It's NOT brain surgery, I'll have you know...

except, of course, when it actually IS.

In which case - I have discovered that the first thing that you should say to your neurosurgeon is:

 "I want to give you a piece of my mind"

... haha... hmmm...

The Ger-Man recently went and got himself a brain tumour. As far as brain tumours go, it was a fairly good one. It was called a hemangioblastoma, benign, and in a good position for complete removal.

To compress what could be a very long story - here are the key elements:

1)  diagnosed
2)  operated
3)  recovered
4)  better...

We were/are very, very lucky...

The Ger-Man said -

that this picture of Olli, that the Caspi-Man and I had photoshopped to adorn this year's Christmas Cards, could be viewed as "undignified"...

To which, I said:

Sorry, firends and family. But sometimes these things have to be done...

A Conflicting Rant

The Ger-Man is away with work for a few days doing some professional development training.

Conflict resolution is the topic, I believe.

He said before he left that he plans to (primarily) use any newly obtained skills on the Caspi-Man and me. (I think we provide more conflict for him than his most difficult of clients. Well, it must be said, we probably just try harder.)

If I’m honest, I am a bit worried that he may come home and start with “reflective questioning” strategies, or maybe even use “reframing statements”- or - saying the good ol' "I" rather than"You" phrases such as: “I feel when you ..........” instead of the: “Stop being such a ............!” that have been used so effectively to date during our -ah – ‘matrimonial discussions’. Lord forbid –he may even be doing role plays.

Many years of working in Human Services has left me highly cynical about such practices (especially when used in one’s personal life).*

And one of the reasons (albeit not the main one) I fell in love with the Ger-Man in the first place was his ignorance of such manipulative strategies. He usually just blurts out exactly what he thinks. Upfront and without adornment. Which, it must be admitted, has more than once led to some conflict.

(Like the time early in our courting days when I stupidly -and rather vainly- asked him how come he’d never told me I was beautiful. Well, in the past others had... “Because you’re not.” was his answer – then sensing from my reaction that this wasn’t the most diplomatic of statements – he followed up with “Oh, I guess you’re attractive enough–but you have to admit - you're no Claudia Shiffer”…)

But still, there is an honesty that can be, and is often, lost when one becomes skilled in resolution-focused/ conflict minimizing communication techniques. While this may be beneficial in the workplace it does overlook the simple fact that there is a certain healthy, cathartic element in having an illogical rant-fest with your nearest and dearest - without any thought for resolution. (Just ask the Caspi-Man.)

So, being the caring people we are, and in support of The Ger-Man's professional development, the Caspi-Man and I consider it our family duty to see how far we can test the Ger-Man’s new skills when he returns home… :)


*Disclaimer for my dear colleagues and friends working in the Human Service/Psychological/Mental Health areas: Yes, Yes, I do fully understand the importance of sensitive communication strategies – and refer here only to when such strategies are being used in an overtly- somewhat manipulative- manner. I have the same deep seated cynicism when it comes to overt “political correctness” when used as an end in itself rather than a means of clear yet respectful communication. In both cases the baby far too often gets thrown out with the bathwater with the focus being on the “how” rather than the “what ”of what’s being said...

Dinner

I know I'd sorta promised not to blog too much about the Ger-Man but yesterday came this email exchange (nb. the Ger-Man claims to be too busy with his work to read the full text of the craftily worded messages of endearment I used to send him - so now I tend to just communicate via the subject line):

From: pyjamamel
Sent: Tuesday, 1st April, 2008 16:45:17 pm
To: the Ger-Man
Subject: Fish or lamb for dinner?

_____________________________________

RE: Fish or lamb for dinner?
From: the Ger-Man
Sent: Tuesday, 1st April, 2008 17:02:34 pm
To: pyjamamel

Lamb unless fish means fishfingers

5 Little known facts about the Ger-Man

• When he feels poorly, or even as though he might just be coming down with something, he likes to wear a winter scarf to bed.

• He doesn't really like coffee. When he feels compelled to drink it in social situations he fills his cup mostly with milk and adds copious amounts of sugar to disguise the taste.

• He likes beer mixed with coke. In Deutschland this is not considered the crime it would be in Oz, and is referred to as a "Krefelder". (Except in Krefeld where it is called an "Aldtschuss".)

• He is an only child. If there was one single thing I could change about him this would be it. (If you know his mother - you'll know what I'm talking about.)

• He is really paranoid about his receding hairline. It is fun to tease him about this. He is also paranoid that I will blog about him. (As if I would? ...)

Dreaming of a white Easter...

Yesterday, Easter Sunday, dawned with a magnificent blue sky, so the hunt went ahead as planned.

In fact, weather-wise, it was the most glorious day we've had this year. Standing out of the breeze, admiring the trees in blossom, it was even possible to imagine that there was warmth in the sun.


Fun was had, and the Caspi-Man and his posse collected enough chocolate to ensure months of tantrums (eg. "no, I asked if you wanted a boiled -not chocolate- egg for breakfast").

So with spring so well and truly underway - it was a HUGE surprise to wake up today to find SNOW.

Snow drifting down in abundance. Blankets of snow. Snow like we have not seen all winter. A local radio station started playing Christmas Carols - before interrupting them with "Oops! Wrong holiday!". But it certainly felt festive.

The Caspi-Man and the Ger-Man were eager to get out into it. I was eager to fill the hot water bottle and crawl back into bed (but I can't really blame the snow for this - I often feel this way in the morning before my 2nd - sometimes 3rd - cup of coffee).

However, I knew without doubt that the minute they were out there in the cold white stuff - there would be more than just snowmen and snow angels on the agenda. With a certainty felt deep, deep in my bones, I knew, that snowballs would also come into it. And as sure as eggs (chocolate, boiled and all other varieties) - my chief role would be as the TARGET for those snowballs.

Luckily for me, one of The Caspi-Man's posse (and his papa) were also up early and ready for some serious winter action so I was off the hook (but I did send along the camera) ...


By 11.30 am it had stopped snowing. By mid-day the sun had returned. By 2pm this afternoon the snow had all but gone.

Easter Eggspectations

As Easter approaches the Ger-Man is dead keen to organize an Easter Egg Hunt in our local Hoff Garten for the Caspi-Man and 4 or 5 of his closest friends. (Have I mentioned before that the Caspi-Man has a posse?)

For all parents, I guess, there is a strong desire to re-create for our offspring the "best" memories from our own childhood. But as I'd never in my formative years experienced an actual "Easter egg hunt" (and have always harboured an unfounded prejudice that the concept is a bit of a contrived construct based on American television) I'd been ignoring his suggestion.


With all the parental indulgence that goes on these days, sometimes I feel that instead of creating wonderful, magical childhoods we're really just providing fodder for future therapy sessions. Whose needs are really being met here? (Mental note to self: tomorrow the Caspi-Man and I must get around to finishing those sock puppets!) Perhaps we are in danger of not heeding the warning in the Phillip Larkin poem (you know the one that sorta goes:


"they f*#% you up your parents,
they don't mean to, but they do,
they pass on all their own neurosis,
and throw in some extra just for you..."
etc etc.)

Naja, back to the hunt.

The Caspi-Man & I ended up (unexpectedly) in Venlo (Netherlands) this afternoon. A spontaneous invitation from a friend who needed to stock up on cheap coffee, cheese and fuel. It is one of the customs peculiar to this region that many local Germans like to pop across the border to save on their weekly shop.

(As an aside - every time I "pop" over the border I am set to pondering - how exactly did it come to be, over hundreds of years, thousands even, that two distinctly different cultures emerged, and remained? With different architecture, different language, and different attributes when there is absolutely no geographical reason for it? There are no rivers or mountain ranges to separate the people. One minute you are in Germany, and a scant 2 kilometres later you're in Holland. Why has there never been a merging at the boundary?)


Venlo also, I discovered today, has (compared to Dusseldorf) very cheap Easter eggs... So, good wife that I am, I stocked up and I'll indulge the Ger-Man this wish.

The Hunt will commence 10.30am Sunday. (Weather pending).

The Ger-Man.

Laying his own egg.

Oh dear, it's finally happening...

...I'm becoming Germanized!

.

Yesterday I was sorting through our breadbasket - disposing of any that may have developed a slight blue tinge. (I simply adore German bread. And I'm discerning - my father's a baker.)

(Nb. - The absolute best bakery in Düsseldorf is Hinkels, just off Karlsplatz and the Blumenmarkt. People travel from miles around to buy bread there, and the queue on Saturdays is unbelievable, but it is more than worth the wait.)

.

The Ger-Man wandered into the kitchen just as I was finishing my bread-cleansing task.

"What are you doing?" he cried, and there was actual horror on his face.

"Um... ," cautious here as the Ger-Man hates waste and has been known to munch on stale bread before.

(There was an ugly bread related incident between the Ger-Man and my sister while on a joint family holiday a few years back. She was preparing breakfast for us all and had rejected an open half-full packet of days-old-white-sliced in favour of a fresh loaf. She's fussy about her bread -after all -her father's a baker too and she doesn't do stale bread -except maybe for stuffings. Things then got nasty and the resulting tea towel fight left visible welts...)

"Um," Bugger! Caught in the act - no use denying it. "Getting rid of the stale bread..."

"The Caspi-Man and I were saving that to feed the ducks!" he said, peering despairingly into the bin where the bread had disappeared underneath soggy remnants of our lunch.

"But you can't do that - THE SIGNS!" I said.

We live 50 metres from what I consider to be the most beautiful park in Germany. (I tell the Caspi-Man it's our back-yard, but because we're nice, we let other people use it.) It's huge, full of gorgeous trees, landscaped promenades, lakes, ponds and waterways, ornate bridges and lots of old and contemporary sculptures (even a Henry Moore!). Home to many varieties of bird life, including ducks, it is dotted with these signs:

Translated it reads: "Duck Bread is Duck Dead". And the Ger-man is knowingly violating the rules!!

And then it struck me .... I've become corrupted by the power of "Ordnung" and the German phenomenon of obeying the rules... I'll never fully fit into Australian life again!