Children's Day in Poland czyli Dzień Dziecka or whatever

Children's Day is here again. June 1st in Poland every year. We don't have Children's Day in the US where I'm from, so I conveniently forget it each year.

Luckily the kids' school remembers. The older kid's class went to a trampoline park - they're what's "in" now, or as my kids have started saying "mega".

Their father usually remembers as well. Perhaps I should do something for Children's Day. They did a bang up job for Mother's Day this year. I mean I nagged the hell out of them, but still.

They may get nothing from me on Children's Day, but I have given my kids one extremely valuable gift. The gift of chores. Chores? Yes, chores.

Lizzie mowing the lawn 

I had chores as a kid. Didn't we all? I had the basic keeping my room clean chore that most kids get. That chore was non-negotiable. Then each Saturday my sister and I divvied up the rest of the chores on the chore list, alternating each week who got first pick, thus sticking your sister with the chores you despised i.e. cleaning the bathrooms.

Now on the rare occasion I go to the USA, I start in on the chores even after all these years. But it's for a different reason. I want to help. Back then I had no interest in keeping my parents' house clean and looking nice. My parents oft repeated that it was their house, and we had to "pay our way" or "earn our keep". Not the friendliest of parental methods, and not very motivating to us kids to go above and beyond the regular chores. Those were the choriest chores. I did them because I had to. I don't know what the consequences would have been had I not done them. I was too scared to find out. 

I have a slightly different parental philosophy. I remind the kids that this is our home,  and we need to take care of it. If that doesn't work, I turn on an episode of "Hoarders" - Chomikowanie in Polish. It works every time!

I also let my kids play to their strengths. Lizzie enjoys mowing the lawn and cleaning the car inside and out. She also likes to organize things. Rosie isn't too keen on lawn mowing, but she likes digging, planting, weeding, and raking. She also likes kitchen stuff such as cooking, baking, and even washing the dishes. 

In my opinion, chores provide kids with a sense of home, responsibility, family, and even pride. My grandmother always said that there's no shame in being poor, only in being dirty. They also develop life skills that they will need when they leave home. Chores also provide my kids a way to earn pocket money. They have to do basic chores, but they can do extra chores to get a little walking around money. They're happy with that set up and so are we.

Do Polish kids have chores? My husband said that they most certainly do,  maybe not so-named, but they do. When he was a kid he definitely had chores, but without a chart (we don't do the chart either), but yes, he had chores.

We are all just kids at heart ❤️ so treat yourself this Children's Day and don't forget to do your chores!

The Angriest I Have Ever Been At My Mother

That's the card I received for American Mother's Day. Please notice that the card is in English. Oh, and that's me in the pink and purple stripes.

No one can make you angry like your mother can. It usually doesn't take much, an innocent comment, sometimes just a look, that goes straight to your heart and immediately infuriates you. I remember plenty of slammed doors as a teenager and the occasional "you're ruining my life". I even remember an argument years ago which ended with me storming out of the house in tears.

Don't get me wrong. I love my mother. We are very different people and very different mothers. Even so, she had her hand in who I am today, tears and all. My mother knows I love her because I tell her so. We're the rare breed of mother and daugher who actually say the words "I love you". I must admit that I was the one who started it. I don't recall any "I love you's" from my childhood, not a one.* As an adult I was very resentful of this fact. Some years ago I decided to be an adult about it and change it. What was the worst that could happen? My parents wouldn't say it back? Of course they would, and they did. Thus, a new family tradition was born. That means that "I love you" was the last thing I said to my father and the last thing I heard from him. You never know when it's the last one. 

Moms have a big influence on their kids. I know that some day, my girls will grow up and sit around the table talking about how I infuriated them over the years. Just the thought of that warmed my heart. I'd like to hope that now I am an adult, I could return the favor to my mother....and infuriate her like she has infuriated me.... and have some influence on her...positive influence, I hope.

The town where I grew up is teeny tiny, and located in a rural area.There is a university though, so we felt all worldly about that when we were kids. Any new people in our town were usually professors, doctors, or other professionals. It wasn't a place where people moved to but rather away from. I mean there wasn't any reason to move there if it wasn't for a job. We didn't get many or any foreigners back then.

Flash forward to today...my hometown is still teeny tiny. The area is still rural, but maybe a little less than before. There's still a university - it's even bigger than when I was a kid. The newbies in our town come from all kinds, not just professors or professionals. We even have some foreigners.

My aunt happened to be our Spanish teacher in school. We couldn't figure out why we had foreign language lessons back then. We didn't see the need. Plus we did everything to sabotage my aunt's lesson plans, thus leaving us after all those years with little to no Spanish in our heads. My aunt is retired now, but she substitutes in the district schools and works as an aid when a Spanish-speaking kid needs language support. My mother was telling me about my aunt's latest position as an aid in one of the kindergartens. There was a kid who couldn't speak English almost at all. My mother's commentary on that (break out the mom voice), "Well, apparently his parents can't speak a lick of English. I don't know what the problem is, if they're just too lazy or too stupid to learn."

And that's where my head exploded. Pure fury. Skype hath no fury like a daughter for her mother. I don't even get that mad when my mom Skypes me in the middle of the night and asks why I'm not asleep. 

My question to my mother, "Do you think I'm too lazy or too stupid to learn Polish?"

My mother, in her totally mom voice, "No, of course not honey. Polish is a very hard language! And you are a very busy lady. You have your work and the girls."

"So Mom, maybe those parents just came to the US. Maybe they work long hours. Maybe they haven't had an opportunity to learn. There are a million reasons why somebody wouldn't know English and stupid and lazy are not at the top of the list."

The conversation went downhill from there, you can be sure about that. I was angry and disappointed that my mother would not have more sympathy for an immigrant parent when I myself am an immigrant parent. Me, her child.

I still love her though. She's my mom.

Happy Polish Mother's Day!

*I just remembered one "I love you" from my childhood. My father dropped me off at my high school and just as I reached the main doors where my friends were waiting, he got out of the car and shouted, "Chri-is! I loooooove you!"

Not what I was expecting

We spent last Easter in the US with my family. Rosie got her birthday cake on board the plane along with a card signed by the whole crew. She promptly vomited it all up, but the thought was very nice. We got to see lots of our friends, even more family, and our girls had a real "American-style" Easter egg hunt with lots of eggs and more importantly lots of other kids. I got to see my father for the last time, although I had no idea it would be the last time. I will remember that trip forever as one of the best in my life. I cannot believe how much has changed in the last year.

Unfortunately, this year we started from a funeral. The cemetery is in a quiet, wooded location. It's also just down the cobblestone road from the beautiful wooden church where my parents-in-law got married, and once at Christmas Eve mass when I thought I saw the Unibomber.
That's a story for another day.

We also visited some family members with their version of cobblestone as well.

modern cobblestone

Rosie turned 7 and celebrated with her Easter-themed birthday cake made by Mom ;)

I chickened out and bought little Mazurki.

Pickled eggs in waiting

Babki baked to perfection ;)

Pisanki decorated to perfection ;)

The Easter bunny didn't forget our girls.

It was bit wet out, but no snow so yay!

Pickled egg perfection :)

Honey-baked ham

And all the fixings

Rosie got this at the local Christmas ball factory.

Today we returned to work. The girls will go back to school tomorrow. Back to normal I guess, but a new normal, a normal I wasn't quite expecting.

Walking is for chumps!

Or so my father says.

We all know I turn a little peculiar when I visit home.

I realized some years ago that my parents don’t know me. I am not even talking about the inside me, my thoughts, my feelings, my beliefs. I am talking about the regular, old outside me - how I spend my time, what my home looks like, what car I drive, what books I read.

To tell the truth, years ago I hid a lot from them. I mean it was easy to do living so far away from them and it’s not as if they visit. Actually I only hid from them the fact that I was seriously ill. I didn’t want to worry them needlessly. I was pretty sick. I only told them years after.

I mean who doesn’t edit what they tell their family? Some people edit out the bad, others play up the good. Now I do neither. I tell it like it is. Too bad nobody is listening.

The realization that my parents don’t know me hit me even harder the last time we visited them -we, meaning me, husband, and children. It was their first time to see me as a parent and after not having seen me for several years including two pregnancies it must have seemed to them that I arrived with an instant family. The parents had trouble getting used to me as a parent and to my girls. I chalked it all up to the fact that we had to get to re-know each other. I did my best to acquaint them. I loaded hundreds of pictures onto my parent’s computer. I showed them the girls’ school on-line. I repeated the stories of their births and all their “firsts”. I got a few polite nods and even one nodding off (my father). Not exactly the reception I was expecting.

As it didn’t go very well last time, I don’t know why I was expecting something different this time, but I was. Last time I figured it was just a matter of getting to know each other. It would all smooth over. This time I figured that my parents just didn’t know how to get to know us. This time I’ve tried my extra best. I’m armed not only with pictures, but also with short films of our home. I’ve got a few nice stories about us on deck. And the girls, well, they are older now and they can speak for themselves. I’ve tried some relaxed conversations. I’ve tried some staged conversations forcing out the stories about swimming lesson successes, A+ book reports, school absences, birthday parties. I have given the grandparents alone time with the grandchildren as well.

Lest you think the flow of information is all in one direction, I have been filling in the children with stories about my parents, where they grew up, went to school, worked, I have shown them where my parents go to church, where they spend time. As well my father has driven them all over showing them his hangouts. I watch as they listen attentively and how they shyly begin to ask questions and then to tell their grandfather something about themselves only to be interrupted by something much more important that their grandfather has to say. I see how their faces crinkle up. I see how they shrug their shoulders. I see how they are giving up. I see myself as a child.

It hurts when you tell somebody you miss them and they say nothing. It hurts when you tell somebody about their grandchildren’s school and they dive into a 15 minute story about another grandchild. That’s just me, an adult, I can take it, but the kids?

I am not one of those people who expect the world to stop just because I moved away – my goodness I have been away too long for that. I guess I just expect some balance. I know they want to tell me what I have missed out on here, but they forget that they are missing out on our lives there. And they’re not even willing to listen.

I just had an expectation of what it would be like for my children to have grandparents, for my parents to be grandparents to their grandchildren. In my mind’s eye it all looked a little different, not even ideal, just different, closer, less going through the motions, more real connections. Oh lord, I have to stop now because that last sentence just reads like some sappy, late-night commercial for an internet dating site. I warned you that I get peculiar when I visit.

Window treatments

I am not a big fan of window treatments – curtains, sheers, drapes, valances, swags, I could do without them. We have no regular windows in our apartment, just skylights with no window treatments. I figured it’s the top floor and nobody can see us or maybe I’ve got some Amish blood in me. No window treatments makes for a light and bright apartment and a clean, modern look. It also makes for a boiling hot apartment in the summer and it makes it impossible to sleep in past dawn, but whatever, it looks nice.

We do have some curtains in our house in the village though, but just on the ground floor. They are only to block out the direct observation of our neighbors. Our next door neighbors like to hide behind their lacy sheers and observe the world. I think that they think we cannot see them, but we can. The neighbors opposite us had minimal window treatments until we told them that we can see what they are watching on TV reflected in the mirror over their sofa visible through their kitchen window, seen through our kitchen window. That’s how our girls checked if their son was up in the morning and ready to play. If there are cartoons on the TV/mirror, he must be up.
My parents have a bit more fancy, smancy window treatments. They like drapes. I was always against heavy drapes but now I see the benefit of them. In my old room which my parents have outfitted with not only drapes but also blinds, one can achieve complete darkness. The kind of darkness that when you wake up and look at the clock you’re not sure if it is a.m. or p.m. The kind of darkness that makes for an excellent night’s sleep. The kind of sleep I have been lacking for about the last 10 years. Except for one thing - my father. My father who goes to sleep with the chickens and gets up before dawn – about 4:45 to be exact - every single day. He gets up every day and goes to one of the two kitchens in the house and makes a lot of noise – not the kitchen far away from where we sleep, no, but the main kitchen a few feet away from my door. He, of course, cannot hear the noise that he makes nor does he notice or care that everyone has been woken up. I envy my father one thing though, the ability to fall back asleep. You see I have been woken up before 5 a.m. now the last 5 days now and I’m about to lose it.
I feel that I do my part as a houseguest. I am quiet and polite. I keep my children quiet and polite. I don’t interfere with the hosts’ routines (even the early bird activity) and I help out around the house. That’s the least I can do considering I am staying at virtually no cost to me. Having said that though, I would really like to sleep, to put my head down on the pillow when it suits me and to wake up when I am done sleeping. Is that too much to ask?

Uwaga: Rambling post about nothing

I should probably say that mam wszystko w nosie or even mam wszystko gdzieś but the truth is mam wszystko w dupie. Głęboko w dupie

I’m sorry to write it. Sorry that you have to read it. Even sorrier about the hits KS is going to get with those key words, except the person doing that search is just a dirty bugger. Me? I’m just having a bad day.

Oh to be Lewandowski* for a day.

I talked to my father yesterday evening. Maybe that’s why I’m in a funk. I always get homesick after talking to my parents. My father is still unaware that we live on different planets as he complained of his tax bill. In addition to what he already paid in, he had to pay an amount of money above that, which is more than I take in in a whole year. Beh. But I’m glad that he has it and I’m glad that he’s spending it. My parents earned every last penny of that money. We may not have spent a lot of time together when I was a kid but I know that what worried them most (besides the safety of me and my sister) was their security in their older years.

I have to give up my pet peeve – littering. Not that my anti-littering campaign has eradicated littering. It’s just for my own sanity bo szlag mnie trafi every time I go, well, just about anywhere. I’ve decided to just look the other way because otherwise I’m gonna lose it. Just like I look the other way when I see my next-door neighbor. Either she has real problems at work or is incredibly susceptible to stress. At least once a month, she has a real freak-out which usually ends with her locking herself in the bathroom and bawling. Loudly. That’s the only wall we share so we can hear everything, even if we’re not trying. And yes, I admit to trying the first 2 times it happened. I wanted to know if she needed help or something. Mam wszystko w dupie, but I’m not so apathetic to not worry if my neighbor is ok. Through our eavesdropping, we ascertained that her boyfriend was not beating her and in fact has the patience of a saint. I mean how many times can you say, “Kotku, wcale nie musisz tam pracować”?

I’m still not running and the person who designed my new running shoes hates people. Well, hates people who intend to run in those shoes outside in the real world. Those shoes are great for controlled indoor activities such as shopping, but are not made for running on forest trails or sandy, stony paths. The shoes have a kind of waffled bottom which picks up and carries everything from the running surface. You could do CSI on what’s in my shoes and tell me exactly where I’ve been lately. Seriously.

I finally watched the Hunger Games. I haven’t read the books. I had the opportunity to watch it on the airplane last year, but chose instead to watch Adele’s concert twice and some movie with Robert Pattinson in it. I don’t remember the name, but he’s not a vampire. That should narrow it down considerably. Misiu watched HG’s in the seat in front of me so I caught a few of the scenes. The whole premise seemed so disturbing that I put off watching it until now. And I was disturbed as I watched it and for awhile after too. But as I thought about it, worse things happen in the world every day. In many places in the world, kids have worse odds than the those forced to play in the Hunger Games. Beh.

Finally, there has been a kind of compromise on the Ratuj maluchy front. The age for starting 1st grade will still be 6. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is the situation for the kids born in 2007 and 2008 – the last transition kids. Kids born in 2008 are required to go to school at 6, while kids from 2007 could go next year at 6 or wait until the year after that and go to 1st grade at 7 with the kids from 2008. Considering that about 70% of parents have not opted to send their 6-year-olds, that could mean a “double class” of all the left-over 7-year-olds plus the mandatory 6-year-olds. To release some of the pressure, the government has divided the class of 2008 into 2 groups, allowing kids from the second half of the year to start school later. What do the Ratuj maluchy parents have to say to the new proposal? Karolina Elbanowska, leader of the Ratuj maluchy campaign who was quoted in Wyborcza “Nie chcemy sześciolatków w szkołach nigdy: ani za rok, ani za try lata”. I guess ona też ma wszystko w dupie.

Ok Chris, pull up your socks. You have a lot to get done before Majówka.

*Robert Lewandowski is a Polish soccer player who plays for the German team Borussia Dortmund. In a recent match he alone scored 4 goals in the 4-1 win against Real Madrid. Amazing!Lewandowki, however, is criticized for not scoring as many goals while playing on the Polish national team. I didn’t watch the game as I cannot tolerate large groups of German people shouting in unison. It makes me think strange thoughts.

Bang, Bang

America is a gun culture. That is without a doubt. If you live in a gun culture, you may not even notice it. When you leave it (and come back again), that’s when you feel its prominence.

As a child it was perfectly normal that we had guns at home. My father has a large gun cabinet containing all sorts of guns, but the majority are hunting rifles including his prized (and completely useless) muzzle-loader. Maybe I should explain that my father is not a cult leader defending his compound from the authorities. It is all much less sinister than that. I’m from rural Pennsylvania where hunting is a very popular sport and practically everybody I know has a gun of some sort as well as a gun cabinet or even a gun safe at home. This particular gun cabinet of my father’s is as tasteful as a gun cabinet can be but has remained a point of contention in my parents’ marriage as it doesn’t exactly “go” with my mother’s decor. Anyhow, it just has always been there and it still is there. Oh, what an inheritance I will have. I pretty much ignored the cabinet and its contents growing up. My father tried to interest me in shooting several times throughout my childhood. I wasn’t into it, so he gave up.
I will mention here that the keys to the “gun” part of the gun cabinet are locked in the bottom part of the cabinet. The keys to the bottom part of the cabinet are locked in a safe along with the keys to the Harley. And the ammo…I have no idea where that is kept. If we wanted to shoot something just like that, well, good luck. It would take us a good half an hour to get ourselves set up. I know because one year around Thanksgiving my father thought it would be a good idea to try to shoot a turkey from the flock of turkeys that had wandered into our yard. By the time he unlocked everything and realized that he didn’t have any ammo, those poor birds were long gone. And if we wanted to shoot an intruder, well, we would have to break the glass of the cabinet and then beat the intruder with the butt of a rifle.
When I moved from home to start my teaching career, I still was not far from guns, just a different kind of gun use. The school where I worked had a metal detector. It wasn’t for detecting belt buckles.
At my class reunion, one of my classmate’s husbands tried desperately to convince us that it is much safer if everyone carries a gun. He, himself, had decided to leave his gun at home, well, because he was drinking and he thought it best. He was chagrined when we didn’t congratulate him on the wisdom of his decision. He was absolutely sure that the Batman movie theatre killer would not have shot, killed and injured so many people if everyone had had guns. My argument was that the Batman movie theatre killer would not have shot anyone if no one had a gun. He proceeded to explain to me the error of my logic…and the conversation went around and around and around. Then he added some false statistics concerning some “European” countries and when I told him that we live in this mysterious place called “Europe”, he changed his tune. Misiu stated quite rationally that it is hard to kill a whole cinema of people with only a knife, even a big one, and we left it at that.
We were in America on vacation for 6 weeks and we managed to not get shot, on purpose or by accident, so I consider that a success. We had a lot of time to do what we wanted so I read a lot of books and tried to watch some TV (it is difficult to do with all those commercials). Our local library supplied me with an excellent selection of John Irving’s. I started with “Last night in Twisted River” which couldn’t have been written without a gun culture. That book couldn’t be set in Poland.  Same goes for “The World According to Garp” and practically all the other books I read and the films I watched.
The news each evening was horrifying. The shootings. The people carrying guns. And as an aside, the fires…wood-framed homes catch on fire quite frequently. Who would’ve thought?
Sometimes I think what I would do if the Germans or the Russians attacked Poland. (I usually have such thoughts when I am in my village house with the kids at night and I think about the German family who had to move out of my house years ago and the Polish family who moved in. I get weird thoughts at night.) How would I defend my family? We don’t own a gun. We have 2 axes and a pretty wonky pitchfork, but that’s all. And then I think about the probability of this scenario -my family standing alone against foreign invasion. What if the freedom of Poland depended on me and my shooting ability? Poland would be in deep shyte, if that were the case.
The way we behave in these cultures is different. I don’t behave as if someone could shoot me here in Poland. There in the US, I do. But who am I to question the right to bear arms protected in the United States Constitution? I’m just one, small person who would prefer to not get shot.
A quote from a nytimes article

Every day 80 Americans die from gunshots and an additional 120 are wounded, according to a 2006 article in The Journal of Policy Analysis and Management. Those 80 Americans left their homes in the morning and went to work, or to school, or to a movie, or for a walk in their own neighborhood, and never returned. Whether they were dead on arrival or died later on in the hospital, 80 people’s normal day ended on a slab in the morgue, and there’s nothing any of us can do to get those people back.

And that is the human cost of our Second Amendment right. In my opinion, the cost is too high.

So I have a request for proponents of unlimited access to guns. Spend some time in a trauma center and see the victims of gun violence — the lucky survivors — as they come in bloody and terrified. Understand that our country’s blind embrace of gun rights made this violent tableau possible, and that it’s playing out each day in hospitals and morgues all over the country.

The nytimes article quoted above was written by Theresa Brown, an oncology nurse and the author of “Critical Care: A New Nurse Faces Death, Life, and Everything in Between.”

My parents are not pathological hoarders like on TV but…

…that’s only because their house is enormous.
Years ago my parents home housed,
my parents (2 sztuki),
my grandmother (1 sztuka),
and my sister and myself (2 sztuki).
At one point we all had cars (5 sztuk) and TVs (5 sztuk).
I almost forgot about my father’s Harley (1 sztuka), not to mention various lawnmowers (2 sztuki, riding and pushing), a weedeater (1 sztuka), a four-wheeler (1 sztuka) and an industrial digger (1 sztuka).
That’s a lot of people and a lot of people’s stuff for one house and a double garage to hold. Somehow we and all our stuff fit in this house and we lived somewhat harmoniously for years and years. Luckily, we each had our own bedrooms and there were enough bathrooms that we rarely had to wait get in there before school or work.
Now the same home houses,
my parents (2 sztuki),
and their cars (2 sztuki), their TVs (5 sztuk), the Harley, the 2 lawnmowers, the weedeater and the chainsaw, the four-wheeler, the industrial digger, a garage full of power tools and various sundries, the bikes (3 sztuki), the kayaks (2 sztuki), the RV which has it’s own 2 TVs, and the boat.

I’m not writing all that to brag. Anyhow, what is there to brag about? It’s not my stuff. I’m not writing it to say “woe is me, my parents are drowning in consumer debt” because they are not (the RV and the boat they bought for us to use for our vacation and paid cash). I am writing this to say WHAT THE WHAT!?!
Who needs all that stuff?
We dragged our 2 suitcases (one large, one carry-on size) for 4 people into what used to be my room at my parent’s house. I settled the girls into what used to be my grandmother’s room. Knowing that we were in for a 6-week stay, we decided to unpack everything into the dressers or closets.
And so I began to unpack. But hey, guess what. All the dresser drawers were full. Next dresser, full and the dresser after that full. I tried my old closet, and yes we were full. I tried my grandmother’s old room which had been personally cleaned out by me after her death, Oh what did we find there? Full, full, full. The hall closet full. My sister’s old room full. The downstairs closet full, closet under the stairs full, full and some more full. With what you ask? The majority of the items were clothes. Clothes for all seasons in all colors in a 4-size range up and down from the owner’s current size. Many of the clothes also span 4 decades of style as well but that is neither here nor there.
Next would have to be home items such as sheets, towels, blankets, pillows, curtains, etc. followed by dishes, trays, glassware and tupperware. After that would be shoes, books, guns (yes, I said guns) and decorations for every possible American holiday. Lastly, would be old appliances they forgot they had and bought another one (yes it is necessary to have a coffee maker in the main kitchen, in the den kitchen, in the garage and in the RV).
Why do American people have so much shit stuff? That’s a real question not an introduction to my eloquent and insightful analysis entitled “Americans and their shit, an expose”. Nope, I’m really asking. Why?
One of my American friends was amazed to hear that I only have  4 pairs of jeans (and that they all fit me) and less than 10 pairs of shoes. Another friend upon seeing a picture of my village kitchen with its free-standing cabinets asked the question,  “But where do you keep all your shit?” Here’s the key, the real kicker…I’m not better at organizing than the average American. I just don’t have any shit. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I just don’t. Maybe it is because I never knew how long I was going to stay in one place (as an adult) so I just avoided acquiring stuff. Maybe it is because I worked in a store during university and it cured me of any desire to shop. Maybe it is because I prefer practical things, things that have a purpose beyond pure esthetics. Maybe it is because I have a good grasp on the concept of essential and non-essential. Or maybe it is just because I am kind of poor. That’s a good explanation too.

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

I am one of those rare women who is satisfied with her looks. Not that I am a beauty queen, far from it, but I’ve learned to live with and love what I’ve got.

I’m about average height and average weight. Well, that needs a disclaimer. In Poland I’m what you would consider normal but in America my friends say I’m super skinny and ask if we have food in Poland. One benefit is that I get all the good sales stuff at the Gap. Hey, somebody has to buy the size 0. I used to complain about my weight issues until I realized that I don’t have any, and then I shut my mouth.

My hair is dark brown, although about 10 years ago it was light brown and 10 years before that almost blonde. I haven’t started coloring my hair yet, but I think the time is rapidly approaching. I really don’t want to color my hair. It has nothing to do with ageing and vanity. I’m just lazy and it takes time. Also, I like my natural hair color and will be sad to never see it again.

I have an interesting eye color, or so I have been told, by people who are standing way too close to me in brightly lit places. That’s the only way you’d notice my interesting eyes because in regular light they just look brown. Brown eyes in Polish are called “piwny”. Piwo is beer, so I guess that’d make my eyes “beery”. Misiu’s ID says that he has piwny eyes too except his eyes are quite another color, almost blue/grey. Maybe the lady at the ID office was a bit “beery” that day herself.

I used to get compliments on my complexion, but something has gone haywire with my hormones since Rosie was born, and it is reflected in my skin. I still get compliments on my teeth which are pretty straight (except that one wicky-wack tooth that gives me character), and they’re pretty white despite all the coffee I drink. My teeth must be nice because while giving birth to Rosie, the midwife looked up from between my legs where all the action was going on and said, “Wie Pani co? Pani ma bardzo ładne zęby”. (You know what ma’am? You have very nice teeth.) What else could I say but, “Dziękuję”. There is one small problem with my smile though - it comes with a slight underbite. Who knew that a few millimeters in the wrong direction could make such as difference? A slight overbite is cute and endearing. A slight underbite is masculine and frankly a bit scary. A lot of people say that they can hardly notice it. Those are the same people who will compliment your Mohawk ;) I’m absolutely positive that it is noticeable. A few years ago I was really ill and went to a private hospital in Berlin. As soon as I stepped up to the reception desk, I was directed to the department of malocclusions (bite problems). That’s not what I was there for of course.

I don’t have nice hands or feet and admire nice hands and feet of others. I don’t mean in a sick way, just in passing. I am convinced that I have weird legs, so that’s why you’ll rarely find me in a skirt these days. I do not have any fashion sense whatsoever. We can go to the same store and you’ll come out with 10 new outfits each one better than the last and I’ll come out with nothing, not even the new socks that I need so desperately because I have a severe shopping disability. Send help, please!

I have a lot of scars. The worst one’s are medical but the most numerous are, let’s say, kitchenal. Cooking and ironing are difficult and dangerous activities. I’m also ambidextrous. I write with my left hand, but do practically everything else with my right hand or with either hand. I use right-handed “normal” scissors, but in elementary school always got stuck with the “lefties” dumped on my desk. Being ambidextrous was great for freaking out the pitcher in baseball games in high school PE and is also useful if you have a boo boo on one hand. You can just use the other. I started out using the computer mouse in my left hand, but later I got too lazy to move the mouse to the other side and to change the “clickers”, so I just started to use my right hand. For fun, I recently tried to change back to the left, but I have lost my mouse dexterity completely in my left hand and am too impatient to exercise and get it back.

Basically, I look like my father. My father is quite a handsome man. He’s got a little of a Dustin Hoffman thing going on (but taller) so I guess that makes me Tootsie. Believe me when I tell you that it is not pleasant for a woman to be called handsome. We all know what it is code for. Even with all of that, how is it that I am satisfied with my looks? Well, first of all my parents prepared me for my looks. Not exactly for my looks, but they were preparing me for the family nose, my father’s nose. I remember when my cousin got the nose. Everyone at the family reunion commented that she had been such a lovely girl but then her nose started to grow and voila- behold the family nose and a miserable teenaged girl. My parents were probably awaiting the day that my nose would start to grow so they started preparing me for it, the family nose, at an early age. They repeated on a regular basis that it doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside, but it’s what’s inside that really counts, blah, blah, blah. Ad nauseam. It took me all these years to figure out that it really is true. And I didn’t get the family nose after all. I have my own nose which has got a little bump on it from a well-placed elbow of my opponent on the soccer field (football pitch), but I can live with that.

I guess I am satisfied with my looks because I know that it could be worse. A few years ago, I saw a young woman maybe about 20 years old visiting the City with her parents. She was trying to hide behind a scarf wrapped around her head and face, but there was no hiding her disfigurement. I suppose she was afflicted with the Elephant Man’s disease. More importantly, she was enjoying her visit, talking with her parents and smiling. From that day on, I swore that I would never complain about my looks ever again. And I’ve almost lived up to that promise.

Sto lat, sto lat

My birthday is coming up. I had forgotten all about it because I have a lot on my plate right now. Also, for most of the year while at doctor’s visits or any other place where it is necessary to state your age, I am already 36. I count my age to the day. That means that the day before my birthday I am 35 and on my birthday I am 36. In Poland, people often count their age by the calendar year. So in Poland, I’m somehow 36 all year, subtracting the year of my birth from the calendar year. I like my method better.

I was reminded that my birthday is coming up by the two people who never forget - my parents. I think my parents alone are keeping the Hallmark card industry afloat. For every occasion, special or not, we get a card (a real card, I mean a paper one, not an electronic one) in the mail. We get birthday cards, Halloween cards, Christmas cards, Valentine’s Day cards, Easter cards, Independence Day cards and also the “just because we love you” cards. Misiu was amused by the cards that my parents started to send after we got married. The titles changed from “To our beloved daughter” to “To our beloved daughter and son-in-law”. Now that we have children, they each get their own cards too which is a cool thing for my parents to do because kids love to get their own mail.

My parents send pretty emotionally deep cards, none of the jokey, funny ones except maybe on Halloween. Actually, I should say that my father sends them because I know that he is the one who goes to the store and pores over the cards until he finds the one that is just right. One time he even sent me the same birthday card two years in a row. I won’t bore you with the whole text from this year’s b-day card, but it is a real tear-jerker. This from the man who never says “I love you” but instead “we love you”. This from the man who has never asked me how I was not even when I was pregnant or after I came home from the hospital. Sometimes, I wonder if my father actually reads the cards and if the sentiment is sincere. I mean they are deep and kind of mushy. Is that what he is really trying to tell me or did he just pick up the first pink/daughter/ birthday card he could find at the store. I would say yes, but I observed my father picking out a card for my mother once. I think he read about 20 before he decided on the one that he wanted, the sappiest, sweetest, mushiest card that Hallmark makes. It’s his way of letting us know how he feels, I guess.

I suppose that when I was little my parents hugged and kissed me and told me that they loved me. I can only suppose because I cannot remember ever having been hugged or kissed by them as a child or being told that I was loved. As a teen and a young adult, I carried a lot of resentment over that fact especially when one of my friends spent the night at my house and called her mother to say goodnight and ended the call with “I love you, too”. Whoa, other people’s parents really do tell their kids that they love them, not just the families on TV.

Even after growing up and moving to Poland, I still harbored a deep anger over the lack of “I love you’s” in our relationship. Until one day, when I decided to look at it from my parents’ point of view. Maybe they just got out of the habit of hugging and kissing me and my sister. I know from experience that to get a hug and kiss out of Lizzie I almost have to pay her for it. Then maybe later when they wanted to hug and kiss us and tell us that they loved us, they felt uncomfortable even attempting it after such a long time. Maybe they were afraid of my and my sister’s reaction, afraid that we would reject them. I mean that has to be the explanation. The only other explanation would be that they don’t love us and I know that is just not possible.

I devised a plan to get my parents to tell me that they loved me. My ingenuous plan: I would say it first. What’s the worst thing that could happen? They wouldn’t say it back? And so what? They already didn’t tell me so what difference would it make? I did it. I told them on the phone (I didn’t really have a choice about that with the different country thing and all) at the end of the conversation after the “I’ll talk to you later” and before the “good-bye”. There was a short pause as I waited to hear something from them (my parents talk to me together, at the same time on different phones in different rooms) For a second, I thought that either they hadn’t heard me or that they had dropped dead from shock. In unison, they responded. My mother with “I love you, too” and my father with “we love you”, his now standard response.

The real test came the next time I visited my parents in the US. As my sister and I headed out the door to hit the mall, I shot my parents a quick “See you later. I love you. Bye” to which they responded “Love you, too. Bye”. Ok, it could have been construed as “Love you (both), too. Bye.” but my sister didn’t see it that way and complained all the way to the mall about how my parents were the worst parents in the world because they never told her that they loved her. My suggestion to try out my method and tell them first didn’t sink in. My analysis that her new swimming pool and deck paid for by my parents qualified them as some of the best parents in the world and that it is their way of saying that they loved her also didn’t sink it. My sister is a pretty scary force to be reckoned with and I suggested that our parents might be afraid to tell her and that didn’t sink in either. So that’s where we left it. I get the sappy cards and the I love you’s and my sister gets the new cars and the swimming pools. Kind of sad, isn’t it?

PS Misiu’s parents never told him that they love him either. Misiu says that despite that fact he is sure that they love him. While there are no new cars or swimming pools given to him by his parents, there are a lot of pierogi and cheesecakes waiting for us whenever we visit . What says “I love you” more that homemade pierogi and cheesecake?

How do you tell your parents that you love them?