Between Eid-ul-Adha and Thanksgiving November 29, 2009

The TV is muted as I am watching the preparations for the Hajj in Mecca on Al Jazeera via satellite TV coverage on one end of the room, and the Macy´s Thankgsgiving Day Parade via Earthcam streaming video on my MAC screen on the opposite end. All of this takes place in the loft space we created in the former garage of our beach house in Spain, my English fiance and German me. We opted this year to give the parade priority, as my 3-year-old son discovered his fascination for drums and is mesmerized by the high school marching bands in their colorful mock-uniforms. Mecca is pounded by rainstorms, and my toddler would have trouble understanding why all these people insist on walking in the pouring rain and howling winds with just a white cloth wrapped around them. I will explain next year. The turkey is happily roasting in the oven, and besides many many other things this year, I am particularly thankful that I do not have means to slaughter a lamb as my faith would require me to do. There is a field of sheep and lambs near my house, but I enjoy watching them play much more than seeing them killed. There are parts of Islam that I have trouble adjusting to, and in our little village, sacrifice certificates are hard to come by. The turkey will do just fine for now, as it shares the oven space with sweet potatoes and turnips.

The ruby-red cranberry sauce is strategically centered on the lovely set table that is decorated with (fake) maple leaves – as the olive branches and lemon tree leaves I have in the backyard do not transcend quite the same atmosphere as those deep red to light orange colored leaves can. My fiancee is sitting on the couch, enjoying a glass of English cider with our best friends who are a couple from Belgium and Wales. Our kids chatter in a blend of the local Catalan-rooted dialect Mallorquin, Castilian Spanish and English, as my friend scalds her daughter in Flamish. Her husband follows the pictures on the TV screen. He has lived and worked in Dubai, and him and I have had many discussions on my Islamic faith. The Skype phone rings. It is my friend from “home”, Vermont in the US. She just got up and wanted to wish me Happy Thanksgiving, telling me that she will miss me at her dinner table this year. We have a lovely chat, with everybody jumping in front of the web cam, so that my European friends can meet my American friends. The kids all spot Dumbo in the Macy´s Parade line up of cartoon characters – 3-yr-old Cosby on his VT tv, and my son and our friends´ 5-yr-old daughter on the computer. For them it is not that surprising, as we all regularly communicating with our families via the internet.

A beep on my cellphone alerts me to a new text message – our friend Sujit sends us an Eid Message from Abu Dhabi – and for a moment my mind drifts off to those families in Mina, in the Arabian desert, where by now the sun is getting ready to set on the day before Hajj – my best friend in Pakistan for whom the day is ending – my business partner in Mumbai who is attending a family dinner – and my mother in Germany for whom all of this is a new world.

We all sit down around the table, the kids fighting over the best seats near the potatoes. My fiancee starts carving the Turkey to Ohhs and Ahhs from all of us – and he sends me over a wink and a smile.

Yes, me too. I am thankful this year for having made it through the global economic crisis and being able to keep a very comfortable roof over our heads and delicious food on the table, sharing it with friends who have a good heart and an open mind towards humanity. I am thankful for raising my son in a peaceful country with sensible family values, while teaching him to speak 4 languages and two religions without any pressure so he can choose what he prefers for his adult life.

We all raise our glasses, and as we wish each other Happy Thanksgiving, we turn to the photo we have placed beside a place setting with an empty chair: it is the photo of our “daughter” Fazeelat, she is three years young and lives in a SOS Childrens Villages In Pakistan. “Eid Mubarak Sweetheart”.

PS:

If you would like to learn about SOS Childrens Villages please have a look at the following links:

http://www.sos.org.pk

watch on youtube.com:

http://www.youtube.com/sosvillagespk

join us on facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/group.php?gid=63418340768…

or follow us on twitter:

http://www.twitter.com/sosvillagespk

Thank you for your kind consideration – and all the best to you and yours, wherever you are.

Rafael – filling all the voids October 30, 2009

After 12 rather pressured weeks: trying to catch up with my writing work after a long summer of mommy-day care, money issues, job worries, worries about the new school, lovely emails from my ex’s ex-wife – my stomach caved in and sent me an unmistakable signal that it was time to stop worrying about the world and start worrying about myself for a bit.

The doctor, my boyfriend, friends, business acquaintances – MY MOTHER! ha! – my neighbors – everybody told me to relax, enjoy and to stop pulling my hair out over every detail. Niki told me to forget about the past (cute) and the future – and live in the moment, in the here and now, and to enjoy the fulfillment of the present. Although that was great advice and got the thought process going, Jim then nailed it by telling me to “Let go, and let GOD” …take over/ take care of it.

This is all easier said than done if for your entire life, you are struggling to fill voids that cannot be filled even with the largest amounts of love, life and laughter. If you are used to finding fault within yourself and over-worry – and then put a brave face on, ready to be everybody else’ lifesaver. After doing that for 42 years you will have your ways set to default.

The last couple of days I have tried to heed the advice, though: Shake off some weight off my shoulders, untie the know in my stomach. I enjoyed the moments, counted my current and bountiful blessings, and have gotten rid off a lot of the responsibility I carried for others by giving it back to their rightful owners: THEM. That felt great. And you know what ? It worked. They deal with it – and I feel a lot lighter, easier.

The second step was much more difficult. To let go and let GOD.

For HIS defense I have to say that HE really never deserted me. Whenever I rang, HE took my call. Sometimes HE was short with me, because the mess I had gotten myself into and that I asked help with, was almost always entirely my fault. Sometimes HE was bossy – at those times when I called about the same sh** twice. And during those times when life went along smoothly and I did not call, HE always sent someone to watch over my shoulder (Mind you, those times didn’t last very long). Lately I call HIM a different name, but HE is still the same to me.  We just changed languages, and – well, worship hours.

Last night my little family and I came home from an event, and with my son Rafael asleep in the back I told Spencer I felt a lot better already, and about the advice I had gotten and was trying to follow. I also told him that I had some real issues with the “letting go” part – that I am so used to being in charge of everything, and have been disappointed so many times when I did let things go. I told Spencer I just wished I could get some kind of a guarantee – much like with the used car we bought, because that guarantee is great: in case something does not work, I can come back and b*** about it and I get it fixed on the spot or my money back. (Spencer knows when it is best to let me get on with it and not question my lively train of thought)

This morning I sat in a waiting room for an appointment, and there was a book of 1000 baby names. Why did I pick it up? No idea – because there is a 100% guarantee of me not getting pregnant. But I flipped through it and looked up my son Rafael’s name and its meaning.

Much like mine, it has its origin in Hebrew. The meaning of the name Rafa’el – GOD HEALS!

I sat there in complete amazement.

It was the sign that I had been asking for – my guarantee.

All my life I had been wanting to have children, but could not. All my life I had wanted to be a mother – and then Rafael came into my life. He healed my aching heart. He filled all those voids. He gave me peace, a family of my own, brought love and happiness to my life. He made my life complete by bringing himself and his Dad into it, and made me the most positive, happiest person on earth. Yes, God heals.

So, a big “Thank you” is in order. I got your message. You have done amazing so far, and I will now trust and let go.

You take over.

Gay Marriage – an obstacle course October 29, 2009

Image via Wikipedia

This is my response to a video post of John and Jared at their wedding count down site http://groomswithaview.blogspot.com .

Two great (and cute) guys, all the potential to show the rest of the world that gay marriage needs to be a given, not a request.

susannedickmann said…

Guys,
First of all – congratulations on finding the one you want to spend the rest of your respective life with – that is a feat in this day and age – no matter what color, religion, sexual orientation, age, country. I can appreciate your situation, your frustration. But let an old woman with 45 years of life experience give you a piece of her mind: the attitude you show life will get thrown back at you. I think you should stop feeling so sorry for yourselves, but realize the amazing opportunity you have to make a difference in this world. Instead of sitting there with droopy faces, you should count your blessings: each other, the (relatively free) world you live in, having the money to have a wedding at all – and smile all obstacles in the face. Many gay couples before you have suffered – and they have suffered so that you could get to this point in the first place. Now it is up to you to encourage other young gay couples to follow in your footsteps – not to scare them away with your end-of-the-world attitude. You will get married eventually, you will (I sincerely wish) be happy – and laugh when you look back at all this. At least you have something to tell your kids (and grandkids) later in life. And you will be able to be proud that you were part of the few that will make things easier in the long run for many to follow. I am not saying you should keep quiet – by all means: Make noise and tell your story! But be a bit more upbeat! Hold hands on the video, show your love for each other and your invincibility, your sense of humor and positivity about your conviction. That, and only that will open ears, doors and hearts. Nobody wants to listen to a whiner, there are too many of them out there already. Be different, be positive, be cheerful, enjoy the ride, the entire experience, because no matter what – it will be part of your life, so you might as well embrace it. You should by now be pros at embracing adversity! And it will show all those who are questioning your decision that there is nothing that will stop you from following your heart and conviction. After all: you are not sick, you are not poor, you do not have to live through an arranged marriage – your are ONLY gay. I know it sucks, but you are paving a way here. It’s not fair – but life is not fair. You are pioneers here – so get with it! You will find that the lighter you take it – the lighter you make it! All the best, sincerely – Susanne

Rumi October 28, 2009

Image via Wikipedia

The Persian Poet whose name was Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (Persian: جلال‌الدین محمد رومی), but who came to be known simply as Rumi, was respected for his approach to religion as expression of spirituality, unattached to any particular faith or crede. He is considered an example of  “The Perfect Man, the perfected or completed human being” (wiki).

For Rumi, religion was mostly a personal experience and not limited to logical arguments or perceptions of the senses.

Rumi was a Muslim. But he embraced humanity, the human spirit, and accepted other people’s beliefs. “His importance transcended national and ethnic borders” (wiki)

His work, though hundreds and hundreds of years old, still applies today, even more so right now than ever before. He lived from 1207 until 1273, and was buried in Konya (today’s Turkey), where his son founded the order of the Sufi, famous for their “Whirling Dervishes” ceremonial dance.

Rumi composed many poems about love and romance, spiritual evolution and interaction with God. This particular poem reflects his ecumenical open-mindedness, that many people would be well advised to adapt for themselves today. Politics would cause a lot less damage if politicians would learn to look over the edge of their plates – or inside their hearts.

I searched for God among the Christians and on the Cross

and therein I found Him not.

I went into the ancient temples of idolatry; no trace of Him was there.

I entered the mountain cave of Hira and then went as far as Qandhar

but God I found not.

With set purpose I fared to the summit of Mount Caucasus and found

there only ‘anqa’s habitation.

Then I directed my search to the Kaaba, the resort of old and young;

God was not there even.

Turning to philosophy I inquired about him from ibn Sina

but found Him not within his range.

I fared then to the scene of the Prophet’s experience

of a great divine manifestation

only a “two bow-lengths’ distance from him”

but God was not there even in that exalted court.

Finally, I looked into my own heart and there I saw Him;

He was nowhere else.

A story about life in Spain, the Guardia Civil, Turkish sausage and coffee to go October 16, 2009

A few weeks ago, one of my social media contacts in Turkey and I started chatting. His wife is expecting and I ordered them the well known book “What to expect when you are expecting” in the US since they had no access to it in Turkey, but really wanted it. My friend offered to pay for it, but in return I asked the favor of sending some Turkish sausage and tea instead, which he did immediately.

A couple of days ago, I received a notification in my mailbox that a package for me was being held at the main post office of our island. Due to suspicious contents it was awaiting inspection by the government sanitation department! I had completely wiped the memory of my request out,  since I had promised to forget about it, for it to be a surprise. Therefore, I was duly very surprised and just couldn’t figure out why the book I had ordered from amazon.com was a cause for a national health concern. And yes, I am blond, and sometimes a scatterbrain. Of course! It was the sausages!

I called the number on the notification, it kept ringing with no answer, for days. You have to understand that Spain’s reputation for being laid back is well deserved. If you are not ready to slow down and adjust to the Mediterranean pace, forget about living here – you will end up a basket case within a few months. Patience here is not just a virtue – it is a survival technique.

So this morning, I gave up calling, dressed appropriately for a trip into the big city and took my pope mobile for a ride into town, to the main post office. Armed with ID, positive attitude and a stone-melting smile I entered the impressive building.

You have to know that the average Mallorcan Spaniard likes to keep foreigners at a distance. Nobody will ever ask you how you are, because quite frankly if you are not Mallorcan they really aren’t interested that much.  Customer Service is a new and  foreign concept, so better not ask. For that reason, I have learned to seek out a person of competence, whose position requires a certain basic knowledge: to confirm the address and that I was in the right part of the building, I headed for the security guard at the door.

Before I could even ask anything she said: “Señora, you have to take a number and wait your turn for one of the counters!” With that, my stone-melting smile vanished. Refusing to be rid-off that easily, I asked whether she could just confirm the address for me, to prevent me from having to wait just to find out I would have to go to an entirely different building. She replied “Señora, I do not know the address of this building!” “You mean, you do not know where you work ?” “No, Señora! Now you go and take a number and wait your turn!” B’§%& ! With no other remedy available, I took my number and waited.

As I had expected, I was in the wrong place. The counter person, after conferring with two of her associates from the national postal service, explained to me that they were not quite sure where exactly that office was, but they were absolutely positive there was no such office within the main post office – although they had to admit the letter indicated the same address. I had them clarify to me that “they did not know whether there was a government sanitation department” within the very building where they worked. But they were kind enough to suggest, that since there were government guards and flags at the big entrance right next door, I should go ask there.

So I left the building some completely wasted 45 minutes later. But not without giving the security guard at the door my “I am putting a spell on your family down to your grandchildren”-look – and headed next door. Another uniformed woman. Somebody really had it in for me today. It is hard enough here to use polite courtesy to get anywhere, a smile may work on the rare male officer – but I knew it was completely lost on a female.

This women was a Guardia Civil officer. In Spain, we have the local police who are riding around in somewhat modern dark blues wearing mustaches, long hair, pony tails, showing off their tattoos under their rolled up sleeves – and then we have the national guards: stuffed in olive-green, heavy-drill fabric uniforms which have not been changed much since they were originally designed in the early 19th century. Women wear the same cut like men and look accordingly square, including the funny shiny hats, that do not do any person any favors other than maybe Carrot Top.  As they are supposed to instill fear and civil order, it always feels like they have been instructed to avoid smiling at all cost.

The young woman that received me on the steps of the government sanitation department building (flags and all) had a look at my document and asked me to step inside, to have me pass security. There is something really comforting in watching your purse being scanned, and scanned, and scanned again – especially since it is just big enough to hold my wallet and car keys. I felt very secure – and that she was taking the p***.

She pointed me to a door along the corridor nearby, and I went on my merry way, admiring the opulent white marble halls of a building that was being maintained by my tax dollars. The lady in the office was nice, by comparison. At this stage I was ready to gratefully perceive any form of information as helpful kindness. She asked me to fill in the form, especially the part which required a detailed description of the contents of the package. I let her know that I would not know the content until I had actually had a look inside the package. Stoic and rather bored looks on the opposite side of the table.  Then I asked her what the purpose of the form was, and she responded that it was the authorization for the department to open and inspect the package which was being held in quarantine. Quarantine ?!

My experiences in Spain have taught me that the less information you give, the less red tape will get thrown up in the air. So under no circumstances was I going to let on, that I was anxiously awaiting a package full of delicious Turkish sausages, spices and tea. On a few occasions I had created some yet unknown precedence, requesting something that to me (and the rest of the world) is normal but here at times may be outlandish – with the consequence that new rules were made up on the fly, usually not in my favor.

When I handed her back the paper, she stopped, looking me in the face exuding something that felt like pity. I smiled as wide as I could, telling her that I would just wait right here to receive my package, we could both have a look inside, and complete the form. “Oh, no, this is not going to happen today, and certainly not HERE! This is an office!” Dumb-ass me, really – what was I thinking ?! Instead, she took the signed form from me and wrote down a phone number on a post-it note, telling me to call that number if I had not heard back within a week. I recognized the number, told her it was the same one I had called repeatedly, but that there had never ever been anybody to pick up. She nodded, stating that “the phone is in the back of the room, and the inspector is usually so busy, she does not take any calls.” SO WHAT IS THE F****** POINT?” was about to blow out of my gaping mouth, but instead I pulled myself together to leave. I really want that sausage!

As I was getting up, she assured me that – should the inspector sign off on my shipment – it would be delivered to my door only 2 days later. “And what if not?” I asked – to which she answered: “Next time you can just fax us the authorization form instead of coming all this way (meaning: instead of stealing my precious time). We usually do not receive the public at this office”. WTF ?

I made my way back to the car, thinking how every time I think that surely now I have seen it all, something more stupid comes along. Mallorca always lives up to its reputation of being an island full of surprises, and its officials never fail to disappoint.

Intent on rewarding myself after this mind blowing experience, I went and bought a coffee-to-go in one of the few places on the island that offer a very nice coffee in a paper cup with a lid, across the street from the post office. Coffee here is not just a convenience. It is a lifestyle – but that is fodder for an entire different blog post at some other time, which shall include plumbers and electricians and missing parts.

I grabbed my coffee, hopped back in the car, turned the Eagles on my car stereo up full blast, opened the roof to let the sunshine in and sipped my delicious coffee – which relieved some of that tension, lowered my heart rate and put a smile back on my face.

And although it was not Starbuck’s  or Dunkin’ light and sweet with a shot of hazelnut, it made me feel a bit “like home”,where I used to take daily conveniences like a functioning postal service and coffee-to-go for granted. Driving along, I thought that the only difference was the Mediterranean to the right of my car – and the stick shift.

My cell phone rang and pulled me back to earth. Spencer asked me to come to his office and pick him up. As he got in, he had a look in the backseat, and asked me

“So, where is the sausage ?” …

P.S. To Burcu and Baris: if you read this, you understand why I still have not called to let you know what happened – it was a long story, and frankly I am embarassed – because surely things in Istanbul are a lot more advanced than in Mallorca.

God was in the room October 9, 2009

Image by Steve Webel via Flickr

Those of you who follow my blog or know me personally, know about my 3-year-old son Rafael and the relationship we have. It is very special, very close, and I am very blessed that we communicate on the same wavelength, sometimes without any word needing to be exchanged.

Every Friday night, we go out to the local cafe/ restaurant to have dinner with our close neighbors and friends. Tonight we were late because we were tired, had fallen asleep on the couch – and Rafi wanted to go home pretty much right after we had finished our food. So we did.

It had been a particularly exciting day: starting with a party at a fellow school and culminating in his first percussion class in the afternoon, everybody at dinner had heard about the drums and the tambourine and had gotten a very lively recount of the noisy afternoon activities in school…

After a short walk down the street we reached home, and I took him upstairs to his bedroom. While changing into his PJs, we did our nightly “thing” of going through the events of the day. He had been very cuddly all evening, and once in his bed all tucked in, he smiled at me in that very special way, contented and happy and relaxed.

Although I am very deeply rooted in my spirituality, I am not a very religious person. I changed my religion some 3 years ago, and we do not go to church or pray openly on a regular basis – because I believe that living a just, honorable and compassionate life, my son will be able to choose his faith when he is old enough to understand his options.

As I looked at his face on his pillow, his smile, his beautiful eyes – and like so many times before, quietly counted my blessings of having him in my life – something was very different tonight. The air was filled with vibrant, raw emotion. I was so overcome by those feelings of closeness and gratitude, I felt compelled to say a prayer. This may be a simple task for those parents who pray regularly, and who are used to praying out loud with their kids – but Rafi and I had never done that before, and I was a little unsure about how to start, about how to explain to him what I wanted to do. But as usual with Rafi, things simply come to me by divine intervention: I asked him, if we could say a prayer. He just nodded, put the toy plane and car he held in his hands next to him on the bed – and folded his hands. Now – my son and I never prayed together, and I normally do not fold my hands, but pray in a different way altogether. So I was very surprised by the way he simply folded his tiny little fingers into another and looked up at me, awaiting my prayer. I started by thanking God for our lovely home, and for my lovely son, for the wonderful life we have, and the love we are able to share, asked him to always keep us safe, and not to forget those less fortunate.

My son nodded after each statement – and after a little pause at the end added quietly “And thank you for the nice food we have, and dinner tonight, and our friends at the cafe”.

My breath was taken away, by the generosity and thankfulness of his little spirit – and the way how he picked up on the sentiments of the moment. I hugged him tightly, and with a smile he laid back on his pillow and said “Good night, my mommy.”

If in 45 years of my life I ever felt like God made his presence felt – then he was there, tonight, sitting with me at the edge of my son’s bed, praying with us.

I wish for all of you, that the one God we share – no matter according to which book – will bless you and keep you as he does us.

To the Girls October 4, 2009

Image by lemoncat1 via Flickr

Thirteen years ago, I met someone online.

Back then, I did not know what I know now – which is the way life goes, I guess.

The story about the relationship – and later marriage – that followed, needs to be written at another point in time, to share my experiences and to prevent others from making the same mistakes. It was a rocky ride between initial bliss, continuous fear, lies and betrayal, pain and regret, the US justice system’s disregard for the human spirit, emotional disasters – and a dead end that was written on the wall in large letters long before I had the strength to look up.

It is also the story of one woman trying to do the right thing, after so many wrongs she couldn’t do anything about. Trying to be a good person in a very bad situation. Trying to grow despite everyone’s efforts to break her spirit. The relationship ended as all his other relationships ended – with more lies, more betrayal, more pain and the inevitable disappointment.

Today I had a look on facebook at the pictures of the girls the man in my story left behind all those years ago. One more beautiful and gorgeous than the other. Women now, all of them. And although they were a part of my life for so many years, I do not know anything about them – but always wanted to. Still do. And I had a look at their mother – there is a picture of her smiling, holding her grandchild. After so many years of poison and anger it was good to see that somewhere there behind all that hatred is a real person who can be human.

I cannot say that I regret what happened, for various reasons: Because it was my life and therefore part of my journey, it taught me and made me who I am today, has become a part of my fabric that I cannot and will not tear away. Because I could not change the way it happened, it was not of my choosing, and definitely not the way I would have gone about it if I had known then what I know now, if I had known the truth. Because everything took on a life of its own, and there was no reasonable way of dealing with the players on either side.

The one thing I do regret is having caused pain. I was willing to make everyone a part of the story. I surely had enough love in my heart to spread it around, enough sense to work things out, enough energy to build a strong support system to carry everyone.  But there was no way of reconciliation, no way of making it work. Just hatred.

I do not know the stories behind the pictures on facebook. I do not know the emotions. But I am a Mom now myself. And I know my worries, my challenges, my tasks – my purpose. I admire the girls for whom they have become, and their mother for how she supported them all these years.

I am responsible for my own actions, but I am not responsible for the actions of those around me. I can try and make my environment see and understand things – but not at the risk of causing harm to myself, losing everything I own and lived for.

The book of the story will be written, now that I know the girls have lives of their own, now that I know the characters in the book will not be harmed. In reality, the book is closed.

Instead, a new book as been opened, which is inspiring, bright and airy, light and loving, free from fear, full of joy and – honesty. In light of the perpetual happiness I feel now, the roots I have grown and the love I receive – everything now seems another lifetime away.

I will always think of those girls. And their mother, who shut every door on every chance to help her – but who I now know can actually smile. And for whom I was part of her life’s journey. I hope she has been able to learn as much from it as I have.

To the man behind the story – HOW COULD YOU ?  How could you think you would be able to build a life of lies and make-believe on the ruins of 8 other people ?

daycares are not schools September 23, 2009

Image via Wikipedia

One of the automatically generated links on my blog post about daycare leads to another wordpress blog. This is a copy of that post and my response:

Original post from daviddufresne.wordpress.com

daycare’s are not schools

over the past number of years, a few members of my family have have sent their children to day cares. during this time in daycare, my cousin’s parents have consistently referred to their child’s daycare’s as ’schools’, even going as far as self titling the employees at such centers as ‘teachers’. now, after hearing about their child’s ’schools’ and wonderful ‘teachers’ for the past 6 years, i am beginning to become annoyed (more so pissed off) with the self proclamation that my family gives these daycare’s. let me just say, as a studying teacher, who is in the process of studying at mcgill in order to receive my bachelor of education, i don’t think daycare’s are ’schools’, and the people who work there to earn their living do provide a great service, but they should not be referred to as teachers. i think it is time that the members of my family wake up and stop trying to make themselves feel better about shipping their children off to a over populated, full of germs daycare, while they either head off to work or do nothing around the house. calling these places ’schools’, which have ‘teachers’ that ‘educate’ children may make you feel better, but for someone who will be a practicing      teacher one day, like myself, such remarks are borderline insulting.

My response on his blog:

First of all:
I think you need to take that up with your family members – otherwise you will bottle-up some resentment that will blow-up right out of that bottle somewhere else….maybe at the kids you teach once you start working, who have arrived in front of you straight out of one of those “centers”. I agree with you – a lot of people will make bad choices as to the quality of their caregivers, and will proceed to cover their guilt by praising the caregivers over-the-moon. Other people have to work to make a living, don’t have or cannot afford many high-quality options, but at least make an effort to get their kids off the streets/ out of the arms of overwhelmed family members. Any daycare-job is a big deal – you will realize that no matter whether these caregivers at the centers are studied and carry a diploma or not: taming a room full of toddlers is a huge achievement for any person. Be a bit more gentle to them. They may be insulted by your disregard, because just due to the fact that you can afford to get certified does not automatically make you the better caregiver! You need an abundant love and concern for children, in order to deliver. Oh, and by the way – one more thing: your classroom will probably be just as crowded, and school kids tend to carry the same amount of germs as toddlers in daycare ! Good luck!

Islamic Cupcakes September 22, 2009

Not only are these Islamic green, buttercream-frosted cupcakes the perfect treat to celebrate Iftar -                                                   they are also made by a very gifted writer with an enormously generous heart:

http://bit.ly/182P06

Check them out here.

I am proud to share my writing dreams and the blogging world with people like Jasmin.

Enjoy!

Who is the better mother – stay at home or daycare ? September 9, 2009

Image by clevercupcakes via Flickr

This is a comment I left on the thread “Opting out” at another blog on wordpress

My son is 3 years old, and since I live in Spain, he will on Friday start mandatory pre-school. He is looking forward to it, because he is excited to see his friends again, who will be in his new class and have also been with him during the past two years at the private daycare center he attended. He began daycare at 1 year old – after he spoke his first words.

Thanks to the center, he now already speaks Spanish and the local dialect, Catalan, in addition to English and German, which we speak at home.

Sending him to the private daycare center was a huge financial sacrifice, but it was the best decision we ever made.

He learned values of sharing and compassion with other children, we would not have been able to instill in him in our single-child household.

He learned about other country’s traditions and other religions as well as skin colors, because the center taught children from all over Europe and all faiths.

In the new school, he will be taught according to a Montessori-style curriculum, without books but through playful projects which will include to continue those projects at home with my husband and myself. That way we can also learn the local dialect, from him – and are very actively involved in his daily adventures.

In Spain, every child carries a diary, 1 page for every day, in which both daycare givers/ teachers and families can note special instructions or observations. I know every day what time he went to the toilet, how much he ate, special concerns and incidents, and where that bump on his head came from.

In the new public school, he will be able to take part in afternoon activities, and I have signed him up for rhythm classes that include a piano introduction- we are not able to afford him a piano, but he loves it, and we are excited that he will have that opportunity at this early stage in his life in school.

I work from home, and always had a choice between taking my son to a daycare or keeping him at home. Now, when I pick him up from his center, I have done all my chores and my work, have the meal prepared – and can concentrate on our activities together: painting, walking, swimming, hiking, moulding with clay, singing, dancing.

Financially we are better off, the more time I have to dedicate to my work. Still, the financial investment we made into his future by paying for the daycare was a bigger one. I pretty much worked for the daycare fees.
The new public school is free, except for the meals.

But finances were not the main motive for having our son attend daycare. Much rather was it to give him the most possible exposure to learn about other children, families and cultures in a safe environment, and to share those experiences with other parents – whom we are now friends with, and due to the shared experiences consider our extended family. The insight and experience of his teacher in some situations has been invaluable, and saved us from many a sleepless night.

Every family has to weigh the pros and cons individually. But I think that judging mothers who decided for the daycare and staple them bad mothers – or to state that keeping your child at home is the ONLY correct way of raising a child, is very narrow minded.

I am proud of the outgoing, kind, compassionate, creative, expressive and multilingual son we have raised so far – with the help of some loving, caring and very dedicated teachers.