We all have a cold.  (Or we each have a cold.  I’m not sure.  Benjamin seems obsessed with the fact that Dan, Liam and I now have “his” cold, so maybe we all have the same cold.  Whatever.  We’re all sick.  I feel like I write about us being sick a lot.  I do.  It’s B’s first year in school, exposed to other kids, and I’m sure there’s extra virulence because the kids all have foreign cooties.)

B is actually almost better.  He got sick first (hence, it’s “his” cold) last week and now he’s just about over it.  Which is good news, because at least we have some idea of the course of this illness.  Liam, however, is congested, a little fevery and super grumpy.  And he wants to sleep all the time — which would be GREAT (nap time for Mommy!) but he only wants to sleep when we’re holding him.  Since Saturday night, either Dan or I has been up, holding Liam while he sleeps, nearly every minute of each night.  I estimate that I’ve gotten about 15 hours of sleep total since I got out of bed first thing on Saturday morning.  Ouch.  I don’t think this has done very much to improve my immune system’s ability to overcome this cold.

It’s cloudy and rainy here, and a little cool — none of which particularly make me, sick as I am, want to do anything other than wrap myself in a blanket and park myself on the couch.  (My new roses, however, look lovely all covered in raindrops, so that’s a plus.)

Exhausted and ill, we decided Dan should take a sick day from work today.  Our goal was to get some rest.  It didn’t work.  Liam fell asleep in my arms while Dan was dropping Benjamin off at school, and refused to be moved or put down.  He woke up in time for lunch, and we had just settled the boys down for simultaneous naps this afternoon when the doorbell rang, setting Bailey to barking and waking both tired boys (and both tired parents) out of their naps.  Sigh.  We tried.

But, after out much-anticipated new high chair for Liam (one with actual machine washable cushions, which we are very excited about) was accepted from the delivery guy, we insisted the boys lay down again for the remainder of an hour.  (That’s our rule — naps don’t actually have to involve sleep, but they do have to involve laying down quietly for at least an hour.)

Benjamin wanted to curl up with me.  I love (love love love love) getting to curl up and sleep with my kids.  Neither of them has ever been particularly interested in napping with us — they both are happy to sleep while we’re holding them, but only if we’re sitting, not laying down.  (Benjamin was a terrible sleeper for the first couple of years.  I tried everything.  I so badly wanted napping together to be the answer, but it never worked.)  So, when they want to, it’s a special treat.

I got Benjamin all tucked in to my bed and encouraged him to close his eyes and rest.  He really didn’t want to, but he tried.  After a little while, though, we ended up talking and cuddling instead of actually napping.  It was wonderful.  Getting to snuggle with my babies is one of my most favorite things.  The highlight for today was when he said,  “Thanks for being a wonderful Mom.”  Happy sigh.  I can retire now.

We cuddled for an hour (the last 15 minutes was spent answering, “How long until I can get up?” every 45 seconds) and then he was off to run and play.  It was really a wonderful way to spend an hour.  It was so nice that I almost didn’t miss getting to actually sleep this afternoon.  Almost.

Mother’s Day can be tricky for us moms.  It’s a day all for us — for our kids (and usually our husbands) to shower us with love and affection and gratitude for the all of the things that we do.  It’s great.  It’s a wonderful idea, and I am always happy to be loved on by my kids for Mother’s Day.

But as moms, we struggle with it, too.  Because, so often, if you ask a mom, “If you could do one nice thing for yourself, anything at all, what would it be?” often the first thing that will come to mind is, “Time to myself”.  Which really feels beside the point of Mother’s Day.

The thing is, I don’t want to spend Mother’s Day away from my kids (I did, however, enjoy spending several hours alone yesterday, while Dan took the boys out shopping).  It isn’t just a day for me to get to do what I want, it’s also day to celebrate my family.  But, since it is also a day to celebrate ME, here’s what I want:  I want to get to do only the fun parts of being a parent for the day.  I want to spend the whole day with my kids, but I want to pick and choose the parts of the day that I want to participate in.  THAT is a major indulgence for me, because that is so much the antithesis of what it is to be a mom — we don’t usually get to hand-select the parts of the day we want.  As a mom, you’re in it fully, whatever “it” is.

So, for me, no diaper changes.  I get to sleep in.  I get to go to the bathroom, and shower, alone.  I don’t want to prepare a single meal.  I want my own of whatever food I’m eating.  I don’t want to have to walk with a fussy baby during mealtime or retrieve endless requests from the kitchen throughout the meal.  I don’t want to be in charge of finding hopelessly lost socks.  But I *do* want to cuddle, play Wii, be silly, play trucks, sing, hold hands, snuggle, eat heart-shaped cookies, hold a (happy) baby during dinner, Skype with my own mom (I wish I could have visited her), read stories and tuck my little ones in to bed.

Because what I want isn’t a break from my kids.  What I want is a break from the work.  The other 364 days a year, I’ll do it all.  My kids are awesome, but today is my day off from that other stuff.

Dan asked me, today, if there was anything in particular I’d like to get for Mother’s Day (he and the kids were on their way out the door to do some shopping, and I was on my way out the door for a cup of coffee with a book).  Questions like that make me uncomfortable — even when asked directly, it feels weird to ask for what I want.  But over the years I’ve learned it’s truly better just to answer, and be ok with whatever happens after that (not getting what I asked for, or potentially “asking for too much”, which is what I’m really afraid of) than to NOT answer and then be wistful about what I really would have wanted.

The truth is, I’ve been eyeing a little rose plant at the florist shop downstairs in our building.  There were two, actually — one with peach colored roses, and one with orange roses.  They’re both very cute, small and relatively inexpensive (about 12 – 15 Euro).  I keep walking by the shop, smelling the roses, and envisioning the little plant on our table on the terrace.  I hadn’t decided which one was prettier.

So, I fessed up, and told Dan I’d been admiring the little rose plants downstairs.  He and the boys headed out to “shop” (and promised to take a few hours shopping — the time to myself is part of my gift for Mother’s Day) and I got my book and went out for a coffee.

An hour or so passed, and I actually made it back before they did.  It took me a few minutes to notice, but I had a present waiting on our terrace.  And it wasn’t one of the little rose plants I’d been admiring.  It was a whole rose bush/trellis/gigantic plant.  It’s taller than me, with lovely, pinkish-peachy roses on it.  It’s awesome.  It’s the best bunch of flowers I’ve ever gotten.

I’ve always wanted something like this, but we’ve never had a place to put it before — we’ve never had a yard, and our last apartment didn’t even have a balcony.  Now, it can live on our terrace, get some rain (although it’s dry here, so I’ll probably also have to water it, too) and a little (mostly indirect) sunlight.  And I’ll have roses all summer!

In true-to-me not-living-in-the-moment fashion, I’m already mourning the fact that my lovely roses will have to stay here when we move back home to the States next year.   I know that’s silly, though, and I just keep reminding myself that the point is to enjoy them NOW.

So, that’s just what I’m going to do.  I’m going to enjoy my very own rose garden on my terrace  (Here, in Vienna.  And I am going to appreciate my loving husband and my wonderful boys who got me such an amazing and thoughtful gift for Mother’s Day.  Life is so good.

In case there’s anyone who might be interested in our experience travelling to France, but who doesn’t want to slog through a week’s worth of blog posts to get the relevant details, I decided to summarize what we learned.

First, know this:  Paris is NOT stroller friendly.  After living in Vienna for over a year, we were thinking, “Oh, Europe is SO easy to navigate with kids!”  Not so.  That’s Vienna.  (Actually, that’s everywhere we’ve been in Austria so far.  There is not a single place I haven’t been able to take the kids IN the stroller — including to the top of a mountain in the Alps.)

Paris is NOT like that.  Most places are not stroller friendly.  The metro system is a nightmare with a stroller.  If your kids are old enough to not require one, don’t bring one.  If they’re little, and you need to, prepare yourself for carrying the stroller up and down a lot of stairs.  (The Eiffel Tower, however, was remarkably stroller friendly, given what the rest of Paris is like.)  It is very easy, though, to take a stroller on and off the city buses (but not a double — I don’t think it would fit) and I don’t know that I’d be brave enough to try during rush hour.

Watching the street performers on the Pont Saint-Louis

Other than dealing with the stroller, Paris was lovely for the kids.  There’s a lot to do outdoors, and even at age 3, Benjamin found some of the sites we visited fascinating.  There are beautiful parks and fountains, and the boys loved watching the street performers.  They didn’t mind the Arc de Triomphe (although they thought it was too windy) but they LOVED our hours-long stroll down the Champs Elysees (especially our stop at the Toyota dealership, of all places).  The wait at the Eiffel Tower was a little rough, but the boys enjoyed the ride up to the top and the view (although they’d seen what they needed to see after about 2 minutes — a stop for ice cream on the 1st floor increased their patience with our experience at the Tower).  Benjamin, unexpectedly, loved Notre Dame (both the inside and the outside, although we didn’t wait through yet-another-line to go to the top of the tower — maybe when they’re older and won’t have subsequent nightmares about gargoyles).  Versailles was a hit — we only did the exterior — because there was room to run, things to look at, and bikes to ride.  (We contemplated renting a golf cart to explore the grounds, but B preferred a bike, so that’s what we did.)

Apartment dwelling: Liam approved

We stayed in an apartment right in the city (about 2 blocks from Notre Dame).  It was great.  The apartment had everything we needed, including a portacrib (aka “baby cot”) for Liam, a refrigerator, a stove, an oven, a microwave, a dishwasher and a washer/dryer combination.  If I went back, I would stay in the exact same place, or somewhere just like it.  A hotel is more likely to offer a nice common area and many amenities that an apartment won’t, but, with kids, we probably wouldn’t have used those much, anyway.  Having space for them to run around, as well as a variety of appliances and such made things really pleasant.  Also, I was glad we didn’t skimp on location.  Since dealing with the metro or the regional trains is incredibly difficult, I was glad we didn’t HAVE to get on the train to do everything.

Paris is kind of crimey, which I found stressful.  (After living in Vienna, I’d probably feel that way about almost anywhere, though.)  There really are pickpockets and potential scammers almost everywhere you go, especially at, and on the way to, the big tourist destinations.  Trying to keep both eyes on the kids while also keeping an eye on our stuff was exhausting.  (This is actually the one time I was grateful we had a stroller — we put all our stuff into our backpack, in a deep, interior pocket, and attached the backpack to the stroller with a carabiner.  Not foolproof, but relatively hands-free.)  Being approached by people trying to get you to “sign a petition” (who are also probably trying to steal from you) takes on an extra edge when you’re holding hands with your child.  No one particularly bothered us (I did get approached for petitions twice, once while holding Liam, and once while walking with Benjamin, but they went away when I said “no”) but it is a frustrating part of travelling to Paris.  None of this was true in Normandy.  Either it’s much safer there, or at least less obvious.  We were able to relax a bit more there.

Our two days in Normandy were heaven for the boys.  The cottage we stayed in had a big yard for them to play in (not something they’re used to, as city dwellers) with flowers, grass, bees, dirt — everything.  The neighbors on one side had cows, and there were sheep on the other side.  The beach wasn’t as fun for them as I thought it would be, but the playground AT the beach was a hit, and we ate lots of ice cream all over Normandy.  Benjamin cried when it was time to leave, and has already asked several times when we can go back.

In terms of dining, there are lots of good “street food” options (like take-away creperies, “croque monsieur” sandwiches to go, tons of good ice cream, bakeries with sandwiches and quiches and tarts that are good for little ones).  For sit-down restaurants, there are a few challenges.  First, it was rare that an establishment had a high chair for us to use.  Second, the French eat dinner late.  Many restaurants don’t even open for dinner until 7 or 7:30, which can be tough for kids.  On the other hand, we found our boys LOVED the food we had in French restaurants, and the proprietors seemed very happy to have our kids as guests.  We did simple carry-out dinners most nights and only did “sit down” restaurant dinners twice, so that we didn’t burn the kids out on sitting through late meals on our laps.  In Normandy, where take-away dinners weren’t as common, a crepe restaurant actually aluminum-foiled some plates of dinner for us to take home, as long as we promised to bring the plates back the next morning (we did).

We loved Paris — and Normandy – with our boys.  If Liam (currently 19 months) were even 6 months older, though, I think we would have left the stroller behind.  Otherwise, it was an excellent trip.

So, as I was waiting for my boys to finish their pre-nap bottles this afternoon, I was checking out Facebook on my phone (which is pretty customary for me at that time of day).  Both kids were happy, their diapers had been freshly changed, we were watching tv (which is also typical), and, for a few blissful moments, no one really needed anything from me.

So, I took advantage of my few moments of peace and caught up with the world — email, Facebook, Words with Friends and such.  And today, I found this.  Which says, basically, that I need to cut it out.

My frist thought was, “I’m not that bad”.  And I’m not.  I’m careful about when I get involved with my phone, I make sure I don’t stay on too long, I never answer actual calls that come in when I’m with my kids (because I just can’t divide my attention well enough).  I don’t get irritated with them when they “interrupt” my internet time or ever think that I’m fooling them into thinking that I’m paying attention if I’m not.

But the thing is, it’s just not possible to be careful enough.  Or, more to the point, it’s not about being careful.  My attention IS divided when I’m reading Facebook, checking my email, or playing a game.  There’s no way to avoid it.  My kids see that.  In those moments, they aren’t my only priority.

The thing is, there are plenty of perfectly reasonable moments through the day when they’re not the only priority I have.  I make lunch.  I clean the house.  I occasionally go to the bathroom (sometimes even alone).  I run errands.  I do laundry.  Most of those things have to happen — I try to keep the duration of each distracting, attention-dividing activity short, but they still have to happen.

Facebook doesn’t.  My email doesn’t.  My kids outrank those things by about 1,000,000%.  So, why on earth should I allow my time to be taken by something less important?

So, today, I didn’t.  After I read that article, I shut my phone off (something I have literally only done about half a dozen times) and I spent the rest of the afternoon phone-free.  Yikes.  It freaked me out.  But I had an AWESOME afternoon.  I had no idea how much I’d been missing.  I played “restaurant” with Benjamin.  (And Liam — he makes a bad waiter, though, because he doesn’t come back with the “food”, and he makes a bad customer because he won’t tell us what he wants.  He did ok as the chef.  But mostly, he wanted to play trains.)  We cuddled together after their naps.  We colored and drew and ran around and were silly.  And we might have done any number of those things on a day that my phone was on, but it was a whole different intensity.  I “saw” more of my kids today than I have so far this week.  That’s terrible, and sad, but I can change it.

I have time I can devote to internet activities.  My blogging is important to me.  Keeping in touch with my friends and family is vital to my mental well-being.  I can still do those things, and I will.  I can do all of those things during my 15 minute “coffee break” I take every morning (when, after the house is clean, I take 15 minutes, get Liam settled into a safe activity where I can watch him, and sit down and to nothing for 15 minutes — it’s great), during nap time, while Dan is bathing the kids (Dan does bath time every other night) and after they’re asleep.  If I prioritize, I can do it.  No problem.

I will be less available online than I have been.  Most of you probably won’t even notice the difference (keep in mind that because of the time difference, a lot of my daytime internet time was while you’re all sleeping, which only makes my attention to the internet less reasonable) and if you do, you’ll understand.

Today I was astounded at how much my phone has been distracting me, and I didn’t even realize it.  Try it.  When you’re with your kids, turn your phone off.  Not just to silent (I always have mine silent) and not just out of reach.  Turn it OFF.  See what happens.

I was one of those nerdy kids in high school.  I was (more than) a little OCD, very much a perfectionist, quite analytical and pretty smart.  I chased a 4.0 in high school (back when you didn’t get “extra” points for taking tough classes) and had regular, full-out panic attacks about my school work (no kidding — ask my family).

It paid off pretty well.  I graduated near the top of a very competitive class, with a 3.86 grade point average (yes, I still remember, all these MANY years later).

In high school, French was, by far, my worst subject — no matter how much I worked and studied, I never felt like I got it.  Even when I put in twice the effort I did for my other classes (which I didn’t always), I typically only averaged a B in French.  In most subjects, if my grades started to slip, I just worked harder, and got As.  Not so with French.  It was the only AP subject I took that I didn’t get college credit in.

I studied French for 7 years total (2 in middle school, 4 in high school, and 1 in college).  Over the years, I had a variety of teachers, but my high school teacher, and therefore my main French instructor, was Madame Alushin.  In addition to struggling in the class (relatively), I never really felt like Mrs. Alushin was as charmed by me as my other teachers.  I was quiet, attentive, bright, and desperately sought the approval of my teachers, and most of them liked me.  I can’t be sure, and it might just come from a combination of insecurity and over-inflated sense of self-importance, but I’d go so far as to say that I don’t think Madame Alushin really liked me very much.  (To be honest, it’s not a total surprise.  I wasn’t really the most likeable person in my high school years — see the OCD/perfectionist/super nerd comments above.)  For whatever reason, I never really won her over.  (I’m enough of a geek that the memory of having a teacher who wasn’t impressed with me sticks out.  No wonder I didn’t have a date to prom.)

I struggled studying French.  Constantly.  And I wasn’t used to struggling.  I used to sweat more over my French class than my other subjects (and I took Calculus and Physics in high school — French was harder).  It just didn’t fit well with the way my brain works.

I honestly didn’t think I’d really learned anything of substance, even after all those years of classes.  (I remember “pamplemousse”, because it’s the best French word ever, and I remember that the word for trashcan, “poubelle”, is feminine, but I thought that was about it.)  But, it turns out that I did.  I just spent a week in France, and I got good use out of my French.  I was able to read just about everything I saw, plus communicate and have complete (albeit simple) conversations in French.  Even after living here in Austria for a year, my French is still better than my German.  That’s pretty impressive, especially because it’s been over 15 years since I last had instruction of any kind in French.

So, she may not have liked me, and I certainly wasn’t a star student, but she did teach me.  I just spent a week in France with my family, and I didn’t have to open my French phrase book, other than to see the explanations of the traffic signs.  Thanks . . merci, rather . . . to Madame Alushin.  I learned a lot.

Dan and I had an incredibly difficult time trying to choose a name for Benjamin before he was born.  Picking a name for a child is an incredibly big deal.  People make pre-judgements about you based on a name.  A name can be an easy or complicated introduction to a social or professional setting.  It can be a pleasant moniker that grows and changes with you, or it can be overly cutesy as an adult or overly clunky as a kid.

We gave it a lot of thought.  Dan dislikes most names (I’m not exaggerating) for one reason or another.  I came up with dozens of possibilities, most of which he immediately dismissed.  I was picky, too — my biggest issue was that I didn’t want to choose a name that I liked if it had a nickname I disliked.  Once the name is attached to a child, the parent loses control (and eventually, any influence) over what he’s called.  As a mom, I reserve the right to call my kids whatever I like for as long as I live, but they’ll get to decide what everyone else calls them.  I didn’t want to be stuck cringing every time someone called my house and asked for my kid.

Benjamin didn’t actually have a name until he was 3 days old.  Dan and I each had a favorite (which the other one actually didn’t hate) and, ironically, when Benjamin was born and presented to us in the delivery room, we simultaneously, and unbeknownst to the other, switched our preference (I wanted to use the name Dan had been advocating, and he suddenly thought my favorite would be perfect).

So, we debated for a few days, and I finally got to choose (which means that I actually chose the name Dan had been advocating for months, which fit him just right) and he ended up as Benjamin.

We’ve always called him Benjamin.  Various friends and family call him Ben, and when he was first learning to talk, he called himself “Benjin” (which has kind of stuck, too).  He’s even been “Benji” a few times.  He’s never commented on the difference, and has happily responded to all options.  But mostly, he’s been Benjamin . . . until we moved to Austria.  Here, he’s Ben, almost exclusively.  I don’t know if Benjamin is uncommon here, or if nicknames are more common, but almost every person we’ve introduced him to (as Benjamin) calls him Ben.  He’s never minded, and I’m happy to have him called anything that makes him happy, so he’s been Ben, especially at school (where I’ve actually never heard them call him anything else).

About a week ago, though, on the way to school, he told me that he was angry at one of his friends at school for calling him Ben.  I explained to him that everyone at school called him Ben, and that if he wanted to be called something else, he was going to have to tell them.  So, he asked me for help, and when we got to school that morning, we explained to the teachers that he’d like to be called Benjamin now.  They were happy to oblige, and started immediately.  When one of his friends approached him and said, “Morgen, Ben!” he responded with “Nicht Ben.  Benjamin!” and his friend said, without missing a beat, “Morgen, Benjamin!”

Now he’s spreading the message.  On Skype today with my dad, step-mother and two of my sisters, they called him Ben, and he responded with, “Nicht Ben.  Benjamin!” (in an Austrian accent, too, which is extra cute).  They, also, are happy to call him whatever he’d like, so now he’ll be Benjamin to them all the time, too.

There’s something about this assertion of his preference that impresses me and makes me very happy.  It’s amazing to me to see him grow up and express his opinions so clearly — he’s not throwing a fit, screaming or pouting.  He’s simply declaring his wish.  And I love that he’s confident enough to have and share his opinion.  He isn’t worried about what anyone else thinks — it’s his name, and he can be called what he likes (which is exactly right, to me).

And I’m really glad he’s got such a great name — we really can’t go wrong.  (Yes, I’ve even made my peace with the possibility of “Benji” becoming a fixture one day in the future.  But Benjamin is my favorite option.  I like “Benjin”, too.)