Raised in a formal catholic parents’ house I was christened under the Catholic church and, at the age of 9 (when one of course already knows everything about life and therefor is able to make rational decisions as far as faith is concerned) I went to my first holy Communion, wearing one of those nice white dresses and propped up like a little bride. Well, it was a great festivity and I got a lot of presents. Also, I managed to eat approx. 5 pieces of cream gateau. And lots of yummy stuff I usually couldn’t lay my fingers on. But that deep connection with God – honestly that isn’t a thing I can remember right now.

This belly contains a f* lot of cream gateau!

As every christened (and due to a lack of teachers a lot of atheistic) kid I took religious classes at school. Well, it was sometimes interesting, sometimes not. As everything at school. When I above mentioned a ‘formal’ catholic parents’ house I meant we were never practising any Christian rituals. We celebrated Christmas, of course and never ate meat on Good Friday. We also never went to church. Or prayed. But all formal things would’ve been fulfilled and we knew to pray the Lord’s Prayer (although I maybe learned that at school).

When I grew older I had a Protestant friend. Slowly I found out that the Protestants discussed very interesting themes at school while I often listened to rather boring stuff. Well, that was my insight then. Sometimes I went to Protestant church with my friend and I liked it very much. It was a rather small commune, kind of familiar and there weren’t so many stiff rituals that had to be celebrated. On the other hand the songs there were rather modern. Well, I liked it but never had the strength to convert (you know, to be ‘correct’ in the formal way has been of high value for my parents and we lived in a community where the majority was Catholic)… until I finally got a proposal from my will-be-and-now-is-husband who is a Protestant. Soon the decision was made that the nice Protestant priest should perform the wedding and also I decided to convert to the Protestants because I liked the idea of one faith within my little family. My daughter was automatically allocated with me, though christened by a Catholic priest.

Well, seems like everything turned out the good way. Everything? Hmm… until we moved and are now living in another community. Guess what. I don’t like the Protestant priest here. At all. It’s really unfortunate. Of all communities around here we HAD to move to the only one where the Protestant priest is more conservative than every other clerical person I met before.

I’m not sure why my dislike of this man has grown so large. Call it a hunch. My stomach definitely says ‘no’ whenever I’m considering something, anything at all where this man should be included. So my second daughter, Johanna, was christened in the neighbourhood where I was born. A really nice celebration, there. The service was arranged in teamwork with the local protestant kindergarten. There was laughter and cute tiny voices whispering some unknown words into a micro. Nobody would feel disturbed by a crying toddler under such welcoming circumstances. It’s not that I did not try to involve our local priest first. I think I didn’t dislike him before we talked about Johanna’s christening. Honestly, that man suggested for me to leave the service should the child begin to cry because the community could feel disturbed. Huh. What a lovely way for a community to welcome new members. Yeah, well, come and join us, whatever. As long as you stay put and keep your mouth shut. No crying allowed here. No giggling either. That was the message I got and since then I’m collecting evidence to support my first impression.

As this priest is also teaching Johanna in elementary school there has been much evidence to collect. He never had a chance to make a second impression. I couldn’t convince myself so far to anything but to avoid him. That’s what my stomach demands me to do. When our youngest, Emily, had to be christened, I never even had to consider if I should give the local man a try. That was completely out of question. We had a good enough reason to choose another place also, because my husband’s father was very ill then so we wanted the service to be held in the village where he lived. Otherwise he and his wife couldn’t have been members of the party.

So far, my strategy of avoiding did work out. But I’m not satisfied. Because I’d like to give my kids the opportunity to build their own relationship with God. Everyone needs something he or she can believe in. And it’s for sure no bad thing if your kids can grow up with the knowledge of where the local traditions come frome. Why do we celebrate Christmas? And why should I work for free when the money is meant to support social projects? Also, I think it’s only fair for them if they roughly know what’s the core of Christianity. One day it’s confirmation day. And I would like them to know until then if they would like to give it a try. But as my connection to God is something deep inside my mind and we’re not displaying religious rituals within our allday routine I for sure am not able to show them the essentials. I’d like to introduce them a community where they are included and welcome. Where they can loose some of their fears and trust each other. Yeah, right. I’ll tell you if I someday find such an utopia in real life. But, hey, the church is supposed to be so. And at least you can sing loud there without hitting the right notes and nobody’s gaze will smash your confidence.

What shall I do? My eldest one has confirmation the day after tomorrow. We’re preparing like hell. Ah. Heaven. She went to church nearly every Sunday almost a complete year long. You can count the times I accompanied her using your thumbs. And you would have one hand free. She’s doing a great job but she’s not very happy with our priest neither. On Christmas we had a really strange situation. She had to go to (Protestant) church. I wanted to go to (nice) church. I considered visiting the service of the neighboring village. But driving by car while surrounded by ice and snow and when several churches can be reached by foot? Not likely. So I went to the Catholics. They have a nice play on Christmas Eve, including kids and a lot of noise. My husband stayed at home and prepared the meal. He has no affinity to church. Neither Protestant nor Catholic. The lucky one.

'Hey there, daddy. Just teach me how to prepare a decent meal and I'll stay home with you on Christmas Eve.' 'Give me five and we have a deal, cutey.'

Yet on this year’s Easter, I attended a local Protestant service especially designed for families. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe I can finally find my peace with our priest. Step by step. Slooooow. Maybe he will get transferred some day…

2010 so far seems not to be in favour of my family anyway. I’ll give you a short but hurting review that may also explain why I didn’t blog that much things or rather any things at all during the last weeks. Don’t get me wrong. I still have no time to write blogs now. But as writing somehow seems to be kind of therapeutic to me I decided to do rather that than go around with a big fly swat (or worse things), slapping every single person passing. Something to calm down, that’s exactly what I need now, I assure you.

Actually, 2010 seems to be a real bitch. Like B*I*T*C*H*! I must admit it hadn’t that much chance to start off on the right foot. There was that really nasty flu back in 2009 that came on time to save us from celebrating Christmas. Holy Night was rather feverish for our 2yo and that lasted for over a week. Lucky we were to skip the oncoming pneumonia with a large dose of antibiotics. But of course our little daughter wouldn’t be herself if she couldn’t find a way to pass along that nice little flu to other family members and so I myself greeted 2010 on New Years Eve with a casual snore while lying in bed. I would call 2010 a really bad timer. It could’ve come earlier or later (MUCH later) so we could’ve appreciated it more. As it went I think 2010 is personally insulted and has the goal to badger our little family now. Or could you find some other reasons why, after the first night without fever, Emily should burn both her lower legs with boiling water in a stupid and tragic and somehow so quick-that-you-could-not-really-watch accident caused by some hasty and unexpected movements?

Since Jan 3rd life is not as it has been before. All we were doing is driving to the doctor’s, praying that the little cute legs my heal without any inflammation and trying to keep Emily occupied without her hurting the wounded legs. Nice try. I bet it’s easier to *whatever impossible thing you can imagine*. Kindergarten was and still is a no-go, of course. I never would have thought that it takes from Jan 3rd to today for these wounds to close with a new layer of skin. And still, the healing process is not finished. We have to be very cautious so the thin and raw new skin will not be hurt before it had the chance to thicken. And that will probably take another couple of weeks.

Anyway, to add some spice to that rather stressing time I also had my last final exam in the beginning of Feb and yeah, there was not that much free time to study stuff. How I did pass that one I’m still not sure. Meanwhile there had some remodelling been necessary so that our household was (and is) rather restricted. Stuff is not where it belongs to, there’s well, the second toilet missing etc etc. AND our community decided to put the one and only street under construction that leads from our house into the village. So I had to drive everyday twice to bring my 7yo to school (she usually walks on her own, but the redirection route is too far a way).

During that whole time there always was and has been one little light at the end of the tunnel: the treatment at the health resort. After weeks without sports and many stressing situations I’m really looking forward to have a little free time. To read a book. To skip preparing meals and cleaning and driving to school and playing with my 2yo. Because that’s what they do for you. Plus the treatments. I need it. And 2010 is not sure if it should bring it on.

Last week, Emily suddenly got the runs. Uh. But as yesterday she ate again after a couple of days where she didn’t take much more than water, I was hopeful that we would actually make that trip. Me is stupid little woman. Have you ever seen someone barfing from the top part of a bunk bed? It’s really gross. Really, really gross. It seems to be a natural instinct to lean over the rail when s.o. is sick. That’s ok when there’s a bowl parked right next to you AND when there are not 2mtrs for the vomit to splatter down until it hits the carpet. And it hits the carpet hard. I hardly managed to reach the 2yo sleeping in the lower bed without crossing the various puddles. EVERYTHING has been hit. I’m running the washer for 3 times but there’s barely a possibility to get rid of the smell that has sunk deep into the carpet. Of course my husband spent an hour to clean it off tonight but it’s still ugly. I’m not sure what to do but in the moment we’re one room short. And we already have just one bedroom for 2 kids. The rest of the night (if you can call a couple of hours of fitful sleep so) has been not too bad. Johanna hasn’t been sick for more than 5 times and will probably be well again tomorrow (if she won’t get the runs, of course).

BUT that little monster of 2yo Emily couldn’t stand that much attention being focused on her sister so she started to scream at 6:00am for various things. Every single sentence crossing her yelling little mouth starting with the words “I want…” constantly increasing in volume and intensity. Was too tired to look for the tape, but I really wanted to shut her mouth… But that ringing ears you’ll have when someone is shrieking into them with the intensity of an starting airplane won’t help you to orient yourself, so there was absolutely no way for me to find a bottle of chloroform neither.

So I had enough opportunity (as I am absolutely awake now for several hours) to mourn. I’m grieving for that journey that should help me to find some balance within my life again. That should give me a break from my daily routine. That should give me some time for myself to make sports, read a book or just hang around. Well, I’m grieving in advance, of course. There still is the chance for us to make it to the train tomorrow. That’s one possibility. My nice and cute kids an me catching the train at 8:00 in the morning. Riding it all day long until we reach our destination in the evening. Me desperately clutching one of those little plastic bags usually used to clean up dog poop to have something handy to catch some vomit should it occur during the ride. The second possibility is me clutching desperately one of our plastic bowls around 8:00 in the morning. Reflecting about how Hiob could stand all the testing by god and in what I should belief to give me some strength (God, the future, fate, Murphy’s law or the organized distinction of families as cosmic plan).

Tomorrow will bring it on. Good side or scratched side. Flip your coin, Two-Face.

P.S. The “I want”-hitlist of this morning:

I want milk

I want to read books

I want hot chocolate

I want to watch Winnie Pooh on TV

I want to eat something

Guess she’s really interested in food and media, isn’t she?

Apparently, the (absolutely superficial and non-reflective) person demanding such an incredible thing probably is not very acquainted with SAHMs, one of those rampant made-up terms, that describes a Stay-At-Home-Mom or, as our aforesaid person would say, a Not-Working-Mom. Ha!

Never ever could I think of such a labor condition out there in the big world of capitalism. Oh no, don’t get me wrong. Though there may be some points to criticize in a capitalistic world, that’s not my point for THIS post.

Come on and stretch your imagination a bit (yes, I know, it’s a hard task…) and follow my thoughts to this hypothetical situation:

You’re applying for a job, let’s say in the field of care (for persons). This job is supposed to fulfill your life. You wish to find new energy, a lot of fun, you’re absolutely convinced that you’ll love it AND did I already mention, it is to fulfill your life. It’s a rather stressing job, but you could manage it. If you push yourself a bit. A bit more, wimp! Well, you’re discussing further terms of this employment and discover this:

-working time: 7days a week (wait, there ARE just 7 days in EVERY week, right?), 24hours a day (I hope your maths skills would help you to evaluate your weekly free time at this point)
-vacation/holiday/break/breather: sorry, old chap, sold out here. Nothing to get. Finished. Take a number and put your little ass in the row. Oh, no row there?
-salary: none (wait, there are approx. 150,– Euros per month and person you care for, but these are not nearly enough to pay your travel + entertainment expenses)
-approval (by society, friends, state, other people): hmm, difficult. Not THAT much. A little bit. Maybe. Depends.

Sounds great? Well, welcome to my world. I’m working day and night (and don’t believe the nights are off duty) AND I’m even working while using the bathroom. Hey, I said USING not cleaning. But that would be also true. There are never days off and when my never-ending whining and begging helped me to convince the grandparents to have the kids for a weekend they WILL BE ABSOLUTELY ICKY for at least a week after their returning. Never in my life before (and I had some jobs I can compare with) did I work so hard and gain so little approval.

Why is working just working for money? There are million of people working for low money or doing stuff voluntary. Would it ever occur to above mentioned person to pose such a question to them? I don’t think so.

So, dear stranger, friend or person sitting next to me in the bus. Please try and think a little bit before you’re posing questions that will the average SAHM get mad.

You may, on the other hand, truly believe that a mother is absolutely to blame herself about her position. Listen, dumbass (I’m so sorry for my repetitions, but as English is NOT my mother tongue it’s rather difficult to find a variety of nasty expressions, well I meant something like $*##’&%* nevertheless.), I’m not whining about the work I have to do because I wanted to have children (well, actually, I AM whining, but let’s just pretend I wasn’t). I’m complaining about too little encouragement, be it state, be it mundane. Yes, these are my children. But I cannot let them grow up outside society. They are a part of it the moment they’re born. So my work is not just a private amusement. I’m also working for preservation, alteration and development of the human society. I’m pretty much convinced that a child that once grown-up maybe will wipe your ass (job-related, I mean) when you’re bedridden and old should be of your interest already today. Also, the kid I should care for alone because it’s MY kid could someday be responsible for another banking crisis. Or (that’s the thought I’m more in love with) prevent one.

So. Whenever you’re itching to place this absolutely non-acceptable sentence I used to entitle this post, stop, think, take a deep breath and say: ‘You for sure must have a load of work to do, managing your daily routine.’ I will love you when you’re then saying something nice about my kids although they’re maybe picking their noses or doing stuff like that.

When you’re gaining one hour. How can you have less time than before? That’s the problem I’m facing.

They showed me how to use a minimal amount of glue to stick the most important docs on mommy's desc tight together. Irreversible.

Now, Emily, my youngest daughter (that one with that angelic face, but a joker living behind her eyes) is a kindergarten newbie. Since Oct. 1st I’m trying to make her comfortable with that institution so she’ll be able to pass the mornings there, soon. It has been a cakewalk from the beginning on. The first week I was allowed (or rather obliged) to stay within the group. Emily and I came, the nursery nurse tried to make first contact and Emily pretended to ignore her. After a few days she let her self-control slip in times of unthoughtfulness, so we adults could get the clue that she already had acclimatized herself. Last week we decided to start phase 2 and we’re still stuck into it. I’m bringing Emily at 9:30, change her clothes, kiss her goodbye. Then I’m pushing her through the door into her group’s room and IMMEDIATELY leave the building without looking back or shedding a tear. So there’s no possibility for her to start her usual “clang-to-mommy’s-leg-routine”. Amazing but she’s made lots of progress this week. She’s participating in group activities and yesterday I found her sitting on the nursery nurse’s lap! (Traitor!) Still I have to fetch her shortly after 11:00 a.m. which makes a whole hour of free mommy-time for my humble self. (I’m already calculating in the time for my multiple walks to kindergarten. Well, exercising is good for one’s health, I’ve been told. Especially if it’s including fresh (fucking cold) air.)

This could help save some time.

I’m sure you could follow my explanations so far. Every morning (Monday to Friday that is) I’m gaining one hour. Every morning at approximately 11:00 a.m. I have done: nothing. I’m thinking: ‘Whoa. It’s eleven o’clock. I ought to already be sitting on this little wooden bank in front of Emily’s room. Where I’m trying to find a place for my head but have to bend it permanently down ’cause the little children’s jackets are pressing themselves into it.’ Then I hastily munch the middle section of my breakfast (no time to finish) and fuss around to get ready for my second exercising tour. What happens here? Where goes that damned hour? Every evening I’m thinking of 1000 things I really have to do, but this hour is always over. Always.

One day I walked with the dog and met some friends (of him). I let him play a while and bang, it was already time to run home, skip the first bite of my breakfast and hastily… (see above).

Another day I thought it was a fine idea to go to the grocery store without Emily. (You know she always knocks her little fist very hard on these fragile covers they put on top of yoghurt cups.) Suddenly, I had just finished half of my list, I glanced at my watch and bang, it was 11:00 a.m. again. Again! I stumbled through the cashpoint immediately, threw everything neatly disarranged into my car and arrived at the kindergarten just in time. (But with melting frozen food in the trunk.) Emily had great fun to knock at the caps of the yoghurts in my bags when I was still carrying things into our home, BTW. Doing grocery with my little monster sometimes sucks. Most of times, I reconsider.

So, I made short walks with our dog since then, dodging every dog within a radius of 1km.
I buried my dream of being an unrecognized customer in any grocery store. (They usually refer to me as the woman whose little girl behaves like Terminator, only she’s also screaming and therefor a lot more frightening than Arnold ever could be.)
I never started to wipe the inside of my kitchen cupboards.
In my dreams I may be that one student presenting a finished paper.
I’m never blogging during the morning. No time left for such a luxury.
Also I dropped the idea of reading a novel. Haha. Not even a journal.

Well-known desease found in many species

I’m not sure whether I’m having narcolepsy. Maybe I’m drooling for an hour, snapping back to action just at 11:00 a.m. When I’m getting done nothing as in zero. Why is this hour passing? How can one hour of free time be less effective than zero hours of free time? I don’t get it. And I’m scared. No shit. I’m so scared my legs are trembling and my teeth are clattering.

Soon, Emily will pass more than 1 hour within kindergarten. What, if I’m losing more time then? Will I finally be frozen the whole morning?

Or will I find this wormhole that can help me to break up the damned space-time continuum?

For encouragements and donations please leave a comment or send me an email. (Don’t panic if I don’t answer during the morning hours.)

I’d rather give you a guided backstage-passage. See what it really means to be outnumbered 1:3, 1:4 if you’re counting the dog, Fred. And you should.

I'm never doing any crap. No shit!

Yesterday, for an instance, was one of those days, when I’d appreciated to have some more arms and maybe some more ears (or maybe even better, ears I could shut down). Sometimes I’d take the disadvantages in shopping new pullovers (as there are so little manufactures produced for people having more than two arms) just to be able to prevent further damage. To avoid this shitty feeling of helplessness, when I exactly KNOW what will happen in a few secs, but am in no way able to do something about it. Like hearing a drawer being torn open with a heavy and ominous bang. Hearing the surreal clatter of plastic bowls, followed by a noise so soft you hardly can call it “noise”. It reminds you of snow, falling down from heaven like little cotton balls. I (having only two arms, both not extendable and also NOT able to see through doors) may hastily try to leave the bathroom just in time, just once to be there BEFORE… But no. Of course. I should have opted for those elastic extremities you’ve maybe seen in “Fantastic Four”. But I’m just an ordinary human. Plus the one and only responsible adult in this household. (Yeah, don’t be pissed off. Of COURSE my husband sometimes will be there, too. And of these moments he actually could handle some on his own, but would rather shout for help in others.) So I have to face this (meanwhile the soft snowfall has changed into an ugly lapping sound):

I love mommy's kitchen. So many exciting things there.

I found out that cornflour isn’t as easy to be removed as snowflakes. Even the dog won’t help for long ’cause his tongue suddenly will be VERY dry and maybe a little swollen, too…

Of course, this wasn’t the very beginning of my day as one and only mother in your household. Before I fought over accurate clothing, the correct temperature for hot chocolate and whether it’s really necessary to brush teeth when you’ll anyway be eating something within the next few hours. I begged my 2nd grader to walk to school without my company ’cause I had to chauffeur the littlest princess to get an injection. Her highness, Emily, not that stupid herself, did produce a good fill for her diaper just the moment I wanted to leave. Maybe the delay will help her arm to stay unperturbed, she probably thought. Luckily, kid’s doctors do know the common tricks, so they will calculate with a little delay. Duh. Bad luck, Emi. You can cry like hell, though. Yes, of course BEFORE you get your injection. Don’t waste any time. You can stop crying as soon as we’re in the car, again. (Where Fred, the dog, has to be removed of the driver’s seat and mommy can plant her ass on multiple hairballs and drops of spittle.)

Then, after a little breakfast (it’s already half past 9 – my, my, the day’ll be over soon enough – that’s at least my mantra on such days), I made a beeline to the bathroom and then: bang, drawer, mess etc.

Glancing at the clock I decided to speed-mop, ’cause we were running late for our next appointment with another mother. We wanted to walk our dogs together (which was also a pressing thing regarding Fred nearly dancing on his hind legs to withdraw the need to make a BIG puddle of pee – and probably other things) and have a little coffee klatch afterwards. So I just shut the drawer after cleaning the floor, Emily and her shoes and waited for a better opportunity to remove the cornflour within (not found one, so far…).

When my friend some time later left (Man, did we ENJOY our coffee, being surrounded by two toddlers and two playing dogs), it was really, REALLY time to do the dishes. But, surprisingly early, my bigger daughters came home from school. I do explicit not give further information on the fact, whether this surprise was a good one or rather not… Anyway, it’s always a pleasure when they reach the door simultaneously, ’cause they can begin their first fight of the day just the second they enter our humble home. Both of them will begin to speak, giggle, bubble and gesticulate, shoving their concurrence away using elbows, feet and nasty words. Usually there are some screams, tears and bleeding ears (don’t worry, those last ones would be mine – well, some of the screams and tears may also belong to me) following. Yesterday was more like a reduced version of the scenario. I had to send my teeny Sophia nearly immediately into her room. These days she is of the opinion that some fruit will be meal enough throughout the morning (you know, size zero and things), so she’s SO VERY hungry, that she starts yelling even before she finishes her first sentence. I skipped cooking a meal then and angled for some real FAST FOOD. Like noodles and eggs.

Why I'm sending Sophia into her room when she's aggressive? 'Cause the sandsack won't mind her fists nor nasty words. At least I hope it won't mind.

Oh. Did I already mention that school finishes off at midday, here in Germany? So far, I survived only half of the day. And I’m sure you can understand, I’m really proud of it…

Well. I think you got the image of the disadvantages one can experience when being the one person who has to serve for all purposes. We passed the rest of the day with little trivialities like doing the homework or discussing why a teenager should go for a dog walk. Then I decided to take the kids and do a little workout in the gym. They have a nice little kindergarten there and although it was Emily’s first time, she managed to stay while I could work off all the adrenaline my little darlings have been trying so hard to build up in my stressed body. Should this day finally find a happy ending?
You may forgive me some insane giggles. The real highlight didn’t show off, so far. While we drove back, Emily decided to slip off her safety belt and started to put down the window. I immediately put the car into park and tried to explain to her, why she is under no circumstances allowed to release her safety belt while we’re on the road. Insightful as Emily already is (and that with only 2 years!) she understood everything I said and then decided to ignore me. So I had to press her back into her seat and pull the belt very close to her body. She couldn’t slip it off any longer but it wasn’t THAT comfortable a position for her to endure. Of course we had just approx. 5 min of our ride left so I decided she could survive. First she screamed a little, then she went calm. I was really surprised, but not for long. I wasn’t sure if insanity had struck me, but I meant to understand she was mumbling a single word, getting louder as the number of repeats was growing. This is what she said during the rest of the drive:

“Asshole, Asshole, Asshole, Asshole, Asshole…”

Here we go. I couldn’t suppress a little smile. Isn’t it a relief? Obviously I’m NOT the one and only person in this family who’s responsible for education. God bless the big sisters.

Two loving sisters. Or is it a secret teaching lesson?

I’d love to tell you about myriads of joy.  Of spectacles you won’t dare to miss. Acrobats. Rollercoasters. Whatever.

The truth is: this was the highlight of our day.

A piece of peace.

This was the only (ONLY!) attraction Emily could use on her own. We could crash on a bank and watch her enjoy the tour. We did this for approximate 5 times. Our one and only rest. It was great.

When I’m speaking of “we” of course that does not include kids of any variety. I’m sure they had a lot of fun in this park. Testing out all the rollercoasters (which are, of course, not allowed for younger kids). Or watching that great arrangements of puppets while seated in a boat dragging on forever. Whoa. That was fun. At least the kids have been happy.

But I really don’t know why parents who do great sacrifices like telling their 2y-old 10times in a row “That’s just a puppet, don’t be afraid, it’s just a puppet…” have to get a full-priced ticket, too. I didn’t see anything near to “fun” in this park. And I found out that I never had more wrinkles than after this day. Nor did I ever feel more tired. And hey, I’m a mother of 3!

In this very moment I'm feeling very old.

Of course I saw the beaming faces of my happy children. Maybe that’s worth all the trouble. And this last impression really made my day.

We finally made her groggy! It's an unbelievable feeling of triumph!

The murder weapon was found soon after.

Evidence

Of course, there were imprints of each member of our family on it. Even of the dog. So let’s leave the case of finding the murderer as unclosed.

However, it seemed our TV didn’t like being switched on while sprinkled with water. Douchebag. Such a little water and whining like a man without moneybag in toys’r'us. As we speak of men. They seem to have a deep relationship with these electronic buddies. Deep and superficial at the same time. My husband was never more unhappy than today when we hadn’t an appropriate TV. And I mean APPROPRIATE, ’cause we’ve another one crammed into the last corner of our cellar – only ’cause his screen isn’t big enough. Not appropriate as to say.

Now. What would you do if your TV just broke down and you could substitute it with a smaller one stored in the cellar? Depends on your sex, I’d say. If you’re a man you’ll probably act like mine did today. He didn’t even mourn. Just switched on the laptop to find the one flat screen to make him happy again. See? Superficial. It doesn’t matter which TV is placed into our living room. As long as it’s hip and slim and smooth and new or was hip and big and cool the day it has been elected. Good god. I hope I’ll never break down, myself…

Of course. This old thing in the cellar (only stored to fit in as substitute in cases of breakdowns, by the way) never had any chance. Although my husband couldn’t find the gadget of his choice in all stores nearby – and he did nothing but research in this matter the whole day long – my old buddy was not placed longer than 1 hour onto the sacred shelf. Afterwards we had this shiny one – the best alternative to plan A.

A happy man petting his black beauty

Yes, it fits well. Yes, our kids are happy. Yes, my husband is VERY happy. Yes, the cost has been tolerable. But you cannot imagine the discussions we had. Would you believe that actually this device isn’t the very size my hubby dreamt of? I don’t know what it is with men and sizes, but, whoa. How can you press a cinema-size screen into a medium-to-tiny-size German living room? Have you ever been so late to cinema that you could only get a ticket for the first row? It’s like watching a tennis match to get an impression of all the things shown. I really wouldn’t appreciate getting a stiff neck while watching a movie in my living room. My hubby would, however.

But we wouldn’t be married for almost 10y now if we couldn’t compromise. So he got his brand new shiny and slim TV and promised not to look for a shiny and slim brand new girlfriend. And I promised to let him choose whatever device he wanted as long as it was small enough to be crammed in the cellar might his last shiny day come

Our daughter is already happy. But you know, the kids always are. As long as there’s someone hopping on the screen. A while ago she actually watched an opera just because.

Addicted to watching TV - no matter which device or channel

Ah. And don’t tell anyone. I remember I put this little green water pistol on top of our TV after chasing the dog. It got a little stressful then so I forgot it there. But hey. Who knows if the whole story really had been an accident or maybe my husband drained it on purpose to get this shiny, slim…. you never know.