say what? — failed attempts of raising bilingual children

I submitted this piece for an application to write for apartmentherapy.com ... but, since I never heard back, I suppose, it's ok to post here now. It was written in a rush. I had to compose three blog entries within two days. I think, my writing style was a bit too rough for them. I love apartment therapy ... but everything seems very clean and vanilla. I am probably more fit for mommyish.com or something more cynical. But, now I'm doing my own thing anyway. This way I can write however and whatever I want. The only draw-back: nobody is paying me. :p [time to think about Google Adsense]

I was born and raised in Austria. When my daughters were born - here in New York City - I dutifully visited my embassy to apply for their Austrian citizenship but I miserably failed when it came to teaching them German. I emigrated to the U.S. when I was 21 (maybe I was 22 .. I’m too lazy to do the math right now .. or ever. If an estimated number is acceptable, I will always shy away from straining my non-existent head-calculation brain cells… is that an English word? Head-calculation? [What’s the noun for ‘doing math in your head’?])

.. I’m in the process of completely contradicting the point I was going to make - about how my assimilation to this country and immersion in its language hindered my later ability to speak German to my children. And now, I can’t even think of the simplest English words. — Let’s pretend, I didn’t say that and move on.

I had made a steadfast resolution for myself that I was going to speak German to my kids and German only, for this is how a bilingual upbringing is supposedly most effective. Unfortunately, there was nothing steadfast about my resolution besides the intent itself.

The problem was that, when I finally had children, I hadn’t spoken German in so long that I kept forgetting to switch to my native tongue when addressing the little ones, except, that is, at times of emotional distress. So now, all my kids understand is a lot of angry German.

I’m in awe about how friends of mine have pulled this off. Just as much as I’m amazed how they get their kids to practice their instruments or finish their homework without struggle or tears. These children are speaking Spanish, Italian, French, German and all of them live in New York City, just as we do. Why can’t I get a handle on this? 

In a desperate attempt, I’ve even tried putting them in front of the computer with Rosetta Stone, however, unless I sit with them, they just guess which one of the four images matches the word the recording is sounding out. Especially my younger one (9) will try to trick the system with all her might, not understanding that she is skipping the learning process, which will make it impossible to accomplish the follow-up lessons. I suppose, this is the reason why she continues to repeat the first lesson over and over again. 

So, in short - like everything - these kids need my precious time. Turns out, they read better, do homework better, and - in general - learn better if I monitor and guide them every step of the way. But - who has time for that? And if you have the time, who has the patience? I guess, you can call me a Rabenmutter - literally translated as "raven mother" (German expression for a bad mom) - but I don’t want to or often can’t give up any of my evening. Occasionally, I’ll have a wholesome moment or even a day on which I offer all this time but, mostly, I tell them to go figure it out on their own. 

Nobody helped me with homework when I was a kid, nobody asked me to practice the piano, nobody encouraged me to dive into my passions. I just did all that on my own - always. I figured it out. Why is it that we have to hold our children’s hands for everything these days? I guess, it’s because our whole urban society is structured that way. Those kids have no unsupervised, independent time to explore the world around them on their own. Maybe this lack of freedom alone contributes to an atrophy of self-initiative or autodidactic skills in our kids. [Note: I am not basing this information on any studies so it may just be my kids who lack initiative when it comes to self-development.]

Sometimes, I remember to remind myself that they are only going to be young for a short period of time and that this is my chance to build a lasting relationship with them. They already know they are never allowed to put me in a nursing home but I want them to adhere to that request not out of duty but out of love. So, I better un-raven up and offer them more of my time, for it’s the best thing I can probably give to them.

Hmm — I suppose, I can’t get away with this on Christmas, can I? A coupon book with increments of mommy’s time. It’ll be the saddest, most audacious present ever and if they keep it, they’ll probably be struck by sheer disbelief, when they stumble over it in a box of old childhood mementos 15 years from now, possibly triggering a break-through moment they can later discuss in therapy.

cute little liars

Ok – so, yes .. kids lie. It’s a natural fact. Although, I would say – depending on the age – they are presenting us with ‘an altered version of the truth they would prefer’. Especially, the younger ones love to tell those fantastic stories of what they did and whom they saw and whatnot. It’s cute. It’s not so cute with my nine-year-old anymore but I have been letting her get away with it just because I don’t want to cause a break-down on her part, because, parents will know, calling those little munchkins on their BS creates a reverse effect. Instead of remorse or apologies, we get anger, tears, or arguments.

Yesterday, I finally decided to put my foot down. I had just picked her up from her after school program and she cheerily reminded me about all this candy we have to buy for the ginger bread house they were going to build at school tomorrow. I don’t know why I decided to pick the battle at this moment. Maybe she was entirely too happy to match my grumpy mood. I don’t know, but, the mommy monster came out and I basically ended up making her cry and tell me she doesn’t want to go shopping for candy anymore. With quite a bit of attitude, I expressed my disdain for her apparent twisting of the truth, for it could not possibly be so that out of a list of 10 ingredients she has to bring eight. What were the other children bringing? It seemed like an excuse to buy a whole lot of candy for herself. Ach – it was awful. I was awful. I ended up taking her to the store anywhere and we bought just a few items, which she settled for but my moment of truth came the next day, after I had already dropped her off at school. I was at home, preparing my coffee when I glanced at the original letter from her teachers, announcing the ginger bread house building party. And - I cannot adequately express the guilt that shot through me when I read the first paragraph, which I had only flown over when Nini first handed me the letter. It said that EACH child should bring the following: … and then below were all the ingredients listed for the ginger bread house. I almost started crying. I felt so bad. Nini had NOT been lying to me. She really was supposed to bring all the items on the list, I just hadn’t read the letter properly.

I ran out that house faster than ever, jumped into my car, tried not slip on the icy roads, raced to the store to buy the rest of the ingredients and drove all the way back to her school to deliver them. And you know what Nini told me, hopping up with joy to hug me when I handed her the bags with an apology? -- “Mommy, you’re the best!!” -- No, I’m not, is what I wanted to respond. I suck! I was awful to you. … but instead, I gave her a big, fat smooch and walked out of the school with a clean conscience, thanking God for letting me make up for this one.

Parenting is full of guilt for me these days. Am I being too strict, am I too lenient, was I too mean, did I just provide her with a bad memory to carry around with her for the rest of her life? Ultimately, it probably doesn't matter, for they are going to be what they're going to be. We can't really control who they are and what they'll become.

There is poem I once read. I remember it often as I go through the struggles of raising kids.

"If I Had My Child to Raise Over Again"

by Diane Loomans

If I had my child to raise all over again,


I'd build self esteem first, and the house later.


I'd fingerpaint more, and point the finger less.


I would do less correcting and more connecting.


I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.


I would care to know less and know to care more.


I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.


I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.


I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.


I'd do more hugging and less tugging.


I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.


I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.


I'd model less about the love of power,
 And more about the power of love.