Them

"Oh, what a noisy little toy," said my mother in law as she critically inspected the new singing radio my son has been playing with for the past hour."Where did you get it?"
"My mother sent it over."
"Oh. Them."
Them. As if they were aliens from outer space.
--------------

Them. Coming from a culture where fourth cousins once removed are considered extended family, I find it endlessly curious that my German family has never met my Filipino family, and never the twain shall meet. They don't even speak the same language. While my family speaks English, Thomas's family, except for Thomas and his oldest brother, doesn't. That they don't even consider themselves related boggles my mind. My German family may visit the Philippines, but don't like the USA, being the good GDR relics they are. But they don't consider my relatives in the US as their relatives.

Ok, My paternal side of the family don't exactly get along or associate with the maternal side, but still, they know each other. Sometimes I fantasize what would happen if my brother in law meets my brother. They were born in the same year, but they couldn't be any more different. This disconnect makes me think, does six degrees of separation really apply here? Because these are two completely different worlds. I have managed to adjust to life in Germany. How will they find the Filipino life? Do they even think that they are somehow related to my kin?
---------------

Anyway, I've been thinking about this lately because my mother in law is taking my son and Thomas on holiday without me. She is paying for them both. I am fine with this, though I have a feeling that Mother and son kind of feel a bit guilty not taking me along. Thomas said that it is only fair, since I have spent two months of last year visiting my family without him. Fair enough.

While I am grateful that I will get a week's worth of a good night's sleep after 14 months, A part of me wonders if I am considered family. Or am I as expendable as my side, easily pushed out of their minds?

Ants in the Pants

My mom and I were talking on the phone when she told me about how bothered my sister was over an SMS my sister read in my niece's phone. If you're weirded out as to why my sister was snooping around her daugher's phone, you have to understand that we come from a very paranoid and neurotic family. My mother could have been a Stasi spy, I swear.

"She read that Christen was texting a male classmate about the love scene in the Twilight movie!"

"So what ma, that is no big deal."

"No big deal?!"

I have to say though that my views on sexuality is very liberal for Filipino standards, they always have been.

"I guess I'm too German already," I said as an explanation. "Kids as early as 12 get to see sex scenes in movies at school."

"But she's only 10!"

"But see, that's the reason why they lose ther virginity at age 12!"

I remember thinking back to the time when I promised myself that this would never happen to my child. I still find the thought disturbing, but now I am a bit more...open-minded.

"Well that's not true for everybody here. That still depends on upbringing. Thomas did not lose his virginity at age 12. In fact, he was a late-bloomer. Besides, what's better, sex at 12, or teenaged pregnancy?"

My mom was silent, because I hit a nerve. "She just doesn't want her daughter to end up like her, you know."

That's what I find ridiculous about the hypocrisy going on. My sister throws a fit when a commercial even shows a whiff of immorality when her life is as unorthodox as it comes. I understand where she's coming from though. I guess my family is not yet ready for sex-ed.

Another friend of mine, also a Filipina, is incredulous that her 15-year old stepdaughter is desperate to lose her virginity. Their relationship resembles the mom and daughter in Forty Year-old Virgin. "Hello, that's normal! She's fifteen! Don't you remember the time when you just wanted to get it over with? I certainly do."

The German lassez-faire approach to teen sexuality appeals to me because I believe that teens are gonna fool around, there's nothing I can do to stop it, and I'd rather that they'd do it in a way that is safe for everybody involved.

Get back to me in 13 years though.

Potty Training and Socialism

Ask an East German about the GDR, especially those who are not exactly adapting to capitalist life so well, and s/he will most likely get defensive about how much better everything is "in former times."

Do you know that when four month old babies were shipped off to day care during the GDR, they were potty trained at the tender age of eight months? No, I am not kidding. After recess, they were all made to sit on a communal potty trench, very much like the communal outhouse huts in China I remember reading about. They were not allowed to go until they were done with business.

I have nothing against this method. Whatever floats your boat, I say. I was shocked when I was told of this, when I read about it, since I am pretty sure my parents started us off at the two year mark, if I remember my brother's potty training correctly. I've read that while kids can be trained to take a crap at such a young age, it is more a matter of "catching the right moment" and conditioning them to move the poop when they feel the toilet seat under them than free will. Of course avoiding diaper rash and washing all those dirty diapers is a good thing, but I would like to wait until my baby says he is ready.

Anyhow, MIL is trying to convince me that Antonio is ready for potty training. "I trained my kids to go to the potty as soon as they can stand." she says. Yesterday, I let Antonio hang in the breeze while I was running his bath. The pedia says that a baby should hang diaperless for a few hours a day to avoid diaper rash. He managed to shit on the carpet in these two diaperless minutes after marinating in his pee for four hours! MIL says that this is Antonio's way of signaling that he likes doing his business WITHOUT his diapers on. I think this is a one-time freak occurence. Parents of the world, when did you start potty training your kids, and why did you decide to do it when you did it?

While You Were Sleeping

I am a worry wart.

I listen to parents tell me to "enjoy my child," things go by so fast.

And they do.

Antonio, within a span of a few days, was able to sit up on his own, then prop himself up to a standing position. At his pace, I'll be a grandma in a few weeks.

Sure, he is a pain in the ass sometimes, but I don't mind, as long as he's still a baby.

For this reason, I am so glad that I live in a country that lets me savor these few precious moments with my baby.

Sometimes, I catch myself thinking, like Emily Webb, stop, it's all going by too fast.

The Times, They Are a'-Changin

I was in the supermarket today when a cute guy passed by. College-aged, probably a student at the university.

Hmm, how cute! He could be Antonio...

I caught myself in mid-thought. Stop!

When did I start to think of cute guys as my son's future self instead of potential sexual partners?

When did I turn into such a...mom?!

Logging Off

I've been quite busy these past few days, correcting a thesis and preparing for my trip to the US. I am not so excited nor anxious about this trip. I see this more as an obligation since my parents haven't seen the little one yet.

Pardon me if things are slow around here.

Marunong ka bang Mag-Tagalog?

I met a Filipina in the supermarket last Thursday, and we chatted for a good hour, catching up on each other's lives. I told her that I am looking for a Tagalog-speaking baby sitter for Antonio, in the hopes that he would pick up the language. She looked at me strangely and said that Tagalog was an "unnecessary," language, because everybody speaks English in the Philippines anyway.

This, in my opinion, is a very provincial German, and sad to say, a Filipino perspective. The German concept of "überflussige Sprachen" has always annoyed me. My husband thinks the same, and has discouraged me from speaking Tagalog to Antonio. As I have mentioned before, his best friend's parents bungled up their attempt to teach Greek, German, and English to him, which gave Thomas a bit of a phobia.

The ironic thing about Filipinos is that except for the Tagalogs, the average Filipino is effectively trilingual. Most Filipinos speak their regional language (for example, I cannot understand Cebuano to save my soul), Tagalog, and English. But when Filipinos emigrate, you would be hard-pressed to find a family that passes on the language to their children. We are so willing to assimilate into our new environment, we want to get along with our neighbors so much, there isn't even any special effort in the US to market their products to Fil-Ams, even if they are the second largest ethnic group in many US States.

Fil-Ams - impossible to classify

To begin with, Filipinos are caught in some form of marketing limbo. Even the US government sometimes identifies "Filipinos" as an ethnic group apart from Asians, as if we were not from Asia. Being relatively proficient in English, we are also considered "fully assimilated" and, therefore, do not require dedicated advertising and promotions campaigns...
Even the number of Filipinos in the US has been uncertain. Because the 2000 US census, for the first time, drew a distinction between the "single race" and "bi-racial/multi-racial" population, demographers often tend to pick the single race figure when citing the official number of Filipinos in the US. What is not fully appreciated is that Filipinos are predominantly multi-racial because of centuries of contact and intermarriage with people from around Asia, the Middle East, Europe and the Americas. In fact, the Philippines is, quite likely, the only other country with an ethnic mix like the United States, with racial strains markedly Malayan, Spanish, Mexican and Chinese.

Anyhow, I believe that being in a strongly monolingual environment is not conducive to raising a bilingual, or trilingual child. I was raised bilingual, and did not learn Tagalog until I was three, but I picked up the language so quickly that I also consider Tagalog my mother tongue. I think that is the reason why it didn't work for Thomas's friend, but it worked out for me, and many other kids that I met in Barcelona.

Now, what does this language exclusion of Filipino do to immigrant children?

I have met a number of very conflicted second generation Fil-Ams, just like Augusto in the No Reservations episode featured on this blog. Some have embraced their Filipino legacy, some are disappointed by returning to the "motherland," expecting to find themselves. I met a third generation Fil-Am who considered herself American, and rejected adopting Filipino as a part of her identity, just acknowledging it as part of her heritage. I'm cool with that. I can't expect her to identify herself with a country to which she has tenuous relations.

What I'm not cool with is that almost all of the Filipinas in my area have not passed on their language to their children. Which is to me a very sad thing. A central part of Philippine cuisine is dried fried fish, an acquired taste I admit. But I love it. In one of our gatherings, the son of the Filipina in the supermarket remarked in German, let's get out of here, they're cooking that "stinkenden asiatischen Zeug."

I do not want my son to call fried fish "stinkenden asiatischen Zeug." I don't want him to not be able to speak to his cousins. I want him to be proud that he is Filipino and German. I want him to be able to identify as both. I know it will be hard for him, since he isn't Filipino, but not German, either. He doesn't have the benefit of looking like he belongs, something that Thomas and I took for granted growing up.

I don't want him to grow up confused, but what is better, growing up not knowing a part of you, or growing up conflicted because your inter-national heritage? He will end up confused whichever path we take as parents. He may ultimately reject being Filipino when he grows up, but at least I am giving my son a choice.

Dodging Bullets

There are times when the the universe places people at the right place at the right time.

Thomas needed to go on a business trip which he scheduled a week after the baby's due date. This was very important for him and for our future, I knew. Both of us didn't want to spend the day he was gone alone, nor did I want to spend it at either of my in-laws. FIL was packing, he was going on vacation. I didn't really want to disturb him. Besides, I wouldn't classify our relationship as warm. MIL...well you know that story. So I said I was coming along. We went to the hospital. The midwife said that she wouldn't travel in my shoes, but if I felt well enough to go on a 6 hour trip, it was my decision. CTG scan was normal, I felt fine. We looked for possible hospitals along the way in case I go into labor. On our printed list was the Landes-Frauen-und-Kinderklinik which was near our destination, a small town near Linz.

Thomas slipped and told his mom. His mom freaked and tried to convince me not to go and it would be better if I would stay at home, alone. She brought me to tears, painting all sorts of worst-case scenarios. She offered to either stay with me, the thought of which I just found odious, or that I stay in her apartment in Jena, a one bedroom construction site. I said no. She called her other son, and her sister, in an effort to snowball pressure to get me to stay that one day. "I tell you, you will give birth in some Kaff in the middle of nowhere, and that is the most dangerous thing you can do for the baby!"

She successfully was able to insert doubts into my mind on whether this was the right thing to do. But I didn't want to spend the day alone, a week after my due date, nor did I want my meddling MIL nor my cold FIL at my side at the deilvery room. I wanted my husband. So I went.

The six hour drive was uneventful. We had dinner with the man my husband wanted to do business with. Then we went to bed.

I started feeling contractions at 4 am. I thought they were another false alarm, so I thought nothing of it. I went to the bathroom and saw that I was bleeding.

"Thomas. I am bleeding. We need to go to the hospital."
Groggily, he told me to relax. Spotting could mean anything to now up to two days. So I should go back to bed.

But the contractions started getting stronger, I was sure that this was it. Thomas, so stupid, left the car keys with his colleague, whose room number he didn't know. So we left the hotel at 6 and got to the hospital at 630. I was lying at the back of the car the entire 30 minute drive, howling, screaming, cursing at Thomas.

We got to the hospital, and was hooked to a CTG. Man, is labor a bitch. I was barking orders, being a general bitch. It all looked like a textbook birth. I was either lying on my back or on my side the entire time, so one of the nurses told me to go for a walk or sit down, saying that this would make the contraction less painful (as if!).

Forty five minutes later, as they were about to remove the CTG machine sensors, the machine started beeping. On the roll of paper coming out of the machine was one of the scariest things I've ever seen in my life: From 140 beats per minute, the jagged line just went one direction: down. To 60 BPM. With a snap of a finger, the mood shifted, right out of a scene from E.R. I saw the helplessness and fear etched in Thomas's face as three people descended upon me to prep me for an emergency C-Section. I didn't really know what was happening, I was confused, it didn't dawn on me that I was in the middle of an emergency.

The doctor jabbed a stick into the infusion thing they stuck to the back of my right hand, and my heart started to race. "Mein Herz! Mein Herz! Es rasst!" I shouted.
"Das ist gegen die wehen," the doctor explained, as I was being transported to the Operating Room with a gurney. "Wir mussen eine Notoperation machen, das Baby ist in Gefahr."

"Kann ich nichts dagegen tun? Kann ich nichts etwas machen?" I pleaded, but my questions fell on deaf ears as they lifted me on the the table with a 3, 2, 1. I started shaking involuntarily. "Warum zittere ich?! Warum zittere ich?! Agh, ich hab einen Krampfader in meinem rechten Fuß!"

In the midst of all this, all I could think of was thank God I spoke German. A man in a green operating face mask appeared above me and asked me for my weight and height. Then another person in a mask put a breathing apparatus over my face and asked me to breathe deeply. Then again.

The next thing I remember is another face, this time a woman, above me. Two hours have passed, said the clock. She told me I was in a recovery room because I just had an operation. I remember swimming in light. Do you want to see your son? I was pretty out of it and I think I was speaking slowly, like a drunk. They showed me Antonio and put him over my chest. I remember asking why does he have a cut above his eye. My throat hurt and I felt numb everywhere. I remember Thomas talking to me but I don't really remember what he said. Later he would tell me that I must have been on pretty serious drugs because I asked a question he said he already answered in the recovery room.

I was later wheeled into another room for observation. I was more lucid by then, but my throat was itching like crazy. I kept asking for water, but all they gave me were lemon flavored cotton buds to suck on. They said it was from being intubated during the operation, a breathing apparatus since the anaesthesia meant that my involuntary reflexes stopped functioning for a while. The doctor came in and explained to me that my placenta separated itself from the uterine wall too early, robbing the baby of oxygen, and sending his heart rate plummeting. The stress was too much for him because his amniotic fluid had turned green when they pulled him out of me. After that my uterus didn't contract to the rate it needed to, and they had to inject something to prevent massive hemorrhaging. Despite this, he was born healthy, with an APGAR rate of 8, then 9.

They stressed I was very lucky to be in this hospital, which specializes in gynecology and pediatrics, and to where all the worst cases in Austria are flown. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had stayed in Erfurt and had given birth at the hospital where I was registered at. They're good, but I know that they don't have the capacity to take care of the baby in such an emergency, and would have needed to drive him to another hospital 20 minutes away. These were 20 minutes we didn't have.

My MIL is convinced that the trip was the reason for my emergency ceasarian. I had no history to indicate that I was under risk of placenta abruptio before this. However, I am convinced otherwise. It happened in our hotel room, not during the trip. It would have happened anyway if I had stayed in Erfurt. I am glad that my husband was with me, that a team of experts are around me to take care of us, in a hospital capable of dealing with the situation. The care here is top notch, and my mother is convinced that God led us here. Believe what you want to belive, I say.

All the things that I worried about during my pregnancy seem so trivial now. I gladly deal with the indignities foisted around me. I would silently endure all the enemas, the catheters, the infusions, the shots, and my painfully rock-hard San Fernando valley porn star tits again, just to know that my baby and I are safe.

Soy una Mama

Antonio

2 November 2009
Linz, Austria (long story)
3754 g/8.27 pounds
52 cm / 20.5 inches

T+ 5 days

No baby yet.

But I did find this funny list over the intarwebs, and pasting what applies to me.

What it feels like to have your ribs used as footrests...from the inside.
That sometimes it appears like you have a strange alien creature with 10 arms and legs about to burst out your belly button...ewww!!
That by the end of your pregnancy, you will need a forklift to help get you off the couch or bed (or at least one really strong person).
That even the silliest of things will make you cry your eyes out.
How many times you will have to call the doctor about all your super embarrassing female questions.
That the toilet will become your new "best friend" or "second home" for at least one reason or another.
That you don't really know the meaning of a full bladder until you've had to do an ultrasound....or been kicked there from the inside.
How bad those mood swings really can be...watch out everyone!
That you will get so big, you will have to stand sideways when washing dishes, doing laundry or brushing your teeth.
That everybody else around you apparently is a pregnancy expert, especially your mother in law.
That you won't be cutting your own toenails for quite a few months if you can't get anyone to help you.
Forget about shaving for quite a while too...unless you REALLY trust your partner!
That it becomes really hard to squat over the toilet with all that extra weight...talk about good leg exercises!
That the simplest of things, like walking up a flight of stairs or walking to get the mail, would make you feel like you really need a nap.
That people suddenly feel like they have the right to rub and pat your growing belly...like it's not attached to the rest of you.
That the word "discharge" would become a common part of your vocabulary....and the scary thing is...you won't be embarrassed!
That they just don't make sexy bras in DD's. It's all about support, support and more support!
Sexy underwear...you can forget those too! Comfort and cotton...that's it!
That you will never look at your husband quite the same again.
That your breasts start leaking BEFORE the baby is even here yet.
What it actually feels like to be kicked or headbutted in the cervix..owww!!
That rolling over in bed from one side of your body to the other is a huge chore requiring lots of huffing and puffing.
That the sleepless nights begin BEFORE the baby is born.
That you had better buy some slip on shoes for when you get real big...unless you are going to have someone around to tie your shoes for you.
That you will spend so much time cleaning and re-cleaning the same exact things over and over again in preparation for the baby's arrival.
That you won't care how much of a pig you look like when you gobble down your second full plate of food...much to every one's amazement!
That memory is.....darn it! What was I going to say?
That you can both hysterically laugh and hysterically cry within the same few moments.
That your sense of smell is a lot better than it used to be, especially when it comes to the things that make you nauseous.

Hmm, I wonder if other people have had the same experience?

The Waiting Game

T + 1 Day.

Dear Baby,

I know it's very nice and comfy in my belly. Warm. Not like the dreary weather outside. Cold.

But sunshine, it's time to come out. You are becoming very heavy, and Mama's body isn't designed to carry an extra 40 pounds all the time. Ich bin keine kräftige Frau, mein Liebling. Mama's body is starting to hurt. And you taking after your father makes it hurt even more. I read that fetuses at the end of pregnancy are no longer so active because of space issues. But somehow you defy that, just like your dad did when he was in his mom's belly. Lack of sleep when you come out is no biggie for me anymore, since I already can't sleep with you kicking my ribs and lungs, and I can no longer move without some sort of pain. So really, I would welcome your arrival. The pain of childbirth doesn't scare me anymore, because I just want the pregnancy over with. No offense, dear.

I know it's difficult to come out when Ma takes very good care of you. Like when the doctor told me that instead of two, I have three arteries going into my belly to feed you. But really, growing up means letting go. You can't stay in my belly forever. Someday, you will find out that you can't live with mama and papa forever. In the meantime Sweetie, please understand that it's not that I don't like you. I'm just saying that it's time.

We are hoping to see you soon,

Love,

Mama and Papa.

Haben die Erfurter keine Mannieren?

Es ist mir aufgefallen, wie die Leute von Erfurt und Umgebung schlechte Mannieren haben. Sind die Leute hier einfach schlecht erzogen? Was haben sie für eine Erziehung gehabt? Ich will nicht verallgemeinern, will nicht sagen dass es ein deutsches Problem ist, weil meine Erfahrung nur hier in Ostdeutschland bedingt ist.

Ich habe schon erfahren, wie alte Omis eine Schlange überholen, nur weil sie denken, dass es Ihren Recht ist. Ich bin selbst schwanger, und nutze meine Situation nie aus. Ich wurde schon von Servicepersonal belogen. Ich war in einer Straßenbahn, kämmte meine Haare (weil ich in eile war) und ein Herr hat mir gesagt "Das macht man in der Offentlichkeit nicht." Das geht ihn doch nicht an! Warum ist das ungerecht, ich schade niemand!

Ich war in Taize, als ich schon erzahlt habe. Ich habe angefangen zu singen,weil ich Langeweile hatte. Ein junge hinter mir hat mich sehr irritiert angekuckt und sagte, "Kannst du aufhören? Es ist richtig ätzend!" Und dann hat ein Heavy Metal lied von seinem Handy laut gespielt! Wir waren doch in einem heligen Ort! Ich hab ihm gesagt, Er hat sich deutlich ausgedruckt, er braucht diesen unhöflichen Aktion nicht mehr. Später habe ich erfahren, dass seine gruppe kamen aus Schmalkalden(wie peinlich, da ich jetzt dieser Ort mit seinem Verhalten verbinde) und die anderen Gruppen halten diese Gruppen für kommisch, da die da waren wegen Urlaub, und waren nicht mal Kirchangehörigen. Ich wollte nicht mal sagen dass ich in Erfurt wohne, da ich nicht mit diesen Leuten etwas zu tun haben möchte.

Wie gesagt, jetzt bin ich hochschwanger, und ich habe erfahren wie Schulkinder, Jungs, ihren Platz nicht mal mir angeboten haben! Sie hatten ein Sitz nur für ihren halb leeren Rücksäcke gefullt. Ich habe die zwei angekuckt,und gewartet. Nichts. Bis zur meine Haltestelle. Ich wollte etwas sagen, aber ich meine, Mensch, es sollte doch selbstverständlich sein, oder? Egal ob ich auf den Philippinen oder in DE bin.

Ich dachte es war nur so mit den Jugendlichen, aber eine unangenehme Überraschung wartete letzten Samstag auf mich. Eine Gruppe von alten Männer (eine Reisegruppe?) hat sich genau so wie die Jugendlichen verhalten! Ok, einige hatten einen Stock schon dabei, aber es gab Männer die um 60 waren und auch ohne Gehstock laufen konnten. Sicherlich können Sie auch Platz für eine schwangere mit einem Einkaufsrollo machen!

Ich war dann gestern mit einer Bekanntin, die auch Schwanger ist. Und es ist wieder passiert! Was geht in den Köpfen dieser Menschen werde ich nie verstehen.

Too Much Information

Warning: Scatological references

This Birth Thing Ain't Easy. Boy, do I know that now.

I am kind of like the god Ares. I am not squeamish about seeing blood and violence. I lived near a hospital and was assigned to the police beat when I was in journ school. I've seen stabbed men, hovels, and the feces-covered walls of a city jail. But tell me a story about blood and gore and I go into hysterics. As long as I am not at the receiving end of a syringe I am fine. When I am, I really have to steel myself like a champion fighter. I am a wuss.

I've been taking these Geburtsvorbereitung (Birth prep)classes for the past couple of weeks. I thought in the beginning that they were relaxed affairs, Lamaze classes where you were taught how to breathe and push, with my supportive, loving hubby at my side.

Turns out that there's only one round of "partner classes" a month in my city, and I missed that boat. And that they don't teach us how to breathe, they were really BIRTH PREP courses. Like, they tell you what to expect and what's gonna happen.

So at last night's class, the midwife explained what to expect when we get to the hospital. Apparently, pregnant women in the last few weeks before the delivery become constipated. It is a side effect of the hormone progesterone, released by the body to prevent premature contractions. This also prevents the woman from *ahem* doing number 2.

Then the progesterone levels sink, starting the contractions and releasing a round of diarrhea.

Great huh?

If this doesn't happen, a woman is asked to try to force a bowel movement before delivery. This is done to try to make more room for the baby's head when it comes through the pelvis. Sometimes, a woman just "can't go." Some women suffer through performance anxiety.

"...Dann machen wir einen Einlauf." said the midwife.
"Was ist ein Einlauf?" I asked.

My face transformed from a look of curiosity to horror when she described what it was.

An enema.

I am gonna get an effing enema.

"But really, it will be a great relief to you when you get it! The baby coming out creates so much pressure, you would be thankful for a few millimeters more!"

Then she described the different methods used to anesthesize the area. The epidural, I knew that already. Then she said that that's only used if the pain is THAT INTENSE, and they'll try a less invasive method first.

For any woman who has had a yeast infection in Germany, the word "Zäpfchen" evokes a sense of slight dread. It is the German word for suppository. Considering that the baby is coming out of the front hole, You'd expect the suppository to go there.

But no, no, no. After the enema, I would get a Zäpfchen plugged in. The last time I used an anal suppository was when I was seven, during a bout of severe constipation. This one was supposed to numb the area, not to induce a bowel movement.

Mouth agape, I asked, "Warum dort?" (Why there?)

"Well, your intestinal muscles also control your cervical muscles, so numbing that area also numbs the cervical muscles."

Well, I guess since the baby is coming out the other end, putting the suppository at the back end makes sense.

So basically Not only would I have a sore front side, I'd also be dealing with a sore backside as well. Why did I sign up for this again?

Class and Prejudice

One of the things that I took for granted growing up was household help. One of the benefits of being middle class in a third world country is that labor is cheap, and for 50 euros a month, a lady, sometimes two, lived with us and took care of the children and the house and the cleaning. Granted, sometimes things get stolen, or the occasional maid runs away with the construction worker next door. However, the benefits outweighed the dangers. We never had to worry about food. The house was always tidy. The kids didn't need daycare, my mother could go to work. There was someone in the house 24/7. We eventually lost the keys to the front door and never bothered to replace them, since, well, there was always somebody in the house. If a maid stole something, or is under suspicion of having stolen something, we fired her. That was that.

Over the years, a family has served us on and off. It started with a woman in 1987, who then referred us to her cousin when she got married...we eventually adopted the daughter of one of these women, she went to college during the day and cleaned and cooked at night. She works at an office now, a job that my mother placed her in. That is called moving up. Two girls from her little barrio now cook and clean for my parents. One of the girls looks after my nephew and nieces.

Reading The White Tiger reminded me of the shock I felt when Thomas pointed out that I treated the help like dirt. I never shouted at them or abused them. But as he pointed out, they were invisible to me, noticed only when I needed something. I mean, I thought I was being kind, I never really gave my treatment of the maids second thought. Leaving the Philippines and coming back made me see things with fresh eyes. By then, I was used to doing the household chores myself, and I felt almost embarrassed when I asked a maid to hand me a spoon, or when she would wordlessly pick up my barely used drinking glass. Almost.

I am aware that things work differently there than they do here in Germany. There are times, times like now when the baby is coming, that I wish that I could hire a yaya to take care of the baby while I go work. But mostly, I am kind of happy that I do my own housework here. I didn't have maids when I moved out of my parents's house when I was 23, but the satisfaction and appreciation of seeing a clean window done by my own hands didn't hit me until I moved here.

It is a very different mentality. Over here, people would call it slave labor. In the Philippines, people think that they are doing a good thing by giving somebody a job. In a country with high unemployment and population, these two things coming together provide this economic set-up. In the novel, the boss, Mr. Ashok, was seen as "softened" by the West. I sometimes think if it was actually a good thing that I began to see the maids as human when I went back in 2008. Thomas said that it isn't such a good idea to treat the maids as equals, since this will never work in a country like the Philippines. A country where class determines whether you can speak English like an American or not speak English at all. This fact spells the difference between staying where you are or moving up in society. It is telling that all of my acquaintances and friends in the Philippines talk like me and dress like me, while the rest of the world equates Filipina= domestic helper. Isn't it enough that they eat the same food as you do and have their own room and own fan and own toilet, he said?

I still don't know the answer to that.

Auf Die Mischung Kommt Es An: Amiexpat's Heidelbeer Eierkuchen

I wrote in Tagalog that ever since my fourth month of pregnancy, all I could think about is food. I dream of food, I miss the food that I grew up with. I even have a list of foods that I want to eat taped on my fridge, and I cross out once I've cooked something. Ironic, since I couldn't stand the smell off cooking food during my first and second month. It saves time because I already know what I want to eat days before. I think that making them myself is healthier than buying them, because a lot of elbow grease goes into making them, canceling out the calories ingested. Or that is what I like to tell myself.

One of the things I miss is the pancakes at Pancake House, a Filipino chain that I think is like the American I-Hop. They are soft and fluffy, like a cloud in your mouth. Thomas hates them, he hates American pancakes in general. I think it's because he didn't grow up eating them. Thomas and I could never agree whether American of European pancakes are better. I still drizzle maple syrup all over my pancakes. I try making American pancakes once in a while but I end up eating them all by myself. I make those thin European pancakes instead since we both eat them.

It took me at least 6 months to find the perfect recipe for European pancakes. I've downloaded at least four European pancake recipes. The American pancakes I've tried were not fluffy enough or tasted weird, the European pancakes were also a hit or miss affair. They were either too leaden or moist inside because I've put in too much water, or too dry because of flour.



About a week ago, I found the perfect recipe for European pancakes, and I have been making them since. Finally. I've been making pancakes at least once a week lately because I've been craving them and because Thomas is on this weird Schlank im Schlaf Diet, which says he can only eat carbs in the morning. His classmate recommended it to him after saying that he has gotten chubbier since he got married. I guess I feed him too well!



Amiexpat's Heidelbeer pancake recipe is a perfect compromise between European and American pancakes. They're fluffy, like American pancakes, an thin, like European pancakes. Win-win! Next time, I'll mix the Heidelbeer with the batter, because the berries tend to burn when I flip them over, and sometimes the berries stick to the turner (?), leaving little pockmarks in the pancakes where the berries used to be.

Pipette Dreams

I had very vivid dreams as a teen. Dreams of flying, of war, dreams that stay and haunt me in my waking hours.

My dreams react to stresses of everyday life. I once was in a relationship that I felt sucked the life out of me, and I swear, my vivid dreams in color turned black and white. While working at a dead end job, I had a scary dream of bouncing around a windowless white room that had no exits.

They stopped in my mid twenties. I probably found some peace, or maybe my hormones stopped working overtime. In any case, I still dreamt, but they were forgettable. I would have to write them down after waking up if I wanted to remember.

For some reason, I have had really intense nightmares ever since becoming pregnant. These dreams usually involve family members being tortured or attacking me. Thomas would wake me up because I would howl or cry in my sleep. I once woke up with a gasp after dreaming that my aunt was about to poke my eye out with a pair of scissors because I said something silly. Not fun.

Last night was the strangest dream yet. I dreamt that I had my baby, and my baby was a blue toy pipette. It was a stuffed toy, with a blue cushion of a head and a glass tubed body like in mercury thermometers. It had a face and a small cartoony mouth. I remember feeling horrified and mystified. Why is my baby a pipette? It made crying baby sounds out of its mouth. I didn't want to touch it, it scared me. When I finally touched it, it felt like a baby, with baby warmth and baby smell. I cradled it in my arms, and the body widened. Every time I looked away and looked back at the baby, it slowly transformed into a real baby. At the end it looked like a real baby, and then I started breastfeeding.

I was so disturbed by this dream that I told everybody I met today about it because telling people makes me less scared. Now I am telling you guys because I want to feel less scared of my dream.

Never Be The Same

I'm really worried about something that a lot of mothers seem to dismiss as trivial.

I'm worried about my vagina.

You see, I really like my vagina. It's nice-looking. A gynecologist even complimented me on it.

What's gonna happen to it after I press a bowling ball out of it? It's never gonna be the same, no matter what anybody says. It's gonna change, for better or for worse.

I've been reading up on this pregnancy business. Look behind all the BS of you couldn't imagine your life before children. I am going to be a mother and I am willing to go through it, but make no mistake, I am an individual and plan to remain that way. My sexuality is a very important part of my life. It sounds selfish, but please, the desire to have children outside of adoption is not an altruistic act.

I want to have this child, but I hope Kegels do as they're promised!

Ang Hirap Magbuntis

Actually, I shouldn't be complaining. I am having a relatively easy pregnancy, I think. Ang ayoko lang ngayon eh mukha akong butete pag nakatagilid! Ang weird tignan. My check-up last week showed that everything is ok, but me being so paranoid, I'm worried because I couldn't feel the baby kick and I'm already on my 18th week.

And right now I have such weird cravings, I've become a magician in the kitchen. Ang dami kong cravings, late ata akong naglihi. Nung umpisa hindi ako makapag-luto kasi di ko ma-take yung amoy. Ngayon naman luto ako ng luto, Kanina nagluto ako ng miso soup with tempura kasi ang tagal ko nang nag-ke-crave nun! Ang maganda lang nito eh may listahan ako sa pridyider ng mga gusto kong kainin, kaya nakaplano na ang kakainin namin a few days before. Time saving. Napabili ako tuloy ng fishballs ng hindi oras kasi bigla kong na-miss yung mga fishball na nabibili sa Paseo de Roxas. Bukas naman Guinataang Mais. Tapos take two ng cuchinta. Gumawa ako ng cuchinta nung isang araw ang labas pitsi-pitsi, uulitin ko kasi yung pinaka-huling batch mukhang cuchinta na. Ang hirap kasi sa Erfurt pipito lang kaming Pinay, kaya lahat ng lutong Pinoy sariling sikap.

Ang masaklap yung German foods na favorite ko hindi ko makain. Tulad ng smoked salmon. Iwas din ako sa soft cheese pag hindi pasteurized. Ilang din akong kainin ang blue cheese. Hindi rin ako makakain ng sushi kasi bawal ang raw food. Kaya guess what I've been wanting to eat these past few months? Haay, pag nanganak ako ang una kong kakainin ay sushi! Naku, sabi pa naman ni Mama huwag daw akong kumain ng kumain kasi mahirap manganak kapag lumobo yung tiyan ko ng husto. Eh ano namang magagawa ko kung ang laman ng utak ko sa araw at gabi eh yung kakainin ko sa mga susunod na araw? Normal ba ito?

The Good, The Bad, and the Superstitious

Growing up in the Philippines, I've been surrounded with stories of ghouls and goblins lurking in the night, evil spirits possessing an entire class of schoolchildren (it even makes the 6 o'clock news back home), and white ladies floating and appearing on video (it even made the pages of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, the country's most respected broadsheet).

I thought Germany, with its emphasis on logic and reason, would be different. Boy, was I wrong.

I lived with my MIL during my first months here, and though she went to college, she came from a farming family in the boondocks, and she held on to a lot of old wives' tales from her childhood. Things like drafts from windows left ajar and going out with wet hair in winter could give you a cold, and such nonsense.

In the Philippines, before the advent of ultrasound, people would guess the baby's gender by looking at the mom. If a woman is "blooming" (read, glowing or very attractive), it means that she's having a girl. If a woman is less attractive while pregnant, and has a darker neck, elbows, and armpits, then it's a boy.

Here in Germany, my MIL has, what I feel, a more patriarchal belief. She says that my skin looks rougher now than when I was not pregnant, and concluded that I am having a girl "because a girl takes away her mother's beauty." Ouch. It lends a more sinister, Snow White and her evil stepmom spin to my pregnancy, something I would rather live without.

And there is this fear of flying. I would really, desperately want to have my mom be here for my birth. I don't want to have my baby with just my MIL around. To be quite honest, I don't trust her and I don't really want her around my happy day, for reasons I don't want to elaborate here. But if my mom comes here, I would have to foot the bill, cos she's paying the mortgage of a house that my family just bought. Thomas says that I would have to choose between her coming here or us flying back. And for the both of us, we'd rather fly back and escape the winter.

The moment I announced I was pregnant, and told one of my classes I wanted to fly back in December (my baby would be two months old by then), they all said that it would be a horrific mistake, that it isn't good for my baby, and my baby's ears will pop and I would render it deaf, So I looked it up on the internet, and it was quite interesting what I found. When I typed up the question in German, I got this doom and gloom prognosis from German parents, but German pediatrician websites said that it was all right. In English websites, they were so relaxed about the whole thing that they only said that if you want to be really sure about it, wait until the 2nd month, when the baby's immune system is strong enough to fight whatever bugs are floating around in the cabin.

I've always hated it when other people try to impose their beliefs on others, and that's why though I am Catholic, I've been against preaching and "spreading the Good News." And when other people impose their superstitions on me and pass them on as medical fact, it makes me angry. Why frighten a pregnant woman unnecessarily?

14 weeks

"Everything seems healthy. All the bones seem to be in place. See that? That's the leg bone. Here's the hand. All in place. These four are the bones of the middle finger. All five fingers are formed."

"Wow. How big is it?" I ask.

"About six centimeters." I look quizzically at Thomas. With his thumb and index finger, he makes a gesture. "It's about this big," indicating a gap of about three inches.

"Oh. Look, it's emptying its bladder," says my Frauenarzt. I find myself fascinated, not at all disgusted, that someone is peeing in my insides.

It hits me that something that is not completely a part of me is inside me. This thing, wriggling, kicking. It has its own thoughts. It is not me, yet a part of me. I wonder if it reacts to my thoughts.

"I can't get the baby in the right position for the screening. Hopefully we could get it to lie on its back?"

With two fingers, I gently thump on my belly. It moves, and we have our money shot.

"Ah, perfect." he says.