Nearly 30 years ago, my dad bought me a cat.  Not a real one, a stuffed one.  (Well, I had a real one, too, but this story is not about that cat.)  And he also got one for my sister.  I’m not sure what happened to Amanda’s, but I, in my careful and particular way that existed even when I was a small child, still have said cat (named Valentine) and “she” is still in pretty good shape.

At some point in my first few years of parenting, all of the stuffed animals I owned (there were still quite a few) became the property of Benjamin, and then, later, Liam as well.  Some of them have been very popular (one dog/wolf, renamed Vuh-Vuh by Benjamin, is one of his absolute favorites) while others have been pretty much ignored.  Benjamin really loves some of his stuffed friends — he travels with them, carries them with him around the house and tucks them into bed at night.  He’s kind of a cuddly guy, and he’s always been fond of his cuddly friends.

Not so with Liam, though.  For the first two years of Liam’s life, he showed no interest whatsoever in stuffed animals.  He received several as gifts, and I bought him a few and offered him several of my old ones.  Benjamin even passed along a few of his favorites for Liam to love, but it never stuck.  On rare occasions, Liam would pick up a stuffed dog if B was playing with one, but he was never particularly attached.

That is, until he found Valentine.

Valentine had once been discovered by Benjamin.  He was quite fond of her, and she was on the list of favored stuffed friends for a while, but she never quite made it to favorite status (I don’t think she ever travelled with us, for example — not like Vuh-Vuh or Chase or Chester who, at various times, have been indispensible in B’s life).  And, in recent months, he kind of forgot about her and she spent a fair bit of time in the bottom of a toy bin in his room.

But, when we moved the boys in together, we consolidated and cleaned out the toy bins.  Some of the toys that had been buried in the bins resurfaced, Valentine among them.  Liam found her.  It was true love.

The problem is that once Liam fell in love with her, Benjamin suddenly remembered how much he liked her, too.  It could have been a disaster, but they’ve done an amazing job of sharing, and Benjamin has been really understanding of the fact that 1) Liam is littler and gets more upset by not having things that he wants (at least in theory) and 2) Valentine (now called “Kitty” by both boys) is the only stuffed animal Liam has ever cared about AT ALL, so it makes it harder to deny him.  Both boys have been amazing.  Most of the time, Liam has custody of Kitty (who is also now a “he” . . . most of the time) with Benjamin “borrowing” him occasionally.

Still, this has gone on for months now, and neither child is really happy, so when I saw a new, cute, and very similar stuffed kitty at a Christmas market today, I bought it.  I didn’t know how it would go — I was worried both would want the new one, or that both would find the new one an inferior facsimile.  In what might have turned out to be an incredibly boneheaded parenting move, I showed them both the new cat, explained the situation, and told them they had to work it out for themselves.

And, they did.  Now Liam has “Kitty” and Benjamin has “Jingle the Kitty” (to differentiate him from Jingle, the dog).  Not a tear was shed.  Both boys are happy.  Peace is restored to the kingdom, and each boy has a stuffed friend to snuggle.  Life is good.

We had a great evening.  We’d been promising the kids that we’d go over to the Rathaus to ride on the train, try out the carousel and go for a pony ride “soon”, and, since we’re a week away from Christmas, we were running out of “soon”.

So, we went over to the Rathaus, all bundled up, because it was cold, and raining (not quite cold enough for snow — bummer).  We rode the Christmas train that drives through the park, taking us on a scenic tour of all of the amazing lights.  And, as an added bonus, the rain discouraged most of the other visitors — we had almost an entire train to ourselves.  As we drove past the pony ride area, we noticed — no ponies.  Maybe they were in because of the rain?  The boys were a little upset until we suggested we might get balloons or candy canes instead.  Balloons were an acceptable alternative to ponies, it turns out.

But, our next stop was the carousel and the reindeer ride.  It was also completely deserted because of the rain.  We had a great time on the carousel, and since Liam didn’t want to ride by himself, I got to go, too.  We got a private carousel ride — just the three of us (pretty fantastic).  And then Benjamin got to ride on the lead reindeer on Santa’s sleigh/train.  Unfortunately, after our carousel ride and Benjamin’s turn on the reindeer, we went to find balloons, and came up empty-handed, perhaps because of the rain.  Undaunted, the kids happily accepted candy canes instead.

We really had a great time.  It was actually quite nice to not have to fight the typical week-before-Christmas crowds.  It was a lovely evening.  It didn’t quite go the way we had planned, but it wasn’t a problem — not even for the kids (which was kind of impressive).

It strikes me as kind of a metaphor for our whole adventure . . . or maybe it just reflects something we’ve learned to be good at here — so often, you can make of an experience what you will.  Good or bad, festive or frustrating.  Tonight we chose fun & festive.  Happy choice.

When we lived in the US, we were Christmas tree purists. We would drive out into the country, cut down a tree by ourselves (from a tree farm, though, not on the side of the road or anything), attach it to the top of our 2 door Honda Civic (with twine), and drive an hour back home, fingers crossed that it didn’t go flying off. (At least, most years, that’s what we did. I think we twice bought a tree from a tree lot and, maybe also twice, got a tree from a farm a little closer to our home.) It was kind of a point of pride, and also a fun tradition. We were so stuck in our tradition that we made the trip even on a horribly cold and fiercely windy day when Benjamin was only 4 months old (not a choice I would make again).

Here, without a car, and not wanting to try to find out how Austrians would react to someone putting a freshly cut pine tree on a train, we’ve gone the simple route. Tree lots here don’t pop up until mid-December (yesterday was the first day of business for most of them) but when they do, there’s one in front of a church less than a block from our front door. So, that’s where we search for our tree.

Christmas trees in Vienna are less full than what we’re used to at home. Last year, I was a little sad about it — I thought, “This doesn’t look right!” but then, after bringing it home and decorating it, I was very pleasantly surprised. Fewer branches mean fewer lights are required, and there are a lot of great spots to hang ornaments. I loved our tree last year, and I wanted to find one just like it this year.

We set out on our search. In all, the tree lot was only about the size of our living room, and once you eliminate the ones that are super small or way too big, we only really had a few to choose from. After a few minutes of debate, and some building grumpiness between Dan & I (if anyone knows how to select a Christmas tree with your spouse without anyone getting irritable, PLEASE share your secret), we selected the perfect Christmas tree. It was the one that both Dan & Benjamin voted for (Liam mostly wanted to try to run into the road, and didn’t seem to have a strong opinion otherwise). I love it, too. Of course, Christmas trees are like Halloween pumpkins — whichever one you pick ends up being great. It’s at least as beautiful as the one we had last year and is *exactly* the same height as our ceiling (particularly impressive because we forgot . . . again . . . to measure it).

It’s currently standing in the corner, absorbing water (hopefully). I was going to put lights on it, but the boys are napping, and Benjamin asked me not to do the lights without him. But here we are, with another perfect Christmas tree. The tree, and the method of acquisition, are quite different than what we used to do at home, but the result is pleasantly familiar. Christmastime is here!

I’ve committed to writing and posting every day.  It’s a promise I made to myself (more than to my readers) because I know that it’s so easy to decide NOT to write on the days when things are hard and to only highlight the successes and the funny challenges, leaving the frustrating, overwhelming or dark days undocumented.

Some days are harder than others.

Today, I’m really struggling to write.  Things were generally fine here in Vienna today.  We had a pretty normal “preparing for Christmas” Saturday with a grocery store trip, laundry folded, toys cleaned up, some gifts wrapped and a trip to a Christmas market.  Life was actually wonderfully good and normal and very pleasant.

I could write about some of that.  But every time I try to start, all I can think about is what happened in Connecticut yesterday.  While I was happily enjoying Benjamin’s successful return from a field trip with his class, tragedy was unfolding across the Atlantic.

I don’t want to think about it.  I don’t know how to process it.  I can’t really think about it.  Whenever I hear about someone losing a child, I kind of shut down a little.  I have a friend who lost a child to cancer over the summer, and although I shared the story on my blog back in the spring, I couldn’t bring myself to mention it — to anyone — when he passed away in August.  I understand that this is avoidance and denial and not at all the best of me as a person, but I just don’t know how to deal with it.

At the same time, I can’t think about much else, and I certainly can’t write about anything else.  So, if I’m going to hold myself to writing every day, and I’m going to be honest about what’s going on with me, I guess this is what I’m going to write about today.

I don’t have any profound words or deep reflections to share.  I don’t know.  I don’t know anything.  This kind of loss, this kind of violence, is inconceivable, heartbreaking and overwhelming.  It is terrifying.

I want to snuggle my babies and never let them go.  Anywhere.  Ever.  I want to keep them home.  No school.  No outings.  Nothing.  Just home, with me.  Home, where they are safe, where I can hold them and do my best to protect them from everything.

But that is not what children are destined for.  They aren’t meant to live in a perfectly protected bubble with me.  They have to go out, into the world, to learn and grow and explore and meet other amazing people and, together, make the world an even better place.

And right now, it just hurts too much to think about what happened in Connecticut, or what happened to my classmate’s child, or the loss of any parent ever who has to live through a single moment of that kind of pain.  I’m embarrassed to admit it, and honestly surprised at myself, but it hurts too much to even open myself up to feel empathy for what they’re experiencing.  I cannot face it.  I cannot look at it.  Even squinting at it sideways, the horror of it is so vast that I have to turn away.

I feel sick.  I feel broken.  I am so shocked and sad, and I am so sorry that I am not up to feeling the empathy and facing the darkness of it.

I guess it’s inevitable.  I’m constantly comparing our current experience with what we were going through this same time a year ago.  It can be hard to recognize our progress here — almost every day can pose a new challenge, and often leaves us feeling deflated or discouraged.  But, looking at how much things have changed gives me better perspective.  Today, Benjamin went on a field trip to a Christmas market with his class, and I keep thinking about how differently things went this year.  I can see how much more acclimated we’ve become.

Last year, when his class went on the trip to the Christmas market, it came as a complete surprise to us.  It was really unsettling, kind of stressful and relatively worrisome (even though it all turned out just fine).  I remember debating with Dan whether we should continue to send B to school at all, in light of the fact that we obviously didn’t know what was going on and weren’t kept informed.  This year, we knew it was coming.  Our German is MUCH better, and we have taken it as our sole responsibility (which, of course, it is) to keep ourselves informed about what’s going on with his class.  It’s pretty unlikely that anything like that could take us by surprise again.

Last year, we were kind of overwhelmed about the idea of our little guy going out without us, and we were shocked by the fact that there weren’t any permission slips or liability releases to sign.  This year, we know how it works.  He’s been out with his class quite a few times, and the sight of a kindergarten class walking down the sidewalk, following, hand in hand, in the wake of a teacher, is commonplace to us.  I always smile and imagine how cute B is, along with his class, when they’re all out together.

Like last year, he had a wonderful time, but unlike last year, we expected that to be the case.  I bundled him up in a warm hat (the wolf hat, of course), fuzzy mittens, cozy fleece-lined pants, wool socks and his winter jacket.  Last year, we were just acclimating to a Vienna winter and we didn’t really know how to prepare to be out in it.  Now we’ve got it covered.

He had a great day today, and it was no big deal for him.  For me, he’s still 4 and I’m still his mom, so I still worry.  But we’re all getting the hang of this.

The Christmas songs Benjamin learns and sings at school are different than the ones I know.  I don’t recognize many of the songs he comes home singing, and he often doesn’t absorb enough of the words to teach me.  (We sing one about St. Nicholas that — in our house — goes, “Niko, Niko, Nikolaus, something something am der Haus!”)

But even the ones that I know, and that I’ve taught him, take on some new flavors when put through a four year old’s auditory filter.

“Deck the Halls” begins with, “Deck the halls with fallen jolly!” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” is now the rather more colorful, “What the hell the angels singing!  Glory to the hew horn king!  He fought Earth, and mercy mild, God and Santa, Christmas style.”

I absolutely love the Benjamin versions of these songs, and I honestly hope it takes him a long while to figure out the “right” words.

This is our second time around with St. Nicholas’ Day, and I feel like I’m starting to get it.  If you’re bad, Krampus comes to get you on the night of the 5th.  If you’re good, St. Nicholas visits your house while you sleep (on the night of the 5th) and you wake up on the 6th to shoes with toys and sweets in them.

Since we live in Vienna, we have seen very little of the Krampus-related festivities, because, from what I understand, that’s a much bigger deal out in the countryside.  (Which is probably good, because I think it’s the scariest and creepiest Christmas tradition I’ve ever heard of.)  But Benjamin had a lovely visit from St. Nicholas at school yesterday — the kids went out for a walk and when they came back, St. Nicholas had visited and left behind sweets, nuts and oranges for all of the children.

Then, St. Nicholas visited our house, too!  Looks like everyone in our house was good.  Well, almost!