Let her Live her Life

Pamela Druckerman first introduced me to the idea of sleep-away camp for nursery school children in her book about raising kids in Paris, Bringing up Bebe. French parents routinely send their little ones off for a week in nature with their nursery school teachers. This concept was new and shocking to me, as it was to Druckerman. She didn't dare send her little one. I just put mine on the bus. And I feel good about it.  I am confidant that she will be fine. More than fine.
 

***

Iza left on the bus for camp this morning. Today it is Saturday. She will return on Thursday. She has never slept a single night away from home without me. When my husband is out of town (he spends every other month in America) she and her brother bedshare with me. What I told her:

I love you.

Have fun. 

It will be six days, five nights.

What she asked in the past several weeks:

How will she get her meals?

Who will she sleep with?

I told her that I would call her at least once per day. (This is a rule set by the teachers). She pointed out, “But, mama, I don’t have a phone.” I explained that I would call her teacher and the teacher would let her use her phone.

We were instructed to write five postcards. They will have a mail delivery each day and read the cards to the kids. I labored over the postcards.  It was an intensely emotional writing task. I drew several little lopsided hearts, a few ice-cream cones, even a little crooked rainbow. 

I also prepared a collage of family photographs for her to keep under her pillow.  I printed off several photos and laminated them.  The teachers had asked us to provide one family photo.  The truth is that we don't seem to have a photo with all of us.  So I made a collage.  Lamination was the natural finishing touch.  It will withstand rips and pillow drool.

We were also instructed to make a plastic bag for each day with an outfit inside. I found purple bags. I cut out little paper hearts and labeled each bag with her name and a number for each day.

When she saw the size of her suitcase, she said, “How will I carry that?” I assured her that the teachers would take care of it. (I didn’t have a smaller-sized bag to use.)
 

***

What I said to her as we stood in an excited crowd of parents and children on a busy Budapest street:

I love you.

Have fun.

If they have ice-cream everyday, that is okay. Enjoy it! (Normally we limit treats to Saturdays.)

If you need anything, ask your teacher.
 
What I didn’t say:

Brush your teeth.

Use sunscreen!

Wear clean underwear.

Don’t be afraid to flush the toilet in public restrooms. 

Listen to your teachers.

Behave. Be nice. 

Brush your unruly wild abundance of a tangled horse mane in the morning, for the love of god.  Wear a barrette to hold back your bangs so that they can grow out gracefully.  

***

Leo, who has never been separated from her for a single night in his life after he come home from the hospital, buried his head in her shoulder.

Iza said, “I love you.”

Leo said, “I love you.”

Iza said, “I need to go now.” Her voice was suddenly maternal, gentle but firm. The decision to take the trip had already empowered her before she said a final goodbye.

She boarded the enormous white bus. We waved furiously at the big windows where their heads barely cleared the lower sill. We didn’t see her, but we waved and blew kisses. Then it was time to let Leo cry on my shoulder before the walk home to a quiet house.

Get on Board

I have decided to skateboard.  I turn forty this year and it is time to make some firm decisions.  Implicit in choice is my decision to eschew stilts.  For several years I ruminated over learning to walk on stilts.  It seemed the ideal idyll.  It earns you a right to parade in extravagant costumes.  It elevates you.  It can’t be that hard, right?  Yet my intense lack of depth perception due to my nearsightedness held me back.  It seemed like the equivalent of a tone-deaf person who wants to learn to sing opera.  The drama of it, however, still enchants me.  You get to be a clown and delight the masses with such elegance.   It is time for me to table the stilts, however.  Maybe I will write a poem about stilting to get it out of my system.  It would have to be a long, tall poem with colorful scarves and butterfly wings.  There would be a gypsy band with a drummer to escort me and a rainbow.  They might be a fall from grace.  (Not sure about the rainbow, but there is room for revision.)  

In the meantime, I have moved to Budapest's urban landscape.  I walk everywhere.  The kids recently mastered bicycles, leaving me half a block behind if I am lucky to be that close.  While I am confident that they will wait at the corner for me to cross the street, there will come a day when they decide that Mom is too slow and they are capable of crossing on their own.   They are four and six.   I trust them to look for cars.  I do not trust the cars to look for them.  There is no doubt that I need to increase my sidewalk speed. 

My husband owns a foldable bike that is cute and adequate for the job.  It is also quite heavy and cumbersome.  The constant lugging it up and down three flights of stairs is tiresome.  There is always the fear of a bike thief.  We once caught a thief cycling away with the bike.  My husband was valiant. I screamed maniacally in poor Hungarian.  We got the bike back.  We do not speak of the incident in front of the children and we have since purchased a heavy-duty lock (which is also heavy to lug around).  Yet I still worry as I go about my day that I will emerge from a delightful cake shop (it is Hungarian thing) and not find my bike.

Here in Budapest it is not uncommon to see adults using scooters—a baseboard with wheels and an attached handlebar.   They are foldable and lighter than a bike.  Instead of locking it on the street, you take it with you inside whatever store or café you visit.  As you go up and down curbs you just step off the scooter and hold it by the handles.  It is by far the sensible choice.  I should get an adult scooter.  

Yet I just don’t find it cool.  I can’t fully explain it.  The truth is that it does not have sex appeal.  It is too practical.  It is boring and easy.  What I need in my fortieth year is a little spice, some danger, and an excuse to ride without brakes.  The skateboard is the answer.  Now, how does a lady of my vintage acquire street cred?  I have do idea where to buy a board or what kind I need.  There must be all kinds of considerations—wheel size, board size, and materials.  I need to hire a young person who is in the know. 

There must be a guidebook: Skateboarding for Old Ladies.  

If not, I may be able to write one by the end of the year. 

Kids are Not Dumb: What a Boy Learns from Fashion

Mama, why don’t you ever buy me beautiful clothes like Iza?  

 (He means the silk floral dress she wore for her end-of-school celebration.  He wore black formal pants, a white dress shirt, and a black vest with his sneakers.  He was adorable, with a hint of hipster.)

I try to buy you colorful clothes, but they are difficult to find.

Why don’t they make beautiful clothes for boys?  

They do.  They are just a different style.

They don’t make beautiful clothes for boys because they think all boys are bad.

Grocery Home Delivery in Budapest

Parenting Secret Power Revealed: Grocery Home Delivery in Budapest


I am not a super hero, but I do have one or two parenting secret powers. I am happy to reveal the first one: grocery home delivery service.

I was thrilled to discover that Budapest has multiple home delivery services for groceries, including household goods, baby items, and office supplies. As a mother of two under two in Boston I discovered that I could shop online and have my groceries carried into my kitchen. Now that I am a mother of two under six in Budapest I still rely on the service. While it is easier to shop now that the kids are older, we live in a third floor walk-up in the heart of the city and don’t own a car. For no delivery fee in some cases, I can have all my bulky items carried up three flights of stairs!

If you have never used the service, you might have some reservations. The idea of a stranger selecting your chicken breasts is a bit nerve-wracking, I agree. For that reason I mostly use the service to buy heavy items: economy-sized clothing detergent, cleaning supplies, bulk amounts of organic milk, twenty four rolls of toilet paper, and the occasional summer watermelon. When I have ordered fruits and vegetables, I have been pleased. I suspect the person selecting my kiwis does a better job than me when I have two little people demanding my attention.


Pagony Közért
http://www.pagonykozert.hu/en/home
The Pagony Közért offers free home delivery in all districts within twenty-four hours of your order (for a minimum order of 4000 forints). They offer a variety of payment methods. In addition to food and drinks sections, they offer a baby section (with diapers, soaps, food), an international section, a pet section, and an organic selection of foods.

G’Roby
https://www.groby.hu/
G’Roby’s delivery is free with a minimum order of 50,000 forints, under that price there is a sliding scale. They have a very detailed explanation of their fee scale, a variety of payment methods, and delivery options on the website. G’Roby has a similar range of products compared to Pagony Közért. In my experience it has a better selection of organic products, which they list under a tab called “Health Shelf.”

Tesco
http://bevasarlas.tesco.hu/en-GB
Tesco’s service fee ranges from 600 forints up to 1200 forints and depends on the time of the delivery. Their selection matches what you can find in any Tesco store. In contrast to Pagony Közért and G’Roby, Tesco only accepts online payment. The delivery assistant does not accept cash and they are not allowed to accept tips.

Szatyorbolt
http://szatyorbolt.hu/
Szayorbolt is an alternative to the standard big-box grocery store, offering locally sourced products. While you can shop from their range of products, they use the weekly box concept. You can choose from various sizes and types of boxes filled with seasonal fruits and vegetables and you can swap items if you don’t need onions that week. They offer several pick-up locations around town. Their website suggests that they will deliver only by bicycle. While I have shopped in their store, I have yet to try delivery. Still it might be worth keeping on eye on this business and offer your support for their environmentally friendly model.

Neked Terem
http://www.nekedterem.hu/default.aspx
This company offers another alternative to the big-box store. They specialize in locally grown products and offer delivery on Fridays. The delivery fee ranges from 280 to 850 forints determined by your address. Similar to Szatyorbolt, Neked Terem uses the weekly box concept. Currently their website is only in Hungarian.


Have you tried grocery home delivery in Budapest?
Please share your experiences in the comments.

At Thomas Merton's Grave by Spencer Reece

At Thomas Merton's Grave

We can never be with loss too long.
Behind the warped door that sticks,
the wood thrush calls to the monks,
pausing atop the stone crucifix,
singing: "I am marvelous alone!"
Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield:
rows of marrow and bone undone.
The horizon's flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermilion.
Moss dyes a squirrel's skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders—
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong: and light,
more new light, always arrives.



Spencer Reece

Conchita Wurst - Rise Like A Phoenix (Austria) 2014 Eurovision Song Contest

Good Question

Iza, who is six years old, "Is pain made out of water?"

Graduation Speeches You Need to Read

Bono
University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania USA
May 17, 2004
http://www.humanity.org/voices/commencements/bono-university-pennsylvania-speech-2004?page=bono_at_penn

Barbara Kingsolver
Duke University, Durham, North Carolina USA
May 11, 2008
http://www.humanity.org/voices/commencements/barbara-kingsolver-duke-university-speech-2008

Ex

American Life in Poetry: Column 472

Ex
by Andrea Hollander

Long after I married you, I found myself
in his city and heard him call my name.
Each of us amazed, we headed to the café
we used to haunt in our days together.
We sat by a window across the paneled room
from the table that had witnessed hours
of our clipped voices and sharp silences.
Instead of coffee, my old habit in those days,
I ordered hot chocolate, your drink,
dark and dense the way you take it,
without the swirl of frothy cream I like.
He told me of his troubled marriage, his two
difficult daughters, their spiteful mother, how
she’d tricked him and turned into someone
he didn’t really know. I listened and listened,
glad all over again to be rid of him, and sipped
the thick, brown sweetness slowly as I could,
licking my lips, making it last.

Fish Hearts

Iza, eating sardines:   Mom, I have a really hard question for you.

Me:  Okay.  What is it?

Iza:  Do fish have hearts?