I went in search today of a Polish nursery rhyme my mother used to play with my brother and I when we were very little. It was about a Ladybug or Ladybird, as some call it.
You can find the word in Polish below. They are also translated into English and a video follows how to do the finger play part of this classic nursery rhyme.
Mama Lisa's Biedroneczka Mala
I've begun working again on teaching the children Polish as my older daughter said something a few days ago that really touched my father and I.
She asked if next year, we could go to Poland for Christmas instead of getting Christmas gifts. She said she wanted to see Christmas in Wroclaw and asked me if I had ever spent Christmas there. I had, my first Christmas ever. And no other time.
At the idea of the trip, we all reacted with an ecstatic "Of course! Great idea!"
So, where does that leave me? I have a renewed need to teach the girls Polish and to save up money for the trip.
As I work on our Polish, I will share with you more sites and tips I come across to help you teach your child Polish as well.
I sincerely wish we could afford the 45 minute drive one way every Saturday and the tuition to put at least my oldest in Polish School but it just isn't an option for us. And that should not be enough to stop them from learning my first language.
I hope you and your child enjoy playing Biedroneczka Mala as much as we are.
Na razie...
Also, if you feel that you would want to, please donate using the paypal button below to help us pay for our next trip (I promise to share pictures when we go!)...
A Mama born in Poland with "Gypsy Blood" living on the American Prairie with her daughters, two future Miss Poland and Nobel Peace prize recipients :: Food, Travel, Life...
Showing posts with label Travel to Poland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel to Poland. Show all posts
15 November 2011
05 October 2011
Wordless Wednesday: My Own Place
This is my spot in the house. It's not just a spot with pictures. It's not just a spot that looks beautiful. This is more than that.
This is a shelf on one of my overloaded bookcases, set aside just for me.
Each piece specifically thought about and placed in it's spot.
The picture of Madonna of the Goldfinch painted by Giovanni Batista Tiepolo was beloved by my mother and I use it to remember what sort of Mama I want to be for my children.
The cross is from my husband's now deceased grandmother. It's nothing special. It's plastic. But I use it to remember her.
The ikon to the left is a gift from the parents of my old bosses, from Greece. They bought it in their travels to gift to me. It is a Greek ikon version of the Black Madonna of Czestachowa. As they handed it to me, they held my hands and said "Remember, you are Polish. You are Catholic. Never forget these two things. I hope this brings you much blessings in life."
The red rosary draped on the Greek ikon was purchased by me in my wanderings throughout Paris when I was a teenager. It was bought after entering one of what felt like hundreds of churches during that trip to France and Poland. I had a sense of connection to those churches I never felt so much in most churches in the US. I could feel the blood, sweat and tears those European churches were built with, the unwavering faith, the hopes for a better afterlife, the centuries of feet wearing down the stones and bricks by the faithful, echos of whispers across the years. I bought that rosary to remind myself of that connection.
The palms peeking from the back of the Greek ikon came from Holy Cross PNCC, my church in Baltimore. My husband weaved them into the designs they are in now. I also look at it to remind myself that he is also Catholic.
The Rainbow Study Bible was handed to me by Father Bieganowski when we left Maryland to come to Illinois. The Holy Sacrament of the Mass was always used by me to follow along.
The white rosary was another purchase I made in Poland while visiting another church. I remember the smells, the brick, the wrought iron, the towering ceiling, the overwhelming sensation of belonging and of timelessness.
The small ikon in front was a gift from Father Bieganowski when he returned from his trip to Wroclaw, where both our families were from. I think of him and his wonderful family often.
The statue of a man holding a child is one I know nothing about except that it came from my husband's family. It's beautiful. I hope it reminds him of his family's faith.
The black rosary, draped over a framed document, I purchased at a nunnery in Poland. I remember the smiling nuns looking at me with curiosity as I purchased it. I had short dyed red hair, black clothing and makeup on. I'm sure I didn't look very Catholic. But appearances can be deceiving.
The framed document acknowledged my husband's deceased grandmother and grandfather's membership into the Archconfraternity of Our Lady of Perpetual Help and Saint Alphonsus.
The ikon in front, as far as I know, nobody in my husband's family knows the meaning behind it or where it came from besides from his grandparents. I look at it to remind myself that we will one day all be forgotten and that all that is remembered is what we did before we left. Whether we were kind and therefore raised kind children who kept that gift in our world or whether we were selfish and therefore raised selfish children who did nothing for the benefit of the world.
And the most precious of all, the ikon in gold. A miniature of the Black Madonna. My Babcia brought it for us when she visited us in the late 1980's in the US. It was the first time I ever met my Babcia. This ikon always held a special place in my house growing up and was eventually passed down to me. One day, I want to make a pilgrimage to Jasna Gora.
This ikon and my Bible are what this spot are based on and built around. It is my sanctuary. It is in our living room, immediately to my left when at the computer so that I write or cook or play with my children, I can look over and find something to look at and rediscover my strength and inspiration.
Do you have a spot like this in your house? Do you use it to find your strength and inspiration?
Na razie...
This is a shelf on one of my overloaded bookcases, set aside just for me.
Each piece specifically thought about and placed in it's spot.
The picture of Madonna of the Goldfinch painted by Giovanni Batista Tiepolo was beloved by my mother and I use it to remember what sort of Mama I want to be for my children.
The cross is from my husband's now deceased grandmother. It's nothing special. It's plastic. But I use it to remember her.
The ikon to the left is a gift from the parents of my old bosses, from Greece. They bought it in their travels to gift to me. It is a Greek ikon version of the Black Madonna of Czestachowa. As they handed it to me, they held my hands and said "Remember, you are Polish. You are Catholic. Never forget these two things. I hope this brings you much blessings in life."
The red rosary draped on the Greek ikon was purchased by me in my wanderings throughout Paris when I was a teenager. It was bought after entering one of what felt like hundreds of churches during that trip to France and Poland. I had a sense of connection to those churches I never felt so much in most churches in the US. I could feel the blood, sweat and tears those European churches were built with, the unwavering faith, the hopes for a better afterlife, the centuries of feet wearing down the stones and bricks by the faithful, echos of whispers across the years. I bought that rosary to remind myself of that connection.
The palms peeking from the back of the Greek ikon came from Holy Cross PNCC, my church in Baltimore. My husband weaved them into the designs they are in now. I also look at it to remind myself that he is also Catholic.
The Rainbow Study Bible was handed to me by Father Bieganowski when we left Maryland to come to Illinois. The Holy Sacrament of the Mass was always used by me to follow along.
The white rosary was another purchase I made in Poland while visiting another church. I remember the smells, the brick, the wrought iron, the towering ceiling, the overwhelming sensation of belonging and of timelessness.
The small ikon in front was a gift from Father Bieganowski when he returned from his trip to Wroclaw, where both our families were from. I think of him and his wonderful family often.
The statue of a man holding a child is one I know nothing about except that it came from my husband's family. It's beautiful. I hope it reminds him of his family's faith.
The black rosary, draped over a framed document, I purchased at a nunnery in Poland. I remember the smiling nuns looking at me with curiosity as I purchased it. I had short dyed red hair, black clothing and makeup on. I'm sure I didn't look very Catholic. But appearances can be deceiving.
The framed document acknowledged my husband's deceased grandmother and grandfather's membership into the Archconfraternity of Our Lady of Perpetual Help and Saint Alphonsus.
The ikon in front, as far as I know, nobody in my husband's family knows the meaning behind it or where it came from besides from his grandparents. I look at it to remind myself that we will one day all be forgotten and that all that is remembered is what we did before we left. Whether we were kind and therefore raised kind children who kept that gift in our world or whether we were selfish and therefore raised selfish children who did nothing for the benefit of the world.
And the most precious of all, the ikon in gold. A miniature of the Black Madonna. My Babcia brought it for us when she visited us in the late 1980's in the US. It was the first time I ever met my Babcia. This ikon always held a special place in my house growing up and was eventually passed down to me. One day, I want to make a pilgrimage to Jasna Gora.
This ikon and my Bible are what this spot are based on and built around. It is my sanctuary. It is in our living room, immediately to my left when at the computer so that I write or cook or play with my children, I can look over and find something to look at and rediscover my strength and inspiration.
Do you have a spot like this in your house? Do you use it to find your strength and inspiration?
Na razie...
23 September 2011
Why I Don't Watch Horror Movies
I don't watch horror movies. I am already worried enough in life about psychos, gang bangers, and serial killers. I don't need to watch horror movies about it.
The last time we went to Poland, I had a moment when I thought "This is how horror movies start." Thank goodness it's just my hyper sense of danger. I'm sure some of you will find this as funny as I did after wards..
My cousin, her husband and children, my older daughter and my pregnant self were all driving to the countryside to my Wujek's property for a day out together in the Polish mountainside. The drive was, as usual, gorgeous. Poppy flowers sprinkled the countryside mixed in with fields of grain, massive centuries old churches, villages, the plains of Poland.
The drive from Wroclaw to the property is long, several hours. My being pregnant, at one point, we stopped so I could use the restroom.
The place we stopped at was in the hills before the mountains on a fairly small road. Trees were everywhere and it was breathtaking. I stretched my legs, took a deep breath of the sweet air, and walked up to the, well, I guess it was a tavern.
Wooden and old and solidly built, beautiful. I went inside to the bar and asked the barkeeper if I could use the restroom, prepared to pay. I believe it was 1 zloty to use the restroom.
He gave me what I thought would be a key but, no, this was ingenious. The type of ingenious I've only found in the middle of the Appalachian mountains and in Poland.
A doorknob. The type of doorknob that is called a lever handle door knob.
The bartender made sure to tell me to please make sure that when I open the door, to then pull it out of the hole and take inside to be able to open the door with it from the inside. He even made movements with his hand gesturing to this effect.
I completely understood this. Yes, it was in Polish and he was older so the accent was thicker than I am used to as a Polish American. But I understood it.
I smiled, nodded that I understood, and said "Rozumiem" which means "I understand". The bar tender continued the funny look he had started giving me from the moment I walked in. I assumed it was because no matter how hard I try, I always dress American when I visit Poland and I have a thick American accent when I talk. So, possibly he thought "Boy, I hope this American understands what I am saying." And I did.
He told me the restroom was outside and up the walkway on the outside of the building. The building looked as thought it was well over a century old so possibly the restroom was added on with plumbing after running water and sewage were available in the area many many years ago. I had seen some very old historical buildings in America and other areas of Europe with this... But I'm rambling.
I walked outside and up the walkway on the left of the building. I waved to my cousins who were at the bottom of this hill by the road about a hundred feet or more away. Trees from the forest were a few feet from the walkway, including pines. The location was gorgeous and I daydreamed about owning such a beautiful home for myself one day.
I got to the restroom. It was a shed attached to the outside wall of the building and by the way the plumbing was installed, I felt my assumptions of the age of the building were correct.
I stuck in the lever handle door knob, opened the door, walked in and...
I left the handle on the outside of the door and forgot until the door closed behind me.
Of course.
What to do?
I used the facilities.
I then began to look at the hole where the handle was and realized I was definitely stuck until someone found me.
And turned around in a panic. This is how horror movies start!
I began to bang on the door and wall of the building calling out "Pomoc! Jestem zamknieta! Nie moge otworzyc drzwi! Pomoc!" (Translation: Help! I'm locked in! I can't open the door! Help!)
Impressive Polish language skills, I know. Considering I've never been locked in anywhere and everything.
I kept racking my mind how to McGyver myself out of there but I had left my purse in the van and there was nothing in the restroom but a toilet and sink. Nothing.
After a few minutes, my freedom was attained. The bartender came and opened the door and started saying in Polish, "Why did you trap yourself in? I told you how to use this! Are you alright? Why did you trap yourself in?"
I smiled sheepishly, patted his shoulder and pointed at my stomach, "Myślałem o innych rzeczi, Przeprasam, ale Dziekujem Pan bardzo!" and started walking quickly back to the car laughing at myself.
I told my cousins what happened while laughing and they stated they were worrying what had happened to me but could not hear me calling because of the noise of cars driving by and being so far downhill. I knew they couldn't hear me. I couldn't help but laugh at myself.
They told me the bartender had come outside looking around very confused and they were wondering what he was doing. He had heard me. That poor old man, that must have been the most excitement he had all day. I hope he could laugh at it the way I could.
The day trip turned out to be full of memories with the adventure my older daughter had with chickens.
Na razie...
The last time we went to Poland, I had a moment when I thought "This is how horror movies start." Thank goodness it's just my hyper sense of danger. I'm sure some of you will find this as funny as I did after wards..
My cousin, her husband and children, my older daughter and my pregnant self were all driving to the countryside to my Wujek's property for a day out together in the Polish mountainside. The drive was, as usual, gorgeous. Poppy flowers sprinkled the countryside mixed in with fields of grain, massive centuries old churches, villages, the plains of Poland.
The drive from Wroclaw to the property is long, several hours. My being pregnant, at one point, we stopped so I could use the restroom.
The place we stopped at was in the hills before the mountains on a fairly small road. Trees were everywhere and it was breathtaking. I stretched my legs, took a deep breath of the sweet air, and walked up to the, well, I guess it was a tavern.
Wooden and old and solidly built, beautiful. I went inside to the bar and asked the barkeeper if I could use the restroom, prepared to pay. I believe it was 1 zloty to use the restroom.
He gave me what I thought would be a key but, no, this was ingenious. The type of ingenious I've only found in the middle of the Appalachian mountains and in Poland.
A doorknob. The type of doorknob that is called a lever handle door knob.
The bartender made sure to tell me to please make sure that when I open the door, to then pull it out of the hole and take inside to be able to open the door with it from the inside. He even made movements with his hand gesturing to this effect.
I completely understood this. Yes, it was in Polish and he was older so the accent was thicker than I am used to as a Polish American. But I understood it.
I smiled, nodded that I understood, and said "Rozumiem" which means "I understand". The bar tender continued the funny look he had started giving me from the moment I walked in. I assumed it was because no matter how hard I try, I always dress American when I visit Poland and I have a thick American accent when I talk. So, possibly he thought "Boy, I hope this American understands what I am saying." And I did.
He told me the restroom was outside and up the walkway on the outside of the building. The building looked as thought it was well over a century old so possibly the restroom was added on with plumbing after running water and sewage were available in the area many many years ago. I had seen some very old historical buildings in America and other areas of Europe with this... But I'm rambling.
I walked outside and up the walkway on the left of the building. I waved to my cousins who were at the bottom of this hill by the road about a hundred feet or more away. Trees from the forest were a few feet from the walkway, including pines. The location was gorgeous and I daydreamed about owning such a beautiful home for myself one day.
I got to the restroom. It was a shed attached to the outside wall of the building and by the way the plumbing was installed, I felt my assumptions of the age of the building were correct.
I stuck in the lever handle door knob, opened the door, walked in and...
I left the handle on the outside of the door and forgot until the door closed behind me.
Of course.
What to do?
I used the facilities.
I then began to look at the hole where the handle was and realized I was definitely stuck until someone found me.
And turned around in a panic. This is how horror movies start!
I began to bang on the door and wall of the building calling out "Pomoc! Jestem zamknieta! Nie moge otworzyc drzwi! Pomoc!" (Translation: Help! I'm locked in! I can't open the door! Help!)
Impressive Polish language skills, I know. Considering I've never been locked in anywhere and everything.
I kept racking my mind how to McGyver myself out of there but I had left my purse in the van and there was nothing in the restroom but a toilet and sink. Nothing.
After a few minutes, my freedom was attained. The bartender came and opened the door and started saying in Polish, "Why did you trap yourself in? I told you how to use this! Are you alright? Why did you trap yourself in?"
I smiled sheepishly, patted his shoulder and pointed at my stomach, "Myślałem o innych rzeczi, Przeprasam, ale Dziekujem Pan bardzo!" and started walking quickly back to the car laughing at myself.
I told my cousins what happened while laughing and they stated they were worrying what had happened to me but could not hear me calling because of the noise of cars driving by and being so far downhill. I knew they couldn't hear me. I couldn't help but laugh at myself.
They told me the bartender had come outside looking around very confused and they were wondering what he was doing. He had heard me. That poor old man, that must have been the most excitement he had all day. I hope he could laugh at it the way I could.
The day trip turned out to be full of memories with the adventure my older daughter had with chickens.
Na razie...
19 August 2011
Where Do You Go To When It's Time To Escape?
I have been having a bit of a writing block lately. I have a lot of stories and recipes to share but sometimes, I hold my hands over the keyboard, ready, my mind whirling with the most eloquent words about to pour from my mind through my keyboard onto the screen, and then...
"Mommy! I peepee!"
"Mommy! Chokit Mook! (Chocolate Milk for those uninitiated into toddler-speak). Poshe (Toddler-speak for Prosze which is Please in Polish)!"
"Hi, Mommy, did you see what the weather is yet so we can go play outside together?"
"Mommy! Outside! Play!"
Or, the conversations with my husband that can never seem to wait until I am done writing and, honestly, just aren't important. Yes, that's right, they aren't.
And then the wonderful idea falls out of my ears like invisible ghosts blown away by a breeze. Gone.
Playing outside, a mountain of laundry, cloth diapers, another attempt at writing during snack time interrupted by little fingers needing washing, "tea party", a run to the store for the milk that seems to disappear faster than I can make a cup of coffee. By the time nap time comes, I have no idea what to write about at all. And by then, the rest of the day requires attention. Dinner, cleaning, school paperwork or supplies or volunteer hours, baths, story time, bedtime, and by the time my own bedtime comes, I am done. D-O-N-E. I don't want to talk or think about anything. Let alone blog.
So, where do I go when it's time to escape?
I would say my blog. Writing. Reading. Or if I just can't get more than 2 or 3 minutes for that, I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else.
With my children.
At the end of a long car ride filled with listening to Bach and Chopin watching red fields and towering churches and villages and poppy flowers fly by my vision.
Taking me to the side of a mountain.
I smell smoke from a chimney. Grass and animals under the sun.
Stalks of wild grass and wheat bending and bowing. The Pole, the fields.
I hear the sound of the forest near me, the breeze blowing through the leaves. Whispering. Ancient sounds that move me Come, walk in our shade on this path that countless others have travelled.
Past the kiln used by the villagers in the glen below for many many years before and now, just a solitary relic. Standing, watching, remembering what was.
The scent of pine needles and tree leaves decaying. Mushrooms preparing for their next appearance.
My belly filled with kabanosy, real hearty bread, plums, tomatoes, butter.
Walking, just walking.
On the side of a mountain. Outside a village that hardly anyone has ever heard of outside my family and the villagers below. And I want to keep it that way.
Or, perhaps...
I close my eyes and visit Wroclaw.
Sometimes, it's harder to visit there in my imagination. But during labor (natural labor both times, once induced for multiple hours with no pain medication), I closed my eyes and pretended that it wasn't happening to me. I was on that mountain. I was in the Rynek. I was not there.
Until I was holding my babies for the first time and looking into their eyes and the world melted away. The ony thing in the world at that moment was my children in my arms for the first time.
The trees could have been whispering on that mountain, knowing that I promise to return.
"Mommy! I peepee!"
"Mommy! Chokit Mook! (Chocolate Milk for those uninitiated into toddler-speak). Poshe (Toddler-speak for Prosze which is Please in Polish)!"
"Hi, Mommy, did you see what the weather is yet so we can go play outside together?"
"Mommy! Outside! Play!"
Or, the conversations with my husband that can never seem to wait until I am done writing and, honestly, just aren't important. Yes, that's right, they aren't.
And then the wonderful idea falls out of my ears like invisible ghosts blown away by a breeze. Gone.
Playing outside, a mountain of laundry, cloth diapers, another attempt at writing during snack time interrupted by little fingers needing washing, "tea party", a run to the store for the milk that seems to disappear faster than I can make a cup of coffee. By the time nap time comes, I have no idea what to write about at all. And by then, the rest of the day requires attention. Dinner, cleaning, school paperwork or supplies or volunteer hours, baths, story time, bedtime, and by the time my own bedtime comes, I am done. D-O-N-E. I don't want to talk or think about anything. Let alone blog.
So, where do I go when it's time to escape?
I would say my blog. Writing. Reading. Or if I just can't get more than 2 or 3 minutes for that, I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else.
With my children.
At the end of a long car ride filled with listening to Bach and Chopin watching red fields and towering churches and villages and poppy flowers fly by my vision.
Taking me to the side of a mountain.
I smell smoke from a chimney. Grass and animals under the sun.
Stalks of wild grass and wheat bending and bowing. The Pole, the fields.
I hear the sound of the forest near me, the breeze blowing through the leaves. Whispering. Ancient sounds that move me Come, walk in our shade on this path that countless others have travelled.
Past the kiln used by the villagers in the glen below for many many years before and now, just a solitary relic. Standing, watching, remembering what was.
The scent of pine needles and tree leaves decaying. Mushrooms preparing for their next appearance.
My belly filled with kabanosy, real hearty bread, plums, tomatoes, butter.
Walking, just walking.
On the side of a mountain. Outside a village that hardly anyone has ever heard of outside my family and the villagers below. And I want to keep it that way.
Or, perhaps...
I close my eyes and visit Wroclaw.
Sometimes, it's harder to visit there in my imagination. But during labor (natural labor both times, once induced for multiple hours with no pain medication), I closed my eyes and pretended that it wasn't happening to me. I was on that mountain. I was in the Rynek. I was not there.
Until I was holding my babies for the first time and looking into their eyes and the world melted away. The ony thing in the world at that moment was my children in my arms for the first time.
The trees could have been whispering on that mountain, knowing that I promise to return.
15 July 2011
Idzie Rak: Polish Children's Rhyme
When I was a little girl, my parents would chant this song to me while walking two fingers on my belly to tickle my underarms.
When my older daughter and I went to Poland to bury my Dziadek, my family would chant this song and tickle her as well. After a couple of times, she would say "Again! Do the Idzie Rak! Proooooszeeeee!" It was amazing how quickly her words switched from all English to part Polish within that week because of simple rhymes like "Idzie Rak".
The complete rhyme is:
Idzie rak
idzie rak
czasem naprzód
czasem wspak.
Idzie rak
nieborak
jak ugryzie,
będzie znak!
Which translates to:
Here comes a crayfish (or a crayfish is walking)
Here comes a crayfish
Sometimes forward
sometimes backward
Here comes a crayfish
poor fellow
when he pinches you,
there will be a mark!
There are different small variations of this. Sometimes, instead of "nieborak", it is "nie borak" (not a beet), or "niebo rak" (heaven crayfish, which could be about the zodiac sign possibly). Sometimes, instead of "ugryzie", it is "uszczypnie" (stings you).
My family simply says the last four lines:
Idzie rak
nieborak
jak ugryzie,
będzie znak
I hope you enjoy this video I found (one of many online) of this rhyme.
Enjoy!
Related Post:
My Older Daughter's First Trip To Poland: Coming To Poland
When my older daughter and I went to Poland to bury my Dziadek, my family would chant this song and tickle her as well. After a couple of times, she would say "Again! Do the Idzie Rak! Proooooszeeeee!" It was amazing how quickly her words switched from all English to part Polish within that week because of simple rhymes like "Idzie Rak".
The complete rhyme is:
Idzie rak
idzie rak
czasem naprzód
czasem wspak.
Idzie rak
nieborak
jak ugryzie,
będzie znak!
Which translates to:
Here comes a crayfish (or a crayfish is walking)
Here comes a crayfish
Sometimes forward
sometimes backward
Here comes a crayfish
poor fellow
when he pinches you,
there will be a mark!
There are different small variations of this. Sometimes, instead of "nieborak", it is "nie borak" (not a beet), or "niebo rak" (heaven crayfish, which could be about the zodiac sign possibly). Sometimes, instead of "ugryzie", it is "uszczypnie" (stings you).
My family simply says the last four lines:
Idzie rak
nieborak
jak ugryzie,
będzie znak
I hope you enjoy this video I found (one of many online) of this rhyme.
Enjoy!
Related Post:
My Older Daughter's First Trip To Poland: Coming To Poland
12 July 2011
A Day on Lake Michigan Beach, Two Days Later Because of a Storm
Yesterday being Monday, I started writing about our day out Sunday on Lake Michigan, when our power was knocked out. Let's start in chronological order, shall we?
Sunday was a very hot and humid day north of Chicagoland. I believe the temperatures hit around 94 degrees Fahrenheit. By 8:30 am, when we were ready to leave the house and head to the beach, the inside of the house having already reached 82 degrees with the air conditioning set to 79 degrees.
We decided to take the drive to Lake Michigan and spend the day by the water, since it is always cooler there than inland naturally.
![]()
Sunscreen and sand had already ended up on the lens of the camera but the water was very clear, as usual.
![]()
![]()
Sand was all over everything.
![]()
Sunday was a very hot and humid day north of Chicagoland. I believe the temperatures hit around 94 degrees Fahrenheit. By 8:30 am, when we were ready to leave the house and head to the beach, the inside of the house having already reached 82 degrees with the air conditioning set to 79 degrees.
We decided to take the drive to Lake Michigan and spend the day by the water, since it is always cooler there than inland naturally.
Sunscreen and sand had already ended up on the lens of the camera but the water was very clear, as usual.
My husband took the girls out on our "boat" as yachts and sailboats by the tens of tens went by.
Sand was all over everything.
When we first arrived to the beach, we were all alone but around 11, people began arriving. Most were Polish, but some were Indian and American.
The sounds of the waves rushing onto the shore were peaceful while my toddler napped under the umbrella and my husband and preschooler went via "boat" to get our lunch from the car.
My mind wandered until I was swimming in the Baltic in my memories. My beautiful and funny cousins, brother, and Wujek were all playing in the waves with me. Transparent jellyfish swam all around, docile and sting free.
It was the year of the jellyfish.
My brother grabbed one and threw it against my head, exploding jellyfish everywhere. With anyone else, I would be angry and indignant. But this was my brother. And the jellyfish he grabbed was dying on the shore. Two could play that game.
The salty smells of the Baltic were missing on Sunday. But I could still imagine it as if it was yesterday, instead of over 15 years ago.
As I recalled Sunday, our power went out. A storm was coming.
Fifteen minutes prior, my father had called me, warning that a severe storm was coming my way. It was before 8 am and a black cloud was coming. I figured I had at least a half an hour to get everything done around the house. I sent the older daughter to go change out of pyjamas and changed the baby and myself into clothes. I put the cell phone and car keys in my pocket. I pulled out chicken from the freezer to cook later for dinner, loaded the dishwasher, went to grab the flashlights and planned to load a cooler with ice and some food, turn on the dishwasher, turn off the surge protector strips for the computer and television, and... The power turned off before I could.
A second later, the sirens wailed quietly. Three times and then were silent. The outside was black like night and the wind began. I thought "The sirens should keep wailing, what if I haden't heard it?" After all, I knew it was coming so I had kept an ear out for it, but what if someone else hadn't?
By now, the children knew what to do. We downstairs, closed the bathroom door and cowered with our flashlights. I had not gotten to eat breakfast yet and my hands shook. The weather radio was silent, telling me nothing. I listened instead to a local rock station, the only one to keep talking about updates with the storm and advising everyone to get to a small, windowless room on the bottom floor of a building.
I sent a text message to my husband, who was outside cleaning pools for work and to my father, letting them know where we were and that the sirens had gone off, that we were safe.
Above us, the house was being hit by hail and winds over 65 mph. Rain lashed the house and it sounded like the walls were creaking. After a couple minutes, I left the kids inside the bathroom and glanced out a window that was not in the direction of the wind. A piece of hail smashed against another window and I went back to the children. The toddler was repeatedly saying "Daddy. Outside? Dziadek. Outside?" and I tried to reassure them both that their Tato and Dziadek were at work inside a big strong safe building.
After a time, I went to check on the sump pump since the rain was coming down heavily and we had no power. I filled the large plastic empty kitty litter container 5 times, dumping it down the toilet, before the water was at a safe level.
After an hour, the station said the storm had passed. Thunder still rumbled above us but the rain had stopped.
The children ran around with their flashlights, eating cookies I gave them to hopefully make them think the situation hadn't been dangerous.
Inside, the temperatures rose to 86 degrees within minutes. It was only 9:15 am.
It was going to be a long day.
Before long, they both began to melt down and all I could do was offer them water, keep them downstairs where it was only 79 degrees for the moment, and feed them crackers and other dry foods from the pantry.
I checked the cloth diapers and realized we only had 4 left since I had 3 days worth of dirty diapers to wash. I ended up scrubbing them by hand in the bathtub, thinking all the while that my parents must have truly loved me to wash them everytime by hand like this with my diapers. I longed for modern conveniences. "Please, electricity, come back! Bring me back my dishwasher, my washing machine, air conditioning!"
Hours went by and my husband came home, opening the heavy garage door for me so that we could break free of the sweltering heat and drive to the library, praying it would be open and have air conditioning running. By then, the temperature inside was 91 degrees. Outside, the temperature was 95 degrees with no breeze and no shade. We had lost our shade tree week before.
Thankfully, the library was open. And everyone who was not at the beach was at the library. A couple of hours later, we went home where grilled chicken was being cooked and my father congratulated me on a job well done. "Two kids? In this heat with no electricity? You did good."
After dinner, I bathed the girls in cold water and they turned back from demons bent on destroying the Earth back to being my two giggling princesses. Pyjamas on and the electricity turned back on. A sigh of relief from all our lips and it was time for bed. Until 11 pm, when the toddler had a nightmare about her Daddy being outside and needing to be hugged all night by me.
All in all, we were lucky. Over 600,000 people (I even heard as many as 850,000 people) lost power. I hope you all stay safe and cool in this weather.
05 July 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: In the Mountains With Chickens
I had been writing about my older daughter's first trip to Poland when she was 3 years old in a sequential order but have decided at this point to just write about it as the memories come back to me.
We are in the mountains of Poland visiting my Wujek's property. My Wujek, Ciocia, my middle cousin with her husband and two children, youngest cousin and her boyfriend, my Tato (Father), my daughter and myself have been spending the day enjoying the day.
All around, trees whisper in the breezes and in the meadow, the grasses bend their stalks gently rippling in the summer air.
The slopes are calling us all quietly. It's time for a spacer (pronounced Spah-tser, and meaning walk in Polish).
My Ciocia, middle cousin, her daughters, one wrapped in a baby wearing wrap safely snuggled against Mama and the other holding my daughter's hand, and myself all start the walk up the road. The road is gravel covered and winding up the mountain.
We pass an old stone structure. It is a Kiln from ages ago used by the villagers further down the slopes. There is finally a plaque in Polish about it's history. My borrowed camera batteries fail as I attempt to take photos.
Walking on, we are embraced by shadows. The hazelnut and pine trees whisper to each other about the people walking in their midst. I tell my daughter to keep her eye out for Krasnolutki and other fairy folk that live in these ancient woods. Her eyes flit left and right in excitement, hoping to find some.
The girls chatter together, one in English, the other in Polish, as they have since they met each other, the adults walking together and just enjoying each other's company and laughing that the girls can communicate together since neither speaks the others language.
The true test of this will come soon, we are to find out.
After a short walk, both start getting tired but more so my daughter. She is very used to long nature walks but the 6 hour time difference is affecting her energy constantly. We turn around to walk back down the mountain.
A bit down the trail, coming out from the cool summer shadows, the girls look down the road and see chickens from the house next door walking around as is common. They both begin to run. And keep running.
I start yelling to my daughter, "Stop running! Slow down!" but she keeps running. I start to run after her but my pregnant belly moves strangely from the motion, uncomfortably, something hard bouncing around inside and I stop running immediately. I call again, "Stop running!" The girls keep running.
Further down the road, brown and white chickens roam freely, chasing bugs in the sunlight without a care in the world. They look as though from the many bajki I read as a child and the folk art drawings my mother always treasured.
"Chickens! Get out of there! Come on (cousin), we have to stop them!" my daughter calls.
My daughter's cousin calls the same words, in Polish.
Running. Running. We start walking quickly behind, by now all of us calling for them to stop. I start envisioning chickens attacking my daughter. Not that chickens are mean, but provoked who knows how they could react to two small running assailants like our children.
Both Dziadeks to the girls, my father and Wujek, come running out onto the road, looking around and finding the girls. They are quickly snatched up and lectured on running away from their mommies and asked why they did so.
A moment later, both "Dziadek"s are laughing loudly. Even though the girls don't speak the same language, their stories completely match up. They were trying to stop the naughty chickens from going into my Wujek's yard. For the next few minutes, the girls are treated to hugs and kisses from the adults and we all discuss how amazing children are to not speak the same language yet be able to think along the same paths and communicate so well.
My Wujek then tells of the time he battled the rooster next door. While I love chickens, he does not. But then, he was awoken by this rooster for several years and it regularly enjoyed patrolling his yard and causing more grief than a rooster has the right to cause.
The two girls walk over to the overgrown fence and yell at the chickens for trying to enter my Wujek's yard, both in English and Polish. The chickens argue back. Both girls flap their arms like chickens and attempt to speak in "Chicken" to them and an argument between the chickens and the two girls occurs. The girls end with a well timed "Buck buck!" and walk away, satisfied that they had lectured the chickens about trespassing into this yard.
The girls run around trees bordering the meadow, chasing each other and pretending to be wood fairies. And the mountains look on in their ancient wisdom at us.
Related Post: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: Coming to Poland
We are in the mountains of Poland visiting my Wujek's property. My Wujek, Ciocia, my middle cousin with her husband and two children, youngest cousin and her boyfriend, my Tato (Father), my daughter and myself have been spending the day enjoying the day.
All around, trees whisper in the breezes and in the meadow, the grasses bend their stalks gently rippling in the summer air.
The slopes are calling us all quietly. It's time for a spacer (pronounced Spah-tser, and meaning walk in Polish).
My Ciocia, middle cousin, her daughters, one wrapped in a baby wearing wrap safely snuggled against Mama and the other holding my daughter's hand, and myself all start the walk up the road. The road is gravel covered and winding up the mountain.
We pass an old stone structure. It is a Kiln from ages ago used by the villagers further down the slopes. There is finally a plaque in Polish about it's history. My borrowed camera batteries fail as I attempt to take photos.
Walking on, we are embraced by shadows. The hazelnut and pine trees whisper to each other about the people walking in their midst. I tell my daughter to keep her eye out for Krasnolutki and other fairy folk that live in these ancient woods. Her eyes flit left and right in excitement, hoping to find some.
The girls chatter together, one in English, the other in Polish, as they have since they met each other, the adults walking together and just enjoying each other's company and laughing that the girls can communicate together since neither speaks the others language.
The true test of this will come soon, we are to find out.
After a short walk, both start getting tired but more so my daughter. She is very used to long nature walks but the 6 hour time difference is affecting her energy constantly. We turn around to walk back down the mountain.
A bit down the trail, coming out from the cool summer shadows, the girls look down the road and see chickens from the house next door walking around as is common. They both begin to run. And keep running.
I start yelling to my daughter, "Stop running! Slow down!" but she keeps running. I start to run after her but my pregnant belly moves strangely from the motion, uncomfortably, something hard bouncing around inside and I stop running immediately. I call again, "Stop running!" The girls keep running.
Further down the road, brown and white chickens roam freely, chasing bugs in the sunlight without a care in the world. They look as though from the many bajki I read as a child and the folk art drawings my mother always treasured.
"Chickens! Get out of there! Come on (cousin), we have to stop them!" my daughter calls.
My daughter's cousin calls the same words, in Polish.
Running. Running. We start walking quickly behind, by now all of us calling for them to stop. I start envisioning chickens attacking my daughter. Not that chickens are mean, but provoked who knows how they could react to two small running assailants like our children.
Both Dziadeks to the girls, my father and Wujek, come running out onto the road, looking around and finding the girls. They are quickly snatched up and lectured on running away from their mommies and asked why they did so.
A moment later, both "Dziadek"s are laughing loudly. Even though the girls don't speak the same language, their stories completely match up. They were trying to stop the naughty chickens from going into my Wujek's yard. For the next few minutes, the girls are treated to hugs and kisses from the adults and we all discuss how amazing children are to not speak the same language yet be able to think along the same paths and communicate so well.
My Wujek then tells of the time he battled the rooster next door. While I love chickens, he does not. But then, he was awoken by this rooster for several years and it regularly enjoyed patrolling his yard and causing more grief than a rooster has the right to cause.
The two girls walk over to the overgrown fence and yell at the chickens for trying to enter my Wujek's yard, both in English and Polish. The chickens argue back. Both girls flap their arms like chickens and attempt to speak in "Chicken" to them and an argument between the chickens and the two girls occurs. The girls end with a well timed "Buck buck!" and walk away, satisfied that they had lectured the chickens about trespassing into this yard.
The girls run around trees bordering the meadow, chasing each other and pretending to be wood fairies. And the mountains look on in their ancient wisdom at us.
Related Post: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland: Coming to Poland
14 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip To Poland: Coming To Poland
The small plane came in for a landing and my daughter thought she could see her cousin on the ground (which she couldn't). We unbuckled and she told me that she couldn't wait to see Poland and her family. How she was so excited.
She grabbed her little red jacket, put on her black Maryjanes, her "Poland shoes" as she still calls them, her Care Bear who she had looking out the window with her before. Put back on the teddy bear book bag with leash, held my hand, turned to her Dziadek and said, "Dziadek, you're home!"
Turned around quickly to face the front of the plane, smiled brightly at the flight attendants, waved goodbye and proclaimed loudly in English, "My cousin is outside waiting to meet me! Isn't that cool?"
Down the steps, onto a standing shuttle, across the runway to the small airport, into a room that is the Wroclaw airport. Baggage claimed, paperwork in order, men dressed in Polish army attire whom I whispered in my daughter's ear that they were there protecting Poland, eyes wide, taking in the new surrounding.
The voices around spoke Polish everywhere. The air smelled different. Her fingers in mine, close to me but not scared.
A face was in the crowd, waving for a moment, smiling. Another and another. And I knew them and my heart leaped. I pointed them out to her, "That's your family."
"That's my family, Mommy? Really?" she whispered. And waved back, pulling against my hand to walk faster.
Embraces, kisses on cheeks, my father reunited with his brother. My cousins watching the two brothers hugging, the oldest was too young to remember my father, the others were not yet born when we left Poland so had never met him.
My daughter greeted everyone with a huge smile and hug. "You're my mommy's cousin? Wow! I never met any of her family except her Mommy and Daddy before!"
My cousins used the English they know with her and she jumped up and down, "You speak English and Polish? Wow! I don't know Polish but my Mommy does! But I want to!"
Walk outside, fresh air, the brothers lighting up cigarettes, my daughter chiding my father that they smell terrible.
A little girl in pink clutching her mommy's hand holding a large gift bag, staring. Introductions. "This is your cousin." My daughter can be overwhelming at times, wonderfully overwhelming. I can't blame the little girl for being nervous around it all. She's beautiful. I look at her, looking at every feature on her face, hoping the two girls become like sisters the way I am with my cousins.
Gifts exchanged, dolls clutched tight. Children cooed over by the adults.
Walking down the sidewalk, so different from the sidewalk back in the US, to the cars parked by gardens bursting with flowers, and off we went.
My daughter sat next to me in the van in a borrowed car seat and I asked, "So, what do you think of Poland so far?"
Arms thrown around my neck, whispered in my ear, "I love it! Thank you, Mommy! I can see why you miss it so much."
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, On the Plane and in Munich
She grabbed her little red jacket, put on her black Maryjanes, her "Poland shoes" as she still calls them, her Care Bear who she had looking out the window with her before. Put back on the teddy bear book bag with leash, held my hand, turned to her Dziadek and said, "Dziadek, you're home!"
Turned around quickly to face the front of the plane, smiled brightly at the flight attendants, waved goodbye and proclaimed loudly in English, "My cousin is outside waiting to meet me! Isn't that cool?"
Down the steps, onto a standing shuttle, across the runway to the small airport, into a room that is the Wroclaw airport. Baggage claimed, paperwork in order, men dressed in Polish army attire whom I whispered in my daughter's ear that they were there protecting Poland, eyes wide, taking in the new surrounding.
The voices around spoke Polish everywhere. The air smelled different. Her fingers in mine, close to me but not scared.
A face was in the crowd, waving for a moment, smiling. Another and another. And I knew them and my heart leaped. I pointed them out to her, "That's your family."
"That's my family, Mommy? Really?" she whispered. And waved back, pulling against my hand to walk faster.
Embraces, kisses on cheeks, my father reunited with his brother. My cousins watching the two brothers hugging, the oldest was too young to remember my father, the others were not yet born when we left Poland so had never met him.
My daughter greeted everyone with a huge smile and hug. "You're my mommy's cousin? Wow! I never met any of her family except her Mommy and Daddy before!"
My cousins used the English they know with her and she jumped up and down, "You speak English and Polish? Wow! I don't know Polish but my Mommy does! But I want to!"
Walk outside, fresh air, the brothers lighting up cigarettes, my daughter chiding my father that they smell terrible.
A little girl in pink clutching her mommy's hand holding a large gift bag, staring. Introductions. "This is your cousin." My daughter can be overwhelming at times, wonderfully overwhelming. I can't blame the little girl for being nervous around it all. She's beautiful. I look at her, looking at every feature on her face, hoping the two girls become like sisters the way I am with my cousins.
Gifts exchanged, dolls clutched tight. Children cooed over by the adults.
Walking down the sidewalk, so different from the sidewalk back in the US, to the cars parked by gardens bursting with flowers, and off we went.
My daughter sat next to me in the van in a borrowed car seat and I asked, "So, what do you think of Poland so far?"
Arms thrown around my neck, whispered in my ear, "I love it! Thank you, Mommy! I can see why you miss it so much."
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, On the Plane and in Munich
10 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, On the Plane and in Munich
The plane raised through the air and my older daughter grinned from the strange feeling, telling me loudly how exciting it was. She looked at the windows and all we could see were dark clouds and lightening flashing all around us. The wings of the plane were not visible.
"Mommy! Are we in the clouds?" she asked in disbelief. "Look, look, everyone! We are in the clouds! I wonder if we'll see Angels! Or God!"
When the pilot spoke over the intercom next, among the topics he discussed were that we would be experiencing turbulence for a while so it best would be to remained buckled in our chairs whenever we are not standing.
I took my daughter to the bathroom where she gushed over the small space and how strange everything was. And that she was "very unhappy" that I had a pair of disposable pull ups on her but I told her that I knew she was a big girl and that she knew how to use the potty since she was 1 1/2 but because the flight would be stressful and sometimes we might wait a long time to use a bathroom, I had them on her just in case so that if she did have an accident, nobody would know. She nodded seriously and told me that she needed "my privacy to use the bathroom, Mommy."
We hit a patch of turbulence and she squealed in the bathroom but bravely did her business, washed her hands and walked with me to our seats.
We buckled her back in, a flight attendant double checked that she was buckled, gave us an extra pillow and blanket for her and suggested that we remove her shoes. She also gave my daughter a coloring book, coloring pencils, a children's menu, and a puzzle, all of which she still has in a special box filled with her Poland souvenirs.
After a while of playing with headphones, pillows, singing, watching the television, and coloring, our meals came and she was not happy about spaghetti but I told her this was German spaghetti, it's very different, with a whisper and a wink. She tried it, hated it and ate the rest of her meal and some of mine and her Dziadek's.
Nap time came, lights were dimmed, windows closed and she stretched out, her head on her Dziadek's leg and her feet on me. She fell asleep happily but at one point, pushed her Dziadek and told him "Dziadek. You are in my space. This is my space. Where I am laying. And you are in it, I need you to move, please.," very seriously. A short quarrel interrupted while my cigarette craving father laughed and told her she was in his space and she completely disagreed. She finally settled on switching positions so that her feet were on her Dziadek. But then, later, woke up to tell him again. Frankly, the seriousness of her voice was too funny to be angry about.
And, considering the girl across the aisle from us was 5 years old, peed on her father, and started yelling for milk in her bottle in the middle of take off, I had to be proud of my little "gypsy" daughter. We ended up giving the father of the other girl a pair of Pull ups, which he accepted.
My daughter looked at me and asked in a whisper "why the big girl had pee peed on her Daddy" and I told her that flying is hard for kids and that all we can do is just try and stay calm. She smiled sleepily at me and said, "I love flying," before drifting off to sleep again.
We arrived an hour late in Munich. When we got off the plane, she told each of the crew goodbye and told them "Thank you so much! I mean, Dziekujem!" By this point, many of them knew her name and wished her a wonderful trip.
We ended up missing our connection flight by 15 minutes. But we were very happy with how Lufthansa handled it. We raced through the airport from one end to the other with a 3 year old who's "legs were
still sleeping" and who giggled uncontrollably as her Dziadek grabbed her by her teddy bear book bag and picked her up and carried her for a bit. Some people gave us dirty looks as we held onto her leash and carried her first in my arms or by the book bag by Dziadek or walking tiredly between us, but frankly, they were not in our shoes.
We made it to the next terminal 5 minutes too late. But the staff was very understanding, assuring us that they knew we could not have made it, as had the staff on the plane when we arrived. We were to take our connection flight 4 hours later. and they gave us each vouchers for 10 Euros at a restaurant in the airport. Which I mistook for 70, forgetting that in Europe they cross their "7"'s, just like I do, but I was tired and stressed.
The staff allowed us to use a telephone they had for situations just like this to our family telling them know about the flight change. Using the vouchers we were given, we found a restaurant with antlers, wooden decor, and women dressed in traditional German attire. My daughter couldn't believe she was in Germany and told the lady how pretty she looked in her outfit.
Weinerschnitzel and french fries were ordered for her and she devoured almost the entire adult sized plate, leaving the french fries because the "German chicken nugget is so good, Mommy!" My first sign that she would love the food in Poland without question.
We sat around, enjoying carrot salads, soups, frankfurters, and other foods I had grown up loving and missed terribly.
The airport had a glass ceiling with a fabric which was adjusted to either block or let in the sun and she marveled at it. She asked the waitress a lot of great questions about Germany.
In the bathroom, she asked why there was foaming antibacterial hand sanitizer in each stall. I explained how the instructions showed to use it, first you put some on a piece of toilet paper, then you wiped the seat clean, use the bathroom, then wiped it clean with the foam and toilet paper again. She asked more questions about why the bathrooms had different signs for men and women and I told her it was the international sign for that, and that in the US it was just different from the rest of the world.
She also asked why the walls were all tiled and the tiles were shaped different, and why the towel for wiping your hands dry were different. It was actually on a roll and you would wipe your hands dry, then pull and it would go to a new dry spot. There was a lot of discussion in that bathroom, more than I think I have ever had with her in a bathroom before or since. And I think that is when she realized how different it really is in America.
Finally, it was our time to catch our flight. We were put on a standing shuttle to an airplane that she said was so small, "it looks like a toy, Mommy! It's so cute!"
We went into the small airplane, where she and I again buckled in with a pillow between our bellies and the seat belt. This time, she had the window seat and watched, with her nose pressed against the glass, the beautiful countryside underneath her. When we were flying over Wroclaw, I pointed it out to her. "That's the city Mommy was born in. That's Wroclaw."
She gushed over how beautiful it was. "Mommy! It looks like a fairy tale!"
The plane landed and I turned to her and said, "Welcome to Poland, baby."
She smiled and whispered, "Poland." Then waved her arms and said, "I'm so excited, Mommy! Hey, Dziadek, we're in Poland! Where you and my Mommy are from!"
To be continued...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
"Mommy! Are we in the clouds?" she asked in disbelief. "Look, look, everyone! We are in the clouds! I wonder if we'll see Angels! Or God!"
When the pilot spoke over the intercom next, among the topics he discussed were that we would be experiencing turbulence for a while so it best would be to remained buckled in our chairs whenever we are not standing.
I took my daughter to the bathroom where she gushed over the small space and how strange everything was. And that she was "very unhappy" that I had a pair of disposable pull ups on her but I told her that I knew she was a big girl and that she knew how to use the potty since she was 1 1/2 but because the flight would be stressful and sometimes we might wait a long time to use a bathroom, I had them on her just in case so that if she did have an accident, nobody would know. She nodded seriously and told me that she needed "my privacy to use the bathroom, Mommy."
We hit a patch of turbulence and she squealed in the bathroom but bravely did her business, washed her hands and walked with me to our seats.
We buckled her back in, a flight attendant double checked that she was buckled, gave us an extra pillow and blanket for her and suggested that we remove her shoes. She also gave my daughter a coloring book, coloring pencils, a children's menu, and a puzzle, all of which she still has in a special box filled with her Poland souvenirs.
After a while of playing with headphones, pillows, singing, watching the television, and coloring, our meals came and she was not happy about spaghetti but I told her this was German spaghetti, it's very different, with a whisper and a wink. She tried it, hated it and ate the rest of her meal and some of mine and her Dziadek's.
Nap time came, lights were dimmed, windows closed and she stretched out, her head on her Dziadek's leg and her feet on me. She fell asleep happily but at one point, pushed her Dziadek and told him "Dziadek. You are in my space. This is my space. Where I am laying. And you are in it, I need you to move, please.," very seriously. A short quarrel interrupted while my cigarette craving father laughed and told her she was in his space and she completely disagreed. She finally settled on switching positions so that her feet were on her Dziadek. But then, later, woke up to tell him again. Frankly, the seriousness of her voice was too funny to be angry about.
And, considering the girl across the aisle from us was 5 years old, peed on her father, and started yelling for milk in her bottle in the middle of take off, I had to be proud of my little "gypsy" daughter. We ended up giving the father of the other girl a pair of Pull ups, which he accepted.
My daughter looked at me and asked in a whisper "why the big girl had pee peed on her Daddy" and I told her that flying is hard for kids and that all we can do is just try and stay calm. She smiled sleepily at me and said, "I love flying," before drifting off to sleep again.
We arrived an hour late in Munich. When we got off the plane, she told each of the crew goodbye and told them "Thank you so much! I mean, Dziekujem!" By this point, many of them knew her name and wished her a wonderful trip.
We ended up missing our connection flight by 15 minutes. But we were very happy with how Lufthansa handled it. We raced through the airport from one end to the other with a 3 year old who's "legs were
still sleeping" and who giggled uncontrollably as her Dziadek grabbed her by her teddy bear book bag and picked her up and carried her for a bit. Some people gave us dirty looks as we held onto her leash and carried her first in my arms or by the book bag by Dziadek or walking tiredly between us, but frankly, they were not in our shoes.
We made it to the next terminal 5 minutes too late. But the staff was very understanding, assuring us that they knew we could not have made it, as had the staff on the plane when we arrived. We were to take our connection flight 4 hours later. and they gave us each vouchers for 10 Euros at a restaurant in the airport. Which I mistook for 70, forgetting that in Europe they cross their "7"'s, just like I do, but I was tired and stressed.
The staff allowed us to use a telephone they had for situations just like this to our family telling them know about the flight change. Using the vouchers we were given, we found a restaurant with antlers, wooden decor, and women dressed in traditional German attire. My daughter couldn't believe she was in Germany and told the lady how pretty she looked in her outfit.
Weinerschnitzel and french fries were ordered for her and she devoured almost the entire adult sized plate, leaving the french fries because the "German chicken nugget is so good, Mommy!" My first sign that she would love the food in Poland without question.
We sat around, enjoying carrot salads, soups, frankfurters, and other foods I had grown up loving and missed terribly.
The airport had a glass ceiling with a fabric which was adjusted to either block or let in the sun and she marveled at it. She asked the waitress a lot of great questions about Germany.
In the bathroom, she asked why there was foaming antibacterial hand sanitizer in each stall. I explained how the instructions showed to use it, first you put some on a piece of toilet paper, then you wiped the seat clean, use the bathroom, then wiped it clean with the foam and toilet paper again. She asked more questions about why the bathrooms had different signs for men and women and I told her it was the international sign for that, and that in the US it was just different from the rest of the world.
She also asked why the walls were all tiled and the tiles were shaped different, and why the towel for wiping your hands dry were different. It was actually on a roll and you would wipe your hands dry, then pull and it would go to a new dry spot. There was a lot of discussion in that bathroom, more than I think I have ever had with her in a bathroom before or since. And I think that is when she realized how different it really is in America.
Finally, it was our time to catch our flight. We were put on a standing shuttle to an airplane that she said was so small, "it looks like a toy, Mommy! It's so cute!"
We went into the small airplane, where she and I again buckled in with a pillow between our bellies and the seat belt. This time, she had the window seat and watched, with her nose pressed against the glass, the beautiful countryside underneath her. When we were flying over Wroclaw, I pointed it out to her. "That's the city Mommy was born in. That's Wroclaw."
She gushed over how beautiful it was. "Mommy! It looks like a fairy tale!"
The plane landed and I turned to her and said, "Welcome to Poland, baby."
She smiled and whispered, "Poland." Then waved her arms and said, "I'm so excited, Mommy! Hey, Dziadek, we're in Poland! Where you and my Mommy are from!"
To be continued...
Related Posts:
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
08 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Wordless Wednesday
The picture with the first word my older daughter ever read besides her name...
The picture she points to, beaming with pride when people ask if we are Polish, "Yes, my Mommy is! See? I'm Polish, TOO!"...
The picture a friend bought in a yard sale for 50 cents many years ago, thinking of me, which was a bit torn and which my now husband framed in a cheap IKEA frame and hung on our wall...
The picture which which dominates and dictates our house and decor...
The picture she would point to when people would ask where she was getting ready to go, "Where my Mommy was born! POLAND! See? P-O-L-A-N-D! Poland! She's from (looks at me quickly) Wroclaw (with an adorable attempt to roll her "R" and her "V" sounds coming out as "F"'s.)."...
Where we were about to fly to, alone together, to bury my Dziadek...
The pictures on each side represent various "legends" from Poland, the people dressed in traditional regional costume, the card from my cousin which originally held a Wigilia wafer so that we could break it together and be closer to them in spirit during Christmas...
To Be Continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
The picture she points to, beaming with pride when people ask if we are Polish, "Yes, my Mommy is! See? I'm Polish, TOO!"...
The picture a friend bought in a yard sale for 50 cents many years ago, thinking of me, which was a bit torn and which my now husband framed in a cheap IKEA frame and hung on our wall...
The picture which which dominates and dictates our house and decor...
The picture she would point to when people would ask where she was getting ready to go, "Where my Mommy was born! POLAND! See? P-O-L-A-N-D! Poland! She's from (looks at me quickly) Wroclaw (with an adorable attempt to roll her "R" and her "V" sounds coming out as "F"'s.)."...
Where we were about to fly to, alone together, to bury my Dziadek...
The pictures on each side represent various "legends" from Poland, the people dressed in traditional regional costume, the card from my cousin which originally held a Wigilia wafer so that we could break it together and be closer to them in spirit during Christmas...
To Be Continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
07 June 2011
My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, The Planning
My older daughter was then 3 years old when my Dziadek passed away from a heart attack. I was pregnant with my second daughter and was just out of my first trimester. It was time to visit Poland and take her on her first trip to the place her mother always talked about.
Time to visit my birth country.
And time to bury a family member.
My husband had to work and couldn't take a vacation. Also, because we were buying tickets last minute, along with having to file for her first passport ever, we were in a time crunch and had to pay an exorbitant amount for our tickets and expedite the passport.
For her passport, I braided her hair into two plaits, which she proclaimed made her look like a "little Polish girl" as she smiled in the mirror and looked at her reflection. This was not the first time I had styled her hair this way.
At the post office, she was so proud strolling in to be getting a passport, that she announced to everyone present "My mommy's Dziadek died so I need a passport please so we can go to POLAND!" She stayed perfectly still as the woman took her photo. The first photo, she looked last second in my direction, pride on her face and my heart burst. The woman gave me the photo to keep since "her expression was so precious" but had to be looking straight ahead for the passport.
When we left the post office, every employee at the front desk had by then heard her story and was waving goodbye to us and wishing her luck. She waved goodbye to everyone and skipped to the car, holding my hand.
This moment was precious and I needed it as I was mourning the loss of my Dziadek.
I went through my maternity clothes and saw yellows, flowers, pinks and decidedly not-for-a-funeral clothing. This also required a trip to the maternity store to snatch up whatever blacks I could find.
Can I say I do not wear black? Others can wear it. But I have learned something about myself as I have gotten older. I don't look quite "right" in black. Maybe it's the color against my medium blonde hair. Maybe it's the fact that I don't exactly ooze black clad martini sipping designer handbag socialite but instead seem more natural in "bohemian peasant" style clothing. Maybe it's because I don't style my hair. It is straight and if you try to do anything with it, it doesn't seem to want to cooperate. So, I keep it clean, brushed and parted straight. So, black does not go well with my "aura", if you will.
But for a funeral, what do you wear? Black, of course.
This was June and the only clothing on the racks were for overheated pregnant moms who were sweating even in air conditioning in June. In Poland, the week I went? It was cold.
After spending money for funeral appropriate maternity clothing, we had to pack my daughter's bag. Her obsession at the time was Disney Princess t-shirts, the color purple and bright sparkles. Again, not funeral attire. In Poland, and I would imagine in the US as well, you especially do not wear purple to a funeral.
Of course, children her age are exempt from having to wear black head to toe. But still. Sparkles and Princesses don't fly. Another trip to the store and we bought her a navy blue skirt, 2 pair of Capri chinos in black and brown, 4 peasant style shirts in brown, navy blue, black and white, a red button coat which screamed "adorable girl from Europe", black Maryjane's to match Mama, and a navy blue long sleeve shirt. Just in case. Thank goodness I thought of the just in case.
Toys were purchased for my cousin's children which I couldn't wait to give to them. My daughter kept pulling them out and staring at the Sleeping Beauty doll asking about her cousins' names and any details I could give them. She couldn't wait to meet them.
The trip total cost us over $3,000 for the two of us with all expenses.
I started panicking between all the rushed planning that I had not taught my daughter Polish. She knew a few safety words in Polish and how to express love and affection and a song. How was this going to work? How was she going to play with my cousin's children?
In the meantime, my daughter was telling everyone she saw, even strangers, that she was going to visit "the country my Mommy is from! POLAND!" with such squeaks of joy, I couldn't understand it.
I stressed that there would be no macaroni and cheese, no chicken nuggets and french fries, nothing she was used to on a daily basis. And that she would eat whatever people gave her because it would be rude otherwise. Eye widened at this information, she would nod and say "Yes, Mommy."
In my stomach, butterflies were turning while the baby was beginning her first signs of movement inside me.
A teddy bear book bag with leash was purchased. I received strange and often disapproving looks as we carried it to the register and purchased it. Look, stare, and judge however people wanted to, I was going to be a pregnant Mama on my own with my child travelling from Washington, D.C.'s Dulles airport to Munich, Germany to Wroclaw, Poland. To bury my Dziadek.
It turned out, there was nothing to worry about....
To be continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
Time to visit my birth country.
And time to bury a family member.
My husband had to work and couldn't take a vacation. Also, because we were buying tickets last minute, along with having to file for her first passport ever, we were in a time crunch and had to pay an exorbitant amount for our tickets and expedite the passport.
For her passport, I braided her hair into two plaits, which she proclaimed made her look like a "little Polish girl" as she smiled in the mirror and looked at her reflection. This was not the first time I had styled her hair this way.
At the post office, she was so proud strolling in to be getting a passport, that she announced to everyone present "My mommy's Dziadek died so I need a passport please so we can go to POLAND!" She stayed perfectly still as the woman took her photo. The first photo, she looked last second in my direction, pride on her face and my heart burst. The woman gave me the photo to keep since "her expression was so precious" but had to be looking straight ahead for the passport.
When we left the post office, every employee at the front desk had by then heard her story and was waving goodbye to us and wishing her luck. She waved goodbye to everyone and skipped to the car, holding my hand.
This moment was precious and I needed it as I was mourning the loss of my Dziadek.
I went through my maternity clothes and saw yellows, flowers, pinks and decidedly not-for-a-funeral clothing. This also required a trip to the maternity store to snatch up whatever blacks I could find.
Can I say I do not wear black? Others can wear it. But I have learned something about myself as I have gotten older. I don't look quite "right" in black. Maybe it's the color against my medium blonde hair. Maybe it's the fact that I don't exactly ooze black clad martini sipping designer handbag socialite but instead seem more natural in "bohemian peasant" style clothing. Maybe it's because I don't style my hair. It is straight and if you try to do anything with it, it doesn't seem to want to cooperate. So, I keep it clean, brushed and parted straight. So, black does not go well with my "aura", if you will.
But for a funeral, what do you wear? Black, of course.
This was June and the only clothing on the racks were for overheated pregnant moms who were sweating even in air conditioning in June. In Poland, the week I went? It was cold.
After spending money for funeral appropriate maternity clothing, we had to pack my daughter's bag. Her obsession at the time was Disney Princess t-shirts, the color purple and bright sparkles. Again, not funeral attire. In Poland, and I would imagine in the US as well, you especially do not wear purple to a funeral.
Of course, children her age are exempt from having to wear black head to toe. But still. Sparkles and Princesses don't fly. Another trip to the store and we bought her a navy blue skirt, 2 pair of Capri chinos in black and brown, 4 peasant style shirts in brown, navy blue, black and white, a red button coat which screamed "adorable girl from Europe", black Maryjane's to match Mama, and a navy blue long sleeve shirt. Just in case. Thank goodness I thought of the just in case.
Toys were purchased for my cousin's children which I couldn't wait to give to them. My daughter kept pulling them out and staring at the Sleeping Beauty doll asking about her cousins' names and any details I could give them. She couldn't wait to meet them.
The trip total cost us over $3,000 for the two of us with all expenses.
I started panicking between all the rushed planning that I had not taught my daughter Polish. She knew a few safety words in Polish and how to express love and affection and a song. How was this going to work? How was she going to play with my cousin's children?
In the meantime, my daughter was telling everyone she saw, even strangers, that she was going to visit "the country my Mommy is from! POLAND!" with such squeaks of joy, I couldn't understand it.
I stressed that there would be no macaroni and cheese, no chicken nuggets and french fries, nothing she was used to on a daily basis. And that she would eat whatever people gave her because it would be rude otherwise. Eye widened at this information, she would nod and say "Yes, Mommy."
In my stomach, butterflies were turning while the baby was beginning her first signs of movement inside me.
A teddy bear book bag with leash was purchased. I received strange and often disapproving looks as we carried it to the register and purchased it. Look, stare, and judge however people wanted to, I was going to be a pregnant Mama on my own with my child travelling from Washington, D.C.'s Dulles airport to Munich, Germany to Wroclaw, Poland. To bury my Dziadek.
It turned out, there was nothing to worry about....
To be continued...
Related Articles: My Older Daughter's First Trip to Poland, Our Departure
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)