A New Beginning: The Breaking Away 

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

 --Seneca, (Roman philosopher, mid-1st century AD)

He marches toward me hand-in-hand with his pint-sized peers. They emerge out of the enormous building, built to house my son as he learns and grows over the next thirteen or so years of his life, but right now, that building looks so big, and he looks so small. As they come closer, our eyes meet. His body tenses up and he jumps in the air, squealing, "Mommmyyy!". "Don't break away from the line," I say to myself, over and over, but I know him too well, and I know he will do just that. He jerks his hand away from his walking partner and runs in my direction. With apologetic eyes, I look at the teacher, who nods in my direction that "it's ok", and I'm then embraced by 40-odd pounds of energetic, full-blown boy.

This was the first day of school, "real" school, as he calls it, for my four-year-old son. In Berlin, children typically enter what's called "grade one" the year they turn six, but because my son attends a German/American school, the John. F. Kennedy School, they have what they call an entrance class, which children attend the year they turn  five. My son happens to have a November birthday, so he's still four, which makes him one of the youngest in the class. The difference in age, coupled with his natural "spirit" and energy, created a storm of epic worry and doubt in my mind as I reluctantly agreed to send him to the school. 

Small boy, big school!

I had heard such wonderful praises of the school and all it has to offer, not just in academics, but in the music, arts, and sports departments as well, and one of the best parts is that the school is free to attend. Also, the school is well-established as was started in 1960 for children of the U.S. military and foreign service workers. Even so, when I received word that he had been admitted, I didn't jump all at once. After all, attending that school meant that we would have to move across the city, completely to the opposite corner of it. We'd be starting over by making new friends, getting to know a new area, and facing the daunting task of finding a new apartment and making the move. I stalled and waited, and looked at all of the other options, none of which seemed to be a good fit for Bucker. He's been attending a kita, which is basically a preschool, and he's very resistant to speaking German and hasn't adjusted like I hoped he would. He seems set on moving back to North Carolina and living there for the foreseeable future. So, I hoped the German/American school would be a good compromise. He'll be around other Americans who speak English, but since the school is bilingual, he'll be introduced to German as well, but at a slower pace than in an all-German setting.

I made every preparation I could in advance. I attended the requisite parents' evening, compiled his necessary supplies, filled his backpack, and laid out his clothing the night before the first day. I could hardly sleep that night, and I was a bundle of nerves on the way to the school. I tried to hide it so my son wouldn't sense my angst and become even more nervous himself. We arrived about 20 minutes early so I would have time to take every picture imaginable of him on his first day, and then the moment came for him to go to his teacher and stand with his class.

A piece of the Berlin Wall at the school

He was so excited, he could barely hug me goodbye, and he ran off, his dinosaur backpack jostling around on his tiny back during his sprint. He joined his class, and I waved to him. My throat began to tighten as tears came closer to the surface, and I knew I had to leave right then, or I'd be a sobbing mess of a mother who couldn't hold it together long enough until her son was out of sight. As he turned to walk inside with his class, I knew he had made a sort of "breaking away" from me then, which will be the first of many to come, but in spite of it all, I left with minimal crying and fairly emotionally in-tact, because I felt like he was in a good place, and I saw that I needed to let him go this time. I was proud of him, and of how strong he's been over the last year, and I know he'll be entering into a new, exciting world as he tackles challenges, makes new friends, and learns a new language. I hope sending him to this school was the right decision, and I suppose time will tell, but for now, things are looking up!

And so it begins...

Mom and Dad Take Berlin!

Mom and Dad Take Berlin

There I was, waiting in the Berlin Tegal airport awkwardly holding a too-big bunch of roses and wrestling with knots in my stomach. I was nervous...sick-to-your-stomach nervous. I was over an hour early, dressed "to the nines", and pacing in front of the arrival gate. I had checked and double checked the flight status and the bus route to get to the airport. I had precisely calculated how long the bus ride would take to the airport so that I would arrive well in advance of the flight. I contemplated having a coffee, but decided it would do nothing to calm my nerves. While packing, I noticed that the flight had been delayed half an hour. This, too, did nothing to calm my nerves.

Was I preparing for a reunion with a long-lost friend, meeting my husband after a long time apart, prepping for a job interview, meeting the Pope? Nope. Nothing of the sort. My parents were coming to visit. (Insert "dun dun DUNnnnnn" here!)

After a nearly a year of living in Berlin, Mom and Dad had made the trip overseas from North Carolina to Berlin to visit me and my family. I had been looking forward to this day for months, and I had imagined them being in Berlin so many times. I had planned things for us to do, and prepared a short list of things I'd like to show them. What I did not plan for, however, were my nerves. I was surprised at how nervous I was before their arrival, and looking back, I know I just wanted their approval, and I hoped so desperately that they would love our life and the city that we now call home. I wanted to hear "well done" and "you've made a good choice", and to be reassured that all of the struggles and efforts of the past year were worthwhile.

After the eternity of waiting, they finally arrived, and I saw them through the glass that divides the newly arrived from the rest of the airport world, and I was astounded to see them looking put together, and dare I say, rested? I expected them to be a mess, a falling apart, exhausted mess of matted hair and bad breath and waxy skin and floating-on-the-surface emotion that I always am after an international flight. Instead, they looked down right perky and ready to tackle Berlin. After hugs and welcomes (and no, no one cried) we boarded a taxi together to head to our neighborhood. The feeling was surreal. My parents were a part of my world at "home" in North Carolina, and seeing them in Berlin took some getting used to.

I was ready to draw maps for them from their hotel three blocks down the road to my apartment. I was ready to hold hands and coax them from place to place. I was ready to explain things to them like people do when they talk a bit too loudly to someone who they know speaks another language, in hopes it might help. But I had to do nothing of the sort. After their overnight flight, they went to their hotel room, and I expected to get a call several hours later, hearing complaints of jet lag and exhaustion. Instead, one short hour passed, and my doorbell rang. They had walked down to my apartment and were ready to see what there was to see.

Mom and Dad in front of the Brandenburg Gate

Over the next two weeks, we traveled around Berlin, saw the tourist sites, ate traditional German food, but most importantly, I showed my parents my everyday life here. They figured out the bus system without difficulty, made trips to the grocery store, traveled alone, took the boys to school and picked them up with ease. Now, the trip wasn't completely without a few fun mishaps, including Mom ordering not one, but three bowls of ice in a restaurant, much to the amusement of the other diners, and Dad getting a bit overly paranoid about the gypsies roaming around Alexanderplatz..."look, there's one...look, isn't that one??!" But overall, I learned that I have a lot to look forward to.

My parents weaved themselves seamlessly into the fabric of Berlin, complete with its diversity and history and cultural hang-ups. They arrived with open arms and open minds, and they tasted Berlin at its finest. I was so proud of them, and I can only hope that when my children are grown, I can visit them in another country with the same attitude and unquenchable thirst for adventure and experience that  my parents showed here. My nerves calmed, and in end the end, I realized maybe I didn't need their approval as much as I thought. I really just wanted to see them experience some of what I have experienced, and to have a great time while doing so. Mission accomplished!

In front of Berliner Dom

Yeah, I've got some big shoes to fill!

The Trouble With Leaving

The Trouble With Leaving

The trouble with leaving a place that I call home, at least for me, is that I've got to go back, eventually. And while the leaving was super easy, well, the coming back has been anything but smooth. I'm now back to Berlin after an amazing visit from my parents in Berlin, a trip to the States complete with spending time with extended family, a visit to the Florida coast, and a quick getaway to the N.C. mountains.

After the high of the summer trips and spending time with family, plopping myself back here in the place where I have worked so hard to make our home hasn't been as seamless as I anticipated. In fact, I seem to have gotten out of rhythm, lost my "groove", or whatever you want to call it. I experienced almost the same feelings as when we arrived last August of even dreading to leave the safe haven of our apartment and having to fight to communicate and learn my way around again. I've also thrown a frantic apartment search in the mix since we'll be moving across the city so Bucker can start kindergarten on Friday (more on this later). So, the re-adjustment, and the upcoming move and my oldest son starting kindergarten here at the ripe old age of *4* has had me reeling, and gasping for air. I've never been a person who struggled with depression, but the way I've felt over the past three weeks must be close to what people mean when they say they're "down". Little by little, however, I'm getting back into a better place, and the other day I woke up with a mission. I'm going to have to grow my thick skin back and learn to cope better with losing the "perfect" apartment prospect over and over, being told "no" just because my German isn't what it needs to be, and with the upcoming move and school changes. I am determined to change.

And so I did what any self-respecting child of the 80's would do in a pinch: I cranked up the big hair music. I got a little trigger happy with my eco-friendly non-aerosol organic hair spray (Rave, where are you when I need you??) and I let the music work its magic. Somewhere between Skid Row's "I Remember You" and Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me", I started to feel like my old self again, and I think I'm finally on the road to getting back into the groove here.

I've narrowed the apartment search down to two or three places, we've met Bucker's teacher, who seems to be a perfect fit, and I'm reconciling myself to the fact that I'll need to start packing soon. But that's OK, because I'm looking forward to another challenge, another new adventure, and another milestone to mark in my son's life. I'm back on the blog, and boy do I have some catching up to do and some stories to tell. Thanks for your patience, and for keeping up with us. More to come soon...