take it personally.

Today the soup had hotdogs in it!

Recently--as in a few days ago--a friend of mine started a blog.  Her first entries are wonderfully honest and revelatory about her current thoughts and feelings.  My blog, however, has long--as in since the beginning--been an exercise in self-constraint. A careful effort exerted to remain veiled.  Not to be too...bloggy.  The effort to be writerly instead of excretorious.

But that is mostly a bullshit endeavor, the whole, Only my mother is reading this.  (By the way, mostly only my mother used to read this and probably doesn't remember the url anymore.)

So, let's catch up.

It is now 2012, right?

Obama was reelected.  Romney was defeated. (What is he writing on his blog tonight?)

I am in Budapest.  I am seated at my desk facing the lighted gas lamps of Karoly Kert.  The husband is in Dubai.  (I am told that Dubai exists, but have trouble really coming to terms with that fact.)  The kids were darlings today, which should be noted as it is not every day that I can say that.

I am surprised by how much I like life in Budapest.

I still adore jasmine pearls after many, many years.  And today I learned that I have been steeping it all wrong.  As per the directions on the package from Teavana, I have steeped one teaspoon at 170 degrees F for three minutes, yielding two infusions.  Today I learned an alternate way to steep: one teaspoon at 170 degrees F for 5 - 10 seconds, yielding 10 - 12 infusions.  Former tea, a light brown color, the later produces an almost white tea which is very fragrant. I resisted the new method and almost refused to try it outright.  But I took the challenge.  I liked it here, and there, and anywhere. (Can still learn new tricks, in other words.) (May be metaphor there for youth and what comes after.)

I am confused about why General Petraeus had to resign because he had an affair.  I don't recommend extra-marital affairs.  But I don't see how his private life and indiscretions should end his career. I mean, shit.  That's hardcore and so, well, Let's all throw stones!  Not that I have been able to stomach reading anything other than the headlines.

This morning a woman got out of car and started down the sidewalk in front of us, us being myself, Iza, and Leo.  I immediately felt pity for her--in rainy weather she was dressed in high-heeled wedge boots, black tights, short black skirt, and short brown jacket.  Really, we had to go and endorse wearing high heels in winter weather?  That was a man's idea.  So, she was teetering and not strutting her stuff.  I pitied her.  Then my almost five-year-old (but still four years old) says, "That is a beautiful lady, mama."
     "What makes you say that?"
     "She has long hair, and tights."
So.
     "I also like ladies with short hair," I fumbled.
Then.
     "You know what makes a person beautiful?  A good attitude and a happy face."
I am sure she didn't buy it for one second.

My kids go to a Hungarian nursery school.  I am a fan.  I especially love that they eat a sit-down lunch with at least two courses.  Lunch always starts with a soup.  And then a second course of either pasta or meat and potatoes.  Sometimes fish, though rarely.  I am sure it is not organic.  Sometimes they report with a near swoon that, Today the soup had hotdogs in it!  There is white bread.  But I overlook these things because I think the lessons learned from a shared table with real cutlery and decorum is essential.  I have been to one of these lunches and it was impressive how the little ones behaved. Then I learned yesterday that the girls are always served first.  Then the boys.  Really?  Is this benign, old-fashioned quaintness, merely?  Or one more ingredient in an insidious pressure cooker of gender discrimination--against girls and boys.  Why can't we just go around in a circle and serve each in his or her turn?  In my humble experience, the Hungarians are very specific and restrictive about gender roles. As a mother of a daughter and son, I find it infuriating.

Please, don't mention the Princess issue.  That is a whole thing.