Cancel culture and the problematic stories we carry into adulthood

Like many people these days, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about the problematic stories I was raised with, and I keep coming back to the role of context and framing. As I was raised in a very religious environment, top of my mind has been the biblical story of Esther. 

(Trigger warning: some mention of sexual abuse)

“Be like Esther,” I was taught as an 8-year-old. “This story has important lessons for you!” 

In case you are unfamiliar, let’s do a quick recap. Xerxes (or Ahasuerus), king of Persia, throws a feast and gets very drunk. He then demands that his wife, Queen Vashti, come and dance for him. Vashti, enjoying her own party, declines, and Xerxes banishes her after consulting with his advisors (who fear that all the women in Persia will follow her example and rise up). However, the wine and rage wear off and Xerxes starts to have regrets.

Xerxes’ advisors once again have his back - this time with the suggestion that all of the most beautiful virgins in the land are rounded up. Xerxes will try each of them, one by one, night after night. And thus, we get introduced to the beautiful, virginal, orphaned Esther, who is taken from the house of her relative Mordecai to the palace, where she must undergo a year of beauty treatments in preparation for one night with the king. 

Esther is beautiful, charming, compliant to all that is asked of her. Her night with Xerxes leaves him wanting more, so much more in fact that instead of having her join all the other used-up virgins in his house of concubines, he decides to make her queen instead of Vashti. 

But things go wrong. Mordecai offends one of the king's advisors, Haman, and Haman decides to take revenge by getting Xerxes to sign a decree allowing him to kill Mordecai and all his people (the Jews). Mordecai learns of this plot and convinces Esther to break the court rules in order to ask the king for a favor to save the Jews. 

To build up to this request, Esther throws several dinner parties for Xerxes and Haman, and they culminate in a big scene where Esther tearfully accuses Haman of trying to kill her. Xerxes is shocked that anyone would want to kill his beautiful queen, and demands that Haman be killed and have his head put on a spike. Furthermore, he writes another decree which allows the Jews to kill those against them (which they do - in vast numbers). The happy ending comes in the form of Mordecai rising to power and esteem - second only to the king. 

It’s an ancient story, likely written in the 4th century BCE, and in that context, Esther’s story is arguably about her finding a way to survive and helping her people survive at great personal cost in a brutal and terrible society. 

“Be like Esther,” I was taught in Sunday School as an 8-year-old who was desperate to understand the world after a sexual assault a few years earlier. "The story has important lessons for you!"

Be brave at the right times, but follow the rules at all other times. Others will tell you when it’s the right time.

Your ability to charm, your winsomeness, your sexual desirability is your power. 

Fight against those who threaten the lives of your people, but bend to those who demand your body. 

The greater good demands that you live a life of deep personal sacrifice. 

These lessons have not served me well. 

The problem of “being like Esther” is that I’ve tied my power and worth to my sexual desirability. The problem of “being like Esther” is that I’ve obsessed about rules and look for some Mordecai to tell me when it’s right not to follow them. The problem of “being like Esther” is that I see myself, my body, my sexual wholeness as secondary to some greater good. 

The problem of “being like Esther” is that it’s set me up for surviving, not thriving. The problem of “being like Esther” is that the story has a happy ending only for Xerxes and Mordecai. 

And for me, the problem of “being like Esther” is that I was given a terrible model for working through childhood sexual trauma. 

I know the story of Esther has deep cultural and religious meaning for many people, but when we tell it to our children (to ALL children, but especially to those who have experienced sexual trauma), we need to give it better context, clearer framing, and please, please without some shitty expectation that they follow in her footsteps. 

Precious, beloved little girls and boys, you don’t need to be like Esther. Esther’s story is unbelievably sad. It is an ancient tale from a very, very long time ago, which is interesting, but does not have deep insights into how you need to live now. You have the right to more than survival. Anyone who expects you to sacrifice your wholeness, your sexual being, is the villain of your story, and they deserve to have their heads on spikes.

Be like Esther, if you need to, for a while. Sometimes we are in situations where we need to follow along to survive. I understand. You certainly don’t need to feel bad about that. But be like Jael when you are ready, tent spike in hand, to reclaim the power that was always rightfully yours, which is not dependent on your ability to follow rules or to charm or to seduce. Set your own structures, say “no” to unfair demands, and above all, thrive.

Of course, I say this most of all to myself, as I look through the stories that I learned in childhood that are still whispering through my adult subconscious. It’s time to re-examine, reframe, recontextualize them. Stories do have power; even more so the stories we learn as children.

“Be like Esther” is proving to be difficult to dislodge, so for now, I’m penciling in an alternative ending for Esther. One where, having overthrown the fucker who made unfair demands of her just-emerging sexuality, Esther joins forces with the banished Vashti. Together, they use the strength built through their healed trauma to heal their kingdom, and they rule with courage, kindness, and respect.

This is the Esther I want to be like.

Dealing with the Advice of Others

My decision-making skills has been called into question a lot since I moved to the Czech Republic.

The list of topics for which I've received unsolicited advice since moving here is extensive and includes:

• Wearing of hats (children),
• Wearing of hats (self)
• Saying 'Na shledanou' ['Good bye'] with sufficient emphasis on the 'h'
• Proper preparation of American Thanksgiving food
• Ways in which I can make myself more attractive (losing weight, primarily, although apparently my posture is also causing offense)
• Advisability of having pets (advice is fairly evenly split)
• The right pet for me (a dog, personal preference be damned!)
• The correct number of children to have
• The correct gender of children to have (girls, it seems, although I have no complaints)
• Proper care of husbands
• Proper care of houses
• How long my holiday abroad should be
• The correct way to smile in a photograph (not to, apparently)
• Care and feeding of children (many subcategories).

One category has grown exponentially in the last few months in particular: Mothers' working full-time, acceptability of.

This is a very round-about way of getting to the reason I haven't posted recently: I have a new job! It's incredibly interesting, rather challenging, and for a multinational corporation that you may have heard of. I have benefits! A career path! Lovely colleagues and a decent pay check! A budget that allows us to fix our roof and visit the American family more.

The hours are sometimes quite long - Multinational You Might Have Heard Of has something of a reputation for this. The commute is annoying. L and I spend a lot of time organizing logistics. But, overall, we're happy with the current state of affairs and the boys both seem settled and content. Smallest adores his nursery teachers. Smalls is full of envy of my security badge.

That's my perspective on the situation, but you'd get a very different view from some of the Czechs around me - without even having to ask!

'But surely you're not on the way to work?' one of our neighbors asked me last week, as Smallest and I waited for the bus. 'And full time? No, he's much too young.' [Looking at Smallest and sucking at her teeth.]

My neighbor is by no means the only person to respond this way. While I am a studious keeper of lists and accounts of wrongs against me [not one of my best traits, for sure], I must admit that even I have lost track of the number of people who have called into question my decision to work. Friends (though fortunately not too many), family, acquaintances, strangers - all categories have members who are loudly shocked and disapproving.


As an amateur researcher of culture behaviors and norms, I find this fascinating. In the UK, it was very normal for women to return to work a year or so after giving birth. In the US, a year of maternity leave would be considered exceptionally luxurious.

On the other hand, the Czech Republic provides an incredibly generous maternity and parental leave offer. Or offers, rather. Parents have the choice of 1,2,3 or even 4 years at home with each child.

While the Czech government gives many options, it seems Czech society is (in generally) less flexible. From my (many!) conversations on this subject, the general consensus seems to be that mothers who would return to work before a child is 2.5 or 3 years old has quite possibly forgotten they have said child and should be reminded of this fact with the appropriate levels of shock and severity.

Neglected and most-likely forgotten, Smallest (sans hat) forages for zucchini in the garden.  

I am at a loss as to how to respond. My natural response is to pleasantly nod to most advice and then do my own thing. However, this response tends to bring with it a host of negative feelings ('I did have a hat for him, silly woman - he just refused to wear it!' 'Does he really think I'm not trying my best with the blasted Czech 'h'?' 'Does he really think I'm an awful mother?') which eat away at me for the next few days.

Considering the sheer volume of incoming judgement and advice lately, this strategy is leaving me a little too well-nibbled by the negative feelings.

So, a new approach is necessary and I find myself asking a questions I thought I'd never have to ask:

Do you have any advice?

About my dad

My dad died forty days ago.

I've been lost for words since then, besides a wine-and-jetlag fueled post that was all about his nose and which I was very relieved to find in the morning that I had saved only to drafts.

Impressive though my dad's nose was, there are even more notable things that I think should be said about him.

First of all, he was incredibly kind. He cheerfully signed himself up for night duty when Smalls was a newborn who would only sleep when being held. He spent his vacation helping me repaint our house in the UK. He was there to pick me up at any hour of the night when I was a teenager.

One of my cousins wrote me a very nice note about how my dad's smile always made him feel like he was really a part of the family, and it was true that my dad would try to make everyone feel at ease. L remembers how nice he was, especially when they met for the first time and L had the challenging task of asking/informing my dad that he planned to marrying me. My dad said that he would be proud to have L -foreigner, atheist, politically-opposite, dramatically different in personality - as a son-in-law.

When I visited him in November, he told me that his biggest worry was that he would get meaner and meaner as the cancer took over his brain. He would try so hard to make sure he said 'Thank you' to those who helped him, even if it took a few minutes to get the words out. He ended every phone call by saying 'I love you.' and made sure to tell all of us kids that these final two years were the best of his life (because he had such a nice time having so many very nice people around him) - which I strongly suspect was intended to make us feel better about a very shit situation.

Second of all, my dad was so funny. He loved a good joke - especially if it was his own. Family lore includes The Time Dad Snorted Strawberry Soda Out Of His Nose Laughing At His Own Joke. His sense of humor ranged from sophisticated wordplay to Monty Python to the dregs of 'Dad jokes'. My knowledge of the Marx Brothers is embarrassingly extensive thanks to him. He loved a good pun and a funny story - and loved the sorts of stories that were funny at his own expense.

As a kid, I took it for granted, but looking back, it's astonishing how he gamely put up with four kids' worth of crappy childhood films, MacDonald's dinners as a special 'treat', and - crucially - our homemade presents. Especially precious to me is his laugh when he realized that his Father's Day present of a tie made from a butchered pair of tights, which he had been sporting all through the Sunday church service, had been created from a pair of noticeably unwashed tights.

I feel the need to point out that I was six or seven and the tights were white with pink and blue balloons. My mom found the stinky-tights tie in his collection of precious things after he died.

Thirdly, my dad was exceptionally thrifty. He taught me how to budget and how to live within my means - something that I appreciate more and more the older I get. He instilled in me a wariness of buying on credit. He (along with my mom) worked hard to make a college fund for all of us kids and I'm certain I wouldn't have the financial security I have now if it hadn't been for my parents.

I perhaps didn't always appreciate his thriftiness. Take, for instance, my 21st birthday when he took me out for a celebratory dinner and then, noting the ridiculous mark up on the wine, inquired if it wasn't possible to get one glass of wine and split it between three?

Fourthly, he believed in God and was relentless in his desire to live in the best possible way. During my childhood, he was a staunch Calvinist and he later became an enthusiastic Serbian Orthodox convert.

He didn't believe in doing things in half-measure, especially when it came to religion, and he devotedly memorized catechisms, books of the Bible, songs and prayers. He served as a deacon and later, he was an 'altar boy' and did a beautiful reading/singing of Ezekiel 37 as part of the Orthodox service.

Fifthly, my dad would laugh about how he was 'Jack of all trades, master of none.' He taught himself cross stitch and basket-weaving, he rode a bike and a motorcycle. He did pencil drawing. He made amazing brownies. He fixed cars. He rocked the newspaper crossword. He dug holes in the garden where ever my mom requested. He dabbled in being an electrician and a plumber (the latter resulted in the classic story about how he replaced an upstairs toilet that hinged on the line 'the ceiling was bulging, so I thought I'd just push it up a bit...'). He was the family photographer and the family storyteller. He taught us kids algebra and how to drive. He was an excellent dishwashing buddy, singing Avril Lavigne hits as he dried dishes.

In short, it's been a very hard two years watching my amazing, interesting, hardworking dad try to hold on to himself against the all-consuming, all-destroying glioblastoma. He was only 58.

I really miss him. 

Cycling in the Czech countryside

The Czech countryside is charmingly dotted with an incredible number of little churches, chapels, and religious monuments.

I'm starting to feel like something of an authority on them as I've passed an awful lot recently on my bike.

In case you skimmed the previous sentence, I'd just like to stress that this sightseeing has happened while I was cycling, on a bike, with my own two legs.

I have joined the multitude of cyclists infesting Czech country lanes, March to November.  We mostly come in singles or doubles, but we are multitude and a not-insignificant source of irritation to most drivers.

There are fewer cyclists on the road when it's cold, wet, and windy, so on those days, we tend to nod at each other in a 'I acknowledge you and your hardcore ways' or, perhaps, 'I also have lots of chaos at home that I am skillfully avoiding'. I once got a passing 'Ahoj!' from a fellow escapee and I take that to mean I am a certified member of the club.

It's no wonder, really, that the Czech Republic has so many cyclists. The countryside is relatively flat, the climate is fairly predictable, Czechs tend to value being active outside, and, as mentioned previously, there are lots of interesting things to look at as you speed/huff by.

There is an increasingly more comprehensive network of cycle trails throughout the Czech Republic (Cycloserver shows them online and this helpful blog post talks about signage). Most of the trails follow a combination of country roads and paths through forests and across fields. Some of the marked cycle paths look suspiciously like just very muddy meadows.

I've been avoiding the non-paved trails since a particularly muddy November ride, but was back to the exceptionally-satisfying puddle dodging this weekend.

I was on something of a mission. Like I said earlier, there are lots of little religious monuments. Some are statues, but most are these mini-chapels which were built along roads, especially near crossroads, presumably to mark the roads and encourage reverent thoughts (as most don't seem to offer much in the way of shielding one from the elements).

Late in November, before the snow came, I rode past one of these mini-chapels which was striking in its peculiarity. Most of the mini-chapels are painted white or in muted yellows, pinks, or reds. But this strange one was white with a bright blue alcove. Even stranger, it was in the middle of a field, nowhere near a recognizable road. If I remember correctly, it was dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which is also a deviation from the norm as most of the mini-chapels I've seen don't seem to have a named saint as their sponsor.

So, there I was, on a windy, wet November late afternoon, in the middle of a field which smelled very strongly of manure. And there, before me, this otherworldly chapel, white and bright.

I've been meaning to go back to see it again, maybe even to take a picture to prove that it actually exists. A few weekends ago (after the snow receded), I tried unsuccessfully to relocate it, but last weekend, having studiously combed through Google maps, I was ready to attempt my luck again.

'Podstavec soch sv. Salvátora' initially got my hopes up as St. Salvatore sounds like someone who would be worthy of a Southern European blue. After battling up a stone-and-mud track, though, it became apparent that, though nice, this was not the monument I was looking for.

The next mini-chapel seemed to be in the right place and the view from Google maps at least made the roof look similar. So, back on my bike and over yet more puddles and stones.

This chapel was so disappointingly weathered-white that I didn't even take a picture.

Perhaps I should have gotten more emotionally attached to a full-sized chapel.

The search continues next weekend - wish me luck!

The choice to live abroad and its assorted consequences

I was chatting with my Czech teacher after a lesson a few weeks ago and she mentioned that she'd been considering moving to China for a bit, but ultimately decided to stay.

'Oh, thank goodness!' said my mother-in-law who had been keeping Smallest amused during the lesson. 'Think of your poor mother! It's much better not to go abroad. Expatova will tell you how hard it is. You made the right choice.'

This past year has certainly brought to the forefront what I've given up by choosing the path I did. Would I have chosen differently if I'd known all this eleven years ago?

There were an awful lot of big choices this year.

Smallest seems to have some issues with one of his ears, and while we're in the process of figuring out what's going on, his pediatrician was adamant that he should not be flying. I was wrestling with what to do as my dad became increasingly bed-bound - go to the US without Smallest? Not go to the US at all? Take Smallest regardless, doctor be damned?

I decided in the end to go -twice- and to go sans baby.

Fortunately, Smallest was fine, Smalls got over his envy, L probably managed stay-at-home parenthood better than me, our savings account will recover eventually, and I got to pat my dad's lovely dad-hands and sing some of his favourite tunes with him.

There were, of course, many days that I felt like I should jump on a plane to be with my parents and had to choose not to.

To go, to stay - both choices, both opening and closing ways.


There have been a lot of consequences of my choosing to live abroad - some minor (extortionately priced Cheerios, for instance), some much, much larger. I certainly didn't anticipate most of them when I packed my two suitcases and left the US for good.

I was bemoaning this fact to a very wise friend who noted that I wasn't really a special case. Everyone makes path-not-taken choices, expat or not. (Though she did say it in a much nicer way.)

There also would have been consequences for choosing not to live abroad.

And, if we're going to be assessing route-altering choices, there have been many non-expat related  choices I've had to make. University, university degree, getting married...and of course, the arguably biggest (even bigger than moving abroad), was my choice to have children (bless their cute little life-shaping socks).

Just as this year has highlighted the naivety of my twenty-year-old self and the consequences of leaving everything but the contents of those two suitcases behind, it has also helped me understand the importance of acceptance.

When I chose to get on the plane to the US without Smallest, it was a choice made out of love and made with acceptance for whatever the consequences might be. And it's given me a great deal of peace to remind myself of that.

So here's to a new year of new choices. Here's to giving up on trying to find some mythical 'right choice' - especially for decisions in the past. Here's to a future of love-based path-selection.

Saying goodbye from a distance

I talked to my dad a few days ago. I stared at him in the slightly-pixelated video on my phone. He was propped up in his hospital-grade bed, and from the other side of the ocean, it seemed so unnecessary. He looked so young. So like my dad who should live forever. Or at least past retirement age.

My family who is with him now would, of course, tell you a different story - one better grounded in the day-to-day realities of someone who is at the very end stages of a savage manifestation of cancer.

But here is how it looks from my side: I've had my suitcase sitting next to my bed, half packed, for nearly two months. I (or rather, a very helpful L) have changed my plane ticket, pushing it out to a later date. The 'in my experience, probably only two weeks left' from the lovely hospice nurse has long been eclipsed. I find myself at events that I only agreed to because I thought for sure I would be gone when they happened.

And so, even as I jump at every sound my phone makes, deceptive thoughts have started to filter in.

Smalls and I recently had a discussion that I would be going to the US soon for his granddad's funeral.

'Please can I come with you? I really want to come. I need to see how they take the cancer out of him,' Smalls told me.

I explained that this time, sadly, they couldn't take the cancer out.

But as the weeks stretch on, my belief in the inevitable is getting shaken.

Maybe it doesn't have to end this way, the deceptive hopes whisper. Doesn't he look so young in the fuzzy Skype video?

While it is breaking my heart to be so far away, I can see how I am also sheltered at this distance, only able to theoretically imagine the midnight panic attacks, the adult diaper changes, the increasing occurrences of seizures. And so I'm stewing in cocktail of equal parts guilt for not being there to help and hope that perhaps things that I can't see aren't really happening.

So, here I am, spending mornings hanging laundry with a giggling Smallest and relaxed afternoon walks home from preschool with Smalls, with the cat lounging on my lap and drinking a cup of tea with L in the last light of the day, in a bubble of nice normality.

But how to reconcile this with the unseen things happening at my other home with my thoughtful, witty, hardworking, motorcyle-riding, snorting-at-his-own-jokes dad?

Damned if I know.

'And why will you die?' Smalls blurted out during a call with my dad.

'We'll talk about this later,' I said with brisk authority.

However,  I'm really better suited to being the asker rather than the answerer of that question these days.

So, to stick to topics that I am certain about: What I do know is that my dad is very much loved and the world has been a better place with him in it.

And I can't describe how much I wish it didn't have to be this way.

Living outside of Prague

When we first talked about moving to the Czech Republic, I was dead set on living in a flat in Prague. And not just any flat. In my dreams, this flat would be in Vinohrady or Dejvice or, even better, in the trendy-but-not-too-dodgey bits around Letná . The flat would be large, of course, with many delightful historical features and would manage to have both a lovely view and not too many stairs.

For a number of reasons (including, but not limited to the price of large, delightful flats in desirable neighbourhoods), we ended up instead in our village and it's taken some time for me to fully embrace our rural setting.

What started as acceptance when I saw our happy kitties racing up the apple trees and a very satisfied L building bonfires and tending to his unruly tomatoes eventually evolved into genuine appreciation when I started planting my own things and (perhaps more crucially) Smalls started running, jumping, and creating his own very loud soundtrack. Thank goodness that no downstairs neighbours' hearing was harmed during Smalls's toddlerhood.

But now, this appreciation has blossomed into love.

Smallest, the newest addition to our family, was born into a lovely April. The canola fields boarding the village were in full eye-searing yellow. But inside the village, the cherry and apple trees offered a more sophisticated picture. The days were sunny and the evenings only a little crisp.

And I discovered that I have an adorable baby who will sleep if pushed around and around and around the village in his pram.

So, we see the village in the morning light. And the afternoon sun. And during the last glimmers in the evening.

I've memorised not just our neighbourhood, but also the old part of the village, the very old part of the village, and both of the newly built sections. I've explored the paths over the fields and started preliminary investigations on the nearby villages.

L should be pleased to note that cost of the new-secondhand pram that I insisted on buying is down to less than 1.5 CZK per kilometre.

These walks are easily the highlight of my days and I've really enjoyed getting to know the village.

And while I've been out in my explorations, the village has also gotten to know me.

Older women stop to discuss how Smallest is growing. Does he sleep at night? Has he gotten over his cold? And the strangely popular; Are you breastfeeding?

I always exchange a friendly 'Dobrý den!'with the blue-haired boy down the road who seems to be out at least once a week applying new decals to his car. He always gives a cheery wave while contemplating where to best put 'Rides only for cash, grass, or ass', but mercifully does not inquire about my lactating abilities.

'It's going to rain. You'd better walk quickly!' paní učitelka from across the street tells me as she gathers in her laundry.

'It's going to rain,' says the white haired man from number 94, as he, as always, takes his bike for a walk up the hill.

'It's going to rain,' I tell Mr. R's dog.

Mr. R's dog is almost certainly the scruffiest mutt in the village and, while occasionally I see him with Mr. R., more often than not, the poor chap is gamely taking himself for a walk. Or, somewhat humoursly, he joins other owners with their well-groomed, well-bathed dogs on their walks. ('It's not mine!' one woman felt the need to declare a few weeks ago when she, her dog, and the tagalong went past).

Mr. R's dog nods at me and continues sniffing his way home.

While it's nice to get advanced warning of impending meteorological events, by far the best benefit of village life is the number of friends I now have in the village. Friends, who often sit in their gardens or on their balconies in the pleasant summer evenings. Friends, crucially, who invite me to stop for a glass of wine and a chat while Smallest (sometimes) sleeps in his pram.

And finally, getting to know the village better also means that one knows who to contact if, say, one should be thinking about which route to take, dinner plans, schedules in September, what to do over the weekend, and how to find meaning and purpose in life BUT NOT, importantly, about the exact location of the keys to the front door.

While I didn't particularly enjoy going from neighbour to neighbour with my very helpful father-in-law asking if they had a very tall ladder and a desire to help us break into my house via the top floor window, it was somewhat gratifying that two of the three neighbours I tried came ready and armed with their ladders. The third wasn't home.

Before help arrived, I had a rather anxious fifteen minutes of peering through the patio doors wanting so very desperately to be on the other side. There was something about seeing our living room from the (literal) outside that really brought to the forefront of my mind the thought that there behind that stupidly locked glass door was, unquestionably, my home.

So, you can keep your Art Nouveau metalwork and the tree-lined avenues with hip cafes. Smallest and I have another few laps around our village to go before it rains.

Speaking Czech in the maternity ward

My plans for my pre-baby maternity leave consisted of:

1. Organise the house.

2. Vastly improve my Czech so that I could calmly chat with the midwives whilst giving birth.

The Czech textbooks (yes, all three of them) were dutifully located and dusted off, but I spent about as much studying as I did organising, which was significantly dwarfed by the time spent wobbling from the sofa to the toilet, faffing with my collection of pillows, and eating antacids like (very subpar) bonbons.

I wasn't so concerned about actually giving birth. First of all, L was almost certainly going to be there. And secondly, the baby was coming out one way or another, regardless of my language skills. As it turned out (as mentioned in the previous post), the amount of vocabulary necessary to actually give birth was pretty much limited to some heart-felt moans and ‘HE’S COMING!’ from me.

However, my big concern was how comfortable it would be with my Czech for the pretty much mandated post-birth hospital stay. One big difference between the UK and Czech approaches to maternity care is that while the UK system is very eager to turf out new mothers at the earliest opportunity (or, even better! Just stay in your living room – we’ll come to you!), the Czech system is pretty insistent that one shouldn’t even consider leaving the confines of the hospital for at least three nights. 

Since I have a very bouncy four-year-old and a half-organised house, I decided a few days of having my meals delivered to my bedside wasn’t such a bad idea.

Not only did I survive on my sloppy Czech, my time in the hospital noticeably improved my language skills. In the postpartum 'I am amazing, look what I did!' haze, I lost nearly all of my shyness about appearing foreign. While previously, I would see if I could ‘pass’ as Czech through well-timed head nodding and stringent reliance on the words I know how to pronounce properly, in the hospital, I found myself cheerily telling all-and-sundry, ‘Mluvím anglicky a trochu česky.’ [I speak English and a little Czech].

I cheerily butchered sentence after sentence about newborn care and the state of my delicate bits. I learned a few new vocabulary words, including the delightful pupeční šňůra (umbilical cord). I tried to listen in on my roommate’s late night telephone conversations (which, if I understood correctly, detailed the process of her giving birth in the hospital car park!).

The first nurse I talked with following the birth set my expectations for the rest of the stay rather low when she turned to my roommate and tutted that it was so terrible with these women who don’t speak Czech. I thought this was a little unfair considering I had understood and responded appropriately to all of her instructions about caring for the baby, myself, the room, the bed and had only stumbled on filling in a form regarding permissions for a variety of procedures.

However, most of the other staff were lovely and patient. A student doctor and a very nice paediatrician both spoke very good English and helpfully translated whenever I was unsure about what people wanted to do to me or my baby.

Things were going so well that I even decided to ask for help with breastfeeding my sleepy newborn, and confessed to the paediatric nurse on her rounds that I wasn’t sure what to do since he didn’t seem to want to feed. The nurse told me I was clever, patted my shoulder reassuringly, checked my latched, told me not to worry – he was probably just sleepy – and to try again later. As she was finishing up her paperwork, she gave me another pep talk about my cleverness and more reassuring pats.

I was a little befuddled as to why she was being so terribly nice when I realised that instead of saying he didn’t want to feed (nechce kojit), I had said that I didn’t want to feed (nechci kojit).

So, bonus points to Nemocnice Hořovice for being breastfeeding-friendly.

My new plan for maternity leave post baby is to vastly improve my simple verb conjugations.

Giving birth in the Czech Republic

Last week, the smallest member of our family decided to enter the world. In spite of being a few days over his due date, he managed to shock me with his arrival. I was half-convinced I was going to be pregnant forever.

Birth basics

My waters broke in the early morning, but since I had only a few small contractions, I decided the best course of action would be to go back to bed. Fortunately, L convinced me that we should at least call the hospital to see what they would want.

'They said to come straight away,' L told me.

'Yeah, but I don't think they really meant it,' I said. 'Did you tell them I don't have any contractions?'

I faffed about adding extra things to my hospital bag and filling in forms while L paced about and tried to talk me into putting on my shoes and getting into the car, as well as transferring Smalls to a tired-but-excited Babi and Děda. 

After a 30-minute drive on a deserted motorway, we were at the hospital and I was still not contracting convincingly. 

So, I was quite apologetic to the nurse who booked us in and prepared to be told off for wasting their time. The visage of a disappointed Babi loomed.

However, the nurse was surprisingly serious about the whole thing, insisting we change into hospital-issued clothing (Bah! We'll just have to change back when they realise I'm not really in labour.), had the doctor take a look, and then, mysteriously, escorted us to the labour and delivery room.

The labour and delivery room was very nice, as far as these sorts of rooms go. And I wavered between feeling a little guilty that we would be taking up a room that surely some other more-contracting woman would need and looking forward to catching up on my reading on the adequately-comfy sofa. 

I suspect that you can guess what is coming next.

A hard-and-fast two and a half hours later, and I had a snuffling Smallest curled up on my chest. 

The book was never opened.

Giving birth in Czech
I'm happy to report that my lack of fluent Czech did not prevent me from giving birth.

When the midwife said, with some urgency, 'To bude brzy!' [It will be soon!], I understood.

When I realised it would be even sooner than she predicted, and that the space around my bed was concerning lacking in people, I said (in English...and since this is my version of events, with the calmness of the Orgasmic Birth woman), 'HE'S COMING!', and people came running over.

The very kind midwife patted me reassuringly and repeated, 'Tlačte'. Through the searing whiteness of contractions, I couldn't remember if that meant 'breathe' or 'push'. So, I did both. And it seemed to work.

I have some vague memory of the midwife instructing the nurse to hand her the scissors (me: Oh hell no! Better make a big push. Or possibly breath.), but in the memory, they're both speaking in English. So, I'm not sure exactly how accurate it is.

UK vs. Czech Births
My first son was born in the UK, in a very calm, very intimate, very long home birth. It was an incredible and powerful experience. It was also a little traumatic, and I avoided the room where it all took place for weeks afterwards. (Right over here is where I was in the most pain of my life. Care for another cup of tea?)

For a number of reasons, including an institutional hostility to home births, such a birth wasn't something I considered this time around.

This birth was also incredible and powerful, though somewhat less intimate. In some ways it was better (no need to worry about the state of my rugs or sofa); in some ways, it was worse (I really wanted gas and air again). Overall, though, it was pretty much the best hospital birth experience that I could imagine, and I would highly recommend Nemocnice Hořovice.

And, finally, it's amazing how quickly This was a mistake! What was I thinking?! I don't suppose there's another way to get it out?! is over-written by My gods, you're perfect! I'd do it all again tomorrow for you and your sweet, pouty lips. 

Bloody biology.

A visit to the ER: Czech versus the US (with gratuitous swearing)

A few weeks ago, one of our 'Amazingly Ever-Sharp!' ceramic knives was on the hunt for blood.

It started by attacking L as he reached into the basket for it.

'Ow! F*ck!' L growled.

I had two sentences fighting for control of my tongue.

Sentence 1: 'Hm, are you sure that's a word we want to teach Smalls?'
Sentence 2: 'I'll get you a plaster.'

It is a very fortunate thing that Sentence 2 won, because not five minutes later, that very same knife deviated from my plan to slice through a hunk of rather old bread and instead sliced through my finger.

'Oh, f*ck,' I said, and two thoughts made their way into my brain.

Thought 1: Probability of Smalls gaining a new vocabulary word: much increased.
Thought 2: This is going to require more than a plaster. 

One of the things I've gotten very used to here in the Czech Republic is the 'socialist' healthcare that is often decried by my conservative American Facebook friends.

While in my experience, Czech hospitals aren't as glossy as American hospitals, they are not without their advantages.

First off, I pay under $200 out of my paycheck a month for all of my health and social insurances. I had the choice of two official health insurance companies. And even better, I don't have to talk to my insurer - all of the billings are handled by the medical offices.

And let's talk co-pays. There have been some changes in recent years about how much Czech healthcare users are required to pay, but recently, following outrage and controversy, the mandatory co-pay for visiting a general practitioner has been reduced to....nothing. The shocking amount required before? 90 CZK ($3.79).

Since my bloodied finger happened in the evening, we headed off to the emergency room, which still requires a co-pay, though probably not as much as most American health service users pay.

Case in point: a few years ago, when we visiting my sister and brother-in-law in the US, my brother-in-law came into the house with a very large, blood-oozing wound on his head. L and I were getting ready to sort out getting him to the emergency room, when my sister said the immortal words:

'I'm not paying $500 just because my husband was doing something stupid.'

Here in the Czech Republic, the amount L had to pay because his wife was doing something stupid: 90 CZK.

Perhaps the best part of the whole experience was when we walked into the examination room and the on-call doctor looked up from his desk, laughed a bit, and said, 'Ahoj!'

So, L had a chance to catch up with a childhood friend while my finger was expertly stitched.

And, on an equally positive note, not only has the 4 cm gash healed nicely, the only time Smalls has used 'f*ck' remains the time he solemnly looked me in the eyes and said, 'f*cked.'

While I was still scrambling to think of the best way to deal with the situation, he added, 'It's true!' and I realised he had, in fact, said 'fakt' (i.e. the Czech word for 'it's the truth/a fact').

And so I'm pretty sure his vocabulary, unlike my poor finger, has emerged from the bloodbath unscathed.

Accepting a new chance

It's one of those lovely frosty-foggy days here in the village. All stationary things seem especially anchored with their bonds of ice while the heavy fog flows elusively around them.

It would be the perfect day for a walk in the woods.

However, I am currently very heavily anchored at home by my expanding belly. The belly itself isn't so much of an issue, but Impending Baby starts hinting that he would like to come soon whenever I move too much.

So, mystical walks are on hold for another week or two, until I reach that blessed 37 week mark and can institute grumpy 'get this baby out' stomps.


This period of stillness is giving me the opportunity to get very philosophical, as you can imagine...since there isn't so much else to do.

The very optimistically entitled 'Orgasmic Birth' video that I watched recently talked a lot about embracing pain and letting it flow through oneself.

And in many ways this pregnancy has been a nine-month lesson in finding my way through pain and discomfort, from the physical waves of fatigue and nausea that ruled the first five months to the emotional weight of worry and sadness as I found myself replaying the same motions and rituals of early pregnancy twice in one year.

It's a complicated complaint - two pregnancies in one year. The ache of the one that couldn't stay (for whatever unknown reason) coupled with the appreciation for the one that has stayed with us longer.

My sister, when I told her I was pregnant again, told me she was so pleased that we'd been given another chance so soon. A colleague who had been struggling to get pregnant said something similar about how I was lucky that another pregnancy happened so quickly.

This helped me re-frame this pregnancy and stop Googling 'chances of second miscarriage' (at least for a little bit), to appreciate this new pregnancy as not just more months of nausea and seemingly endless blood tests, necessitated by disappointment and failure. But its own special miracle. Its own unique roll of the biological dice. Its own promise for a new path for our family.

I still didn't officially tell my boss. It started innocently enough. 'I'll just wait until the 12 week check,' I told myself. Then, 'After the 20 week anomaly scan.' And then I was out of convenient ways to postpone going to his office yet again and telling him a second time that he would need to arrange maternity cover. But the very illogical part of my brain wouldn't let me do the responsible thing - just in case I'd have to say again that a replacement for me wouldn't be necessary.

Bless my manager who called him to make sure he was aware of the timings.

She did, however, suggest in a patient, understanding, and slightly amused tone that it might be a good idea for me to tell the students.

'I'm pretty sure they already know,' she said, looking at my unmissable bump, 'but it might be good for you to tell them about the candidates for your maternity cover that might be coming to their classes tomorrow.'

A couple of the classes actually clapped when I told them....and then reassured me that they were excited for the baby and not for my impending departure. I'm pretty sure that was the first time in my life having unprotected sex has led to applause. It was sweet, nonetheless.

I've put off other preparatory chores as well. Smalls's baby clothes are still in cardboard boxes scattered around our room. I was definitely one of the most heavily pregnant women at the hospital tour I went to on Monday. Packing the hospital bag keeps getting bumped to another week's to-do list.


So, you can see why it's very important that I don't go for lovely misty forest walks just yet.

I am getting closer and closer to embracing this pregnancy, to letting the sadness and worry flow through me. Especially on these quiet days, when I feel little knees and elbows exploring the limits of my belly.

Still, I'm not sure I've yet reached the level of enlightenment (and perhaps complete transcendence of physical realities) that would seem to be necessary for an orgasmic birth experience. 

Speaking English at a Czech preschool

Smalls and his friends from školka still seem to find us parents interesting.

Kája's mother, for instance, seems to attract a small crowd whenever she arrives, with many little hands desperate to touch the newborn she always brings with her.

I'm very impressed with her ability to simultaneous get her 3-year-old dressed and fend off over-inquisitive fingers.

'No, Robert, don't poke the baby's eyes.'

As for me, I seem to be known as Smalls's Mother Who Speaks English.

('But why does she speak English?' one mystified little girl asked her mother repeatedly yesterday.)

A few weeks ago, I dropped Smalls off a little later than normal and we were accosted by four little girls.

'Ahoj!' I said.

'Ahoj,' was chorused back four times.

Smalls wiggled behind my legs. I was momentarily confused about his sudden shyness, but then the onslot started - a series of questions delivered by the biggest of the four in Czech. Answers were briefly discussed among the group before the next question was fired off.

'Do you work?'
'What does Smalls's dad do for work?'
'Do you drive?'
'What is your car?'
'Is it true you speak English?'
'Are you pregnant?'

I stepped out of školka in a daze and fully intended to hide behind Smalls's legs next time.


However, Smalls seems to have decided that an offensive is the best approach. The next time I picked him up, he grabbed my hand.

'You need to say hi to my friends,' he commanded.

'That's Smalls's mama,' the friends authoritatively told each other as I walked into the room. 'She speaks English.'

'Ahoj,' I said (to show that I also speak Czech, of course).

'Hello,' one friend said slowly in English. 'I...am...Martin.'

A few other children queued up to try their English, which made me feel like some visiting celebrity.

'Hello!' 'Hi.' 'My...name...is...' they whispered shyly.

Finally, one of the bigger boys came over.

'You...' he said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember the right word, 'SUCK!'

Strike two, Robert. Strike two.

Competitive undercurrents and the waiting rooms in doctors' offices

Over the past year, I've become something of an expert of Doctors' Waiting Rooms in the Czech Republic.

As with medical waiting rooms probably anywhere, the waiting rooms are grim and the atmosphere is strained. Fellow patients eye each other warily and newcomers get a stern look.

'Dobrý den,' those seated growl, looking up briefly from their magazines. [Translation: Oi, I'm in front of you in the queue.]

'Dobrý den,' those who have just stepped in reply. [We'll just see who the nurse calls first, won't we?]

Things get even more antagonistic at our local GP's office towards the end of the official time when she takes blood.

The whole waiting room sizes each other up, trying to determine each other's complaint.

You're not here to give blood, are you? Everyone silently accuses each other. You'd be a real bastard to not let me go ahead of you.

Patients exiting the doctor's room clutch the inside of their arm with protective triumph.

'Na shledanou.' [It was blood, you bastards. And I got in before ten o'clock.]


However, I have recently found the exception to the silently simmering waiting room.

A few weeks ago, I had to go to a special clinic for a gruesomely early appointment.

I was the first patient of the morning and the test consisted of a series of blood draws over a two hour period, so I had a chance to 1) get halfway through a book; 2) plan an elaborate post-test breakfast; 3) study my fellow patients.

6.45 am
Empty waiting room. Nurse ushers me into the room. I hand over documents and apologise in Czech for my impractically small veins and proffer the right arm as the most likely to cooperate.

'Hm, we have to do this three times,' she replied, eyeing both sides with increasing tightening lips.
Ouch. Make that four times.

7.00 am
I settle into the waiting room with my book. A few new patients shuffle in. Several older ladies. A smiling young student. All greet me with a cheery 'Dobrý den!'

And without exception, they conscientiously protest when the nurse calls them in, 'Ale, paní tu byla první.' [But this lady was here first.]

That's no way to treat your fellow waiting room colleagues! What is wrong with you people?

'Paní musí ještě čekat ,' the tight-lipped nurse replied each time with a stern look at me. [She still needs to wait].

8.00 am
The business professionals start to filter in, wearing suits and an air of importance.

The nurse comes out to call them in.

'Možná paní...' they mutter halfheartedly, with a minuscule gesture in my direction. [Maybe the lady...]

'Paní musí ještě čekat.'

9.00 am
Finally, I am done with waiting and gathering my strength before the much anticipated breakfast.

Into the waiting room shuffle an older couple whose lips are so firmly pressed together that not even a Dobrý den can squeeze past.

The woman glares at me for having the audacity to be before them, and there is a definite air of Waiting Room Competition Winners when they are ushered into the nurse's room.


And so the world of medical waiting rooms returns to normal.

But my breakfast tasted all the sweeter now that I know there is some small window of time in the early morning light when cutthroat competition is still sleeping and waiting rooms are a place of polite conviviality. 

The case for garish green houses

'Do you think it's that one?'

'Oh no. That's much too new. We're looking for number 95. That must be at least a 200.' 

L and I recently had this rather odd exchange a few days ago when driving through a nearby village. We were looking for a particular house, which is always a bit of a challenge in Czech villages. 

Houses are easy to find. A specific house is more challenging.

The root of the problem is how the government numbers houses. Being American, I am used to grids of roads, often numbered instead of named, with neat lines of houses, numbered sequentially. The house at 395 1st Avenue West sits across from 396 1st Avenue West. The next road over is almost certainly 2nd Avenue West with its own orderly rows of neatly numbered homes. 

And the city planners sigh with satisfaction.

In the Czech Republic, houses are numbered according to when they are officially completed. Presumably, there is an official register where all the buildings are neatly listed. House number 395, which was completed on 6 July 2014 is followed closely by number 396, which was completed, perhaps, on 7 July 2014. 

And a government bureaucrat pulls out her pencil and ruler, enters another house into the register, and gives a contented nod. 

There are benefits to this system. We once got a letter that was addressed only as:

[L's last name]

[House number]

[Postcode].

I was very impressed, until L pointed out that of course we were the only house of that number in the whole village.

Which means, naturally, that the sender of the letter had been terribly indulgent to include the superfluous [Last name]. The purity of the minimalism had been tainted. Ink was wasted. 

The Czech house numbering system also means that one can fairly accurately pinpoint the ages of houses. The under-100s are the core of our village. The mid-100s to 200s were built in a flurry of construction in the 1960s. The 300 right next to an 86 was almost certainly built recently on an extra bit of garden.

Most likely fond parents who gave a bit of garden to their son or daughter so they could live closely, I tell myself with an indulgent smile as I walk past. 

The 92 that looks terribly modern? Almost certainly a dramatic reconstruction of the original building.

I've been on a mission to identify the oldest houses in the village, which has helped me keep some semblance of sanity when Smalls is on his mission to find all the snails or catalogue every rock. Finding a 20 or under is a highlight of any walk.

But, of course, there is one major downside to this system of numbering houses. One big, glaring, unavoidable problem.

Big cities like Prague have fixed this by giving houses two numbers. One, on a red plate, is under the traditional system. The other, on a blue plate, recognises that sometimes people need to know the exact physical position of a building.

However, this is not considered necessary in the smaller villages. Also not necessary in our particular village, it seems, is a variety of street names. In our section, there are no less than five roads with the exact same official name. So, for instance, U Hřiště sits parallel with U Hřiště, and they (it?) are (is?) intersected by (of course!) U Hřiště, which snakes around a corner to join into yet another U Hřiště. 

It's very similar on the other side of the village - though fortunately village planners at least had the decency to daringly try a different street name. One different street name. No need to needlessly waste street names. Let's not kid ourselves, here. We're not Prague. 

And so, when intrepid Praguers venture out of their shining blue-plated metropolis to visit us, I try to be as specific as possible.

'We are the house with the big new fence, next to an very, terribly green house. Turn right on  U Hřiště, and then take the first left on U Hřiště. If you come to another U Hřiště, you've gone too far. If you start to see 300s, you're on the wrong side of the village. If you get to the motorway, you're on your way to the wrong village.'

And, almost inevitably, 'Hi, Yes, I thought I saw you're car go by. I'll come out and wave at you. I'm in a black coat. Blue scarf. If you see someone with a dog, that's the wrong waving villager.'

Maybe this explains our neighbours' inexplicable - and unmissable - choice of paint colour.

Unexpected kindness and the Spirit of Christmas in the Spring

'First, there will be snow,' Smalls told me the other day. 'And then it will be Christmas. And then Santa Claus will come with presents.'

Unfortunately for him, this December seems to believe it is March, and there hasn't been a single flake of snow for at least a week.

I was trying to think of a good Christmassy story, and perhaps the lack of snow is why I keep thinking of the spring.

This past spring was very rough for me - a late-ish miscarriage followed very closely by an unexpected bad diagnosis for my dear old dad. And so, in an effort to keep myself sane, I spent a lot of time working on our garden.

One of the key attractions in our little village is a trade/vocational school where students focus on practical avenues of study such as mechanics and horticulture. In the spring, the school lets some of the students co-run a little nursery shop in a series of sheds and greenhouses on the school grounds.

I'd heard that the plants were both healthy and cheap, so I set out with Smalls one morning to investigate.

The students of the trade school can generally be identified as the loiterers at the bus stop, smoking a variety of substances and giving each other piggy back rides while squawking loudly. 

Smalls, of course, finds them fascinating. 

I was poking around the collection of sheds when one of the roughest of the students came sauntering up.

'Dobrý den,' he said. And then he said something else that I didn't quite understand. Possibly, I was too dazzled by the multitude of piercing sparkling on his face.

'Omlouvám se...' I began with a touch of desperation.

'Ah, English?' He said.

'Yes, please!'

'Hmmm, today.......now.......no,' he said, searching for the words and picking them with apologetic care. 'Zitra.....tomorrow?.....yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow, yes.'

I thanked him. He smiled and waved.

The next morning, true to his word, he was there again and the shop was open. He helped me pick out some plants and gave me some advice about where to put them. 

'Tohle je lepší. Better. This one.'

At the end, he tallied up my purchases, then ran back to the greenhouse and returned with two cosmos that I had been eyeing up, but had passed over since I wasn't quite sure where to put them.

'To jsou velmi dobré. Good. Many....flowers,' he said with a soft smile. 'A zdarma pro vás. No....money.'

My two free cosmos found a very nice home in my front garden and bloomed all summer and late into the fall. A cheery reminder of unexpected kindnesses whenever I went through the front gate.

I haven't seen him around the village lately, with his scruffy hair, his collection of piercings, his shy smile, and lines of scars on his inner arm. 

I hope things are going well for him and that he also has had someone give him just what he needed 'zdarma, no money' at a time when he maybe didn't realise how much he needed it. 

And that is my unseasonable-seasonable story. May all of you be as lucky as I have been to receive perfect presents throughout the year. Merry Christmas!

Christmastime and the chocolate devil

One of the first tell-tale signs of the Coming of the Christmas Time in the Czech Republic is sudden proliferation in shops of many little devils.

Not just the charming shoppers themselves, but The Devil Himself, most often embodied in chocolate and foil.

One of the many chocolate devils on offer (this one from Chocoland.cz)

The Czech word for him is Čert and he, along with Anděl (an angel) and Mikuláš (St. Nicholas), he pays a visit to Czech households on the 5th of December. Good children get fruit, chocolate, and small gifts. Bad children get potatoes, onions, coal....or worse.

 'Čert is a very good tradition,' one of my colleagues told me with a nostalgic sigh. 'When my children believed in him, they were so good.'

Much of the Mikuláš tradition is very similar to Santa Claus and his infamous naughty-or-nice list, although Mikuláš himself seems to be much less jolly....and less despotically autocratic as well. The Czech Mikuláš hears both cases for and against the child and judges accordingly.

This is perhaps a positive first introduction to the judiciary system.

But it still leaves us with the uncomfortable presence of the terrifying Čert. I couldn't bring myself to tell Smalls stories about Čert in spite of my colleague's glowing endorsement of the devil as a disciplinary threat.

Heck, I still feel a little guilty for telling Smalls that it was Santa Claus who brought him the advent calendar and small present at the beginning of December. And I feel my cheeks burning a bit when I tell him that he could try asking Ježíšek for the little guitar that he's currently coveting.

I am not very good at this lying business. Even if it is in the name of childhood wonder.

Fortunately/unfortunately, Smalls's classmates seem happy to impart what they know of childhood terror.

'Čert is hiding,' Smalls told me a few nights ago during bathtime. 'He hids in the dark. He will catch me and take me away. And eat me.'

'Oh?' I said, buying time.

'Yes. It's true,' Smalls said. And repeated the story again for emphasis.

Smalls, at three-and-a-half, seems pretty small to be believing in dark satanic feasts.

But, he also seems a little too small to be trusted with truth of Čert. I pictured him imparting his wisdom to his friends...which was quickly followed by visions of angry, bedraggled mothers accosting me when I picked J up from school chanting, ' 'Čert is a very good tradition, Our children used to be so good!'

'Čert, you know, is a coward, really,' I said, aiming for some safe middle ground. 'He's always hiding and slinking around. If you tell him, 'You're very naughty! You need to leave me alone, you horrible Čert!' he'll run away.'

Smalls seemed a bit skeptical, but I later overheard him explaining to L what he should do if accosted by Čert, so I'm relatively hopeful that I've bought us a little more time.

And even better, apparently one of Smalls's friends turned to her mother during the whole Mikuláš charade and whispered, 'This doesn't seem very real.'

This brings up the excellent possibility that it will not be my child who ultimately exposes Čert as a foil-covered fraud.

And so I find myself hoping quite enthusiastically for the growing skepticism of other people's three-year-olds. 

A downside of being a foreign mother

I've spent the last week desperately looking for a lampion. And a drak.

It all started last Thursday with a text from Smalls's školka, which was a friendly reminder that at 5 pm, parents were welcome to join the kids for a walk with 'lampiony'.

This was the first I'd heard of this event, and I didn't have time to pick anything up from a shop. Also, 'lampiony' is a general word for lanterns, so I wasn't quite sure what they meant.

'Perhaps they've carved pumpkins. Or made lanterns out of glass jars. Or put candles in paper bags,' I comforted myself. And brought J's beloved flashlight just in case parents were supposed to bring something.

Ten excited kids. Three focused teachers. Ten pleased parents. Nine paper lanterns-on-a-stick with candles merrily burning inside. One little orange flashlight.

So, it turns out that in the context of easily overlooked notices on the noticeboard at školka, 'lampiony' is not, in fact, an all-encompassing word for various lanterns.

'Proč nemáš lampion?' [Why don't you have a lampion?] one of Smalls's friends asked him, while happily waving around his own one.

See, that I understood.

'Protože mám baterku!' [Because I have a flashlight!] Smalls proudly pronounced.

Because you have a foreigner for a mother, I thought.

And, of course, this should have been the end of it. I should have poured myself a lovely cup of tea when we got home and filed this away under Things to Remember When Smalls Slams Doors as a Teenager.

But, then the noticeboard at školka informed me that this week, they would be flying 'draky'.

The blessed chance for redemption!

The word 'draky' can either mean 'dragons' or 'kites'. I was relatively certain that kites were the things required in this case. We already had a kite for Smalls, but it is a cheap affair and I would put the chances of it breaking pre-flight close to 80%.

I could practically hear Smalls's friend again: 'Why don't you have a kite that isn't broken?'

No. I had to prevent this from happening to Smalls.

A new, better kite was required. One that would be sturdy, colourful, impressive. A kite that would be the envy of Smalls' friends and would convince the teachers that I am a good, if sometimes inexplicably foreign, mother.

Also, I decided, while I'm at it, he should have a proper lampion-on-a-stick.


This was, of course, never a logic-based mission. In fact, as I was going from shop to shop, a not-insignificant part of me reminded me that Smalls did, in fact, have a kite and that this really was about guilt and ego more than anything else, wasn't it?

But, sometimes we need to be a little irrational.

Three stationary shops, two book shops, two supermarkets, two toy stores, one Tiger, and three 'Vietnamese' corner shops later and I was the proud, exhausted owner of both a new kite and a lampion-on-a-stick.

I also have a much better understanding now of the goods on offer in Prague shops.


'How was the kite flying today?' I asked Smalls when I picked him up from školka.

'It was ok,' he said. 'I stepped on my kite and it broke.'

Getting used to driving in the Czech Republic

As you might have gathered from previous posts, I am the very proud bearer of a Czech driver's license.

However, this extreme privilege comes with one major downside: I now must drive on Czech roads (fine) with other drivers in the Czech Republic (problem!).

In fairness, probably 80% of Czech drivers are perfectly acceptable.

The other 20%....

A few weeks ago, I was driving home on the motorway and some enthusiastic member of the 20% club had caused an accident which caused the whole three-lane road to be bricked for a solid, miserable 5 km. And what, I ask you, do the other drivers do?

Me, I swear a bit and become good friends with first gear and the radio. A dark calm settles on me, very similar to the feeling as one waits at the Foreigners' Police or any other of the grand Czech bureaucratic institutions.

The other 80% take a similar approach, or use the extended interval to take an impromptu roadside pee break.

However, those strange souls in the 20% start waving their arms wildly, spring into any gap between cars that is more than 15 cm wide, and make their way to the shoulder, which they commandeer into a fourth lane and zip at terrifying speeds between the overloaded trucks and the yawning ditch.

I'm pretty sure that not all of them are heart surgeons with a transplant specialty and a waiting surgical team.


A few days ago, I was driving through the village next to ours and a car came speeding up behind me. He kept trundling along until he was practically on my bumper, and then started gesturing at me from behind his windscreen.

I would like the record to show that I resisted the temptation to ease off the gas at this point.

'Just driving like my dear old Dad taught me!' I said cheerily instead. And pointlessly, of course.


I officially learned how to drive (the first time around) at 15 and a half through after-class lessons at my Junior High School. (I am now horrified when my 18-year-old students tell me they are taking driving lessons.) But my real driving approach was honed by early morning drives with my dad.

Together, we'd brave icy twilight mornings. I'd drive to school, he'd carry on to work. Along the way, he taught me the Dad Approved Way to drive.

'They'll give you tickets for going even a few miles per hour over the speed limit,' he'd tell me, with the bitterness of experience.

'Always leave plenty of room between you and the person in front.'

And the generational wisdom of: ' Take your time! As your grandmother used to say, if you wait long enough, there is always a hole.'

Driving is very different where I grew up. Traffic is ten cars waiting at the stop light on Main Street. I can't bring myself to call the main roads here in Europe 'highways'. The highways of my youth stretch for miles in straight lines, dotted by the occasional semi truck. So, 'Czech motorways' it is.

The drivers are different too.

'You really need to watch out for drivers here,' my sister warned me when we were visiting this summer. 'They are crazy.'

L and I laughed a little bit. Crazy? Compared to Czech drivers?

But at soon as I got behind the wheel, it all came flooding back. A different kind of crazy.

20% of Czech drivers seem to believe they are in some timed video game and the rest of us are computer-generated obstacles.

On the other hand, 30% of drivers from my sister's town seem to believe they are dream-driving and the rest of us are invisible.

The whole experience tends to be slower, but equally terrifying and considerably more unpredictable.


As for me, I've had to adjust my driving approach somewhat. I still hover around the speed limit, but my thinking is sharper. I spend more time identifying the heart-surgeon drivers. I am more assertive.

And I've amended my grandmother's saying.

'If you wait long enough,' I mutter to myself with grim satisfaction at weaving, waving, tailgating drivers, 'there's always an a-hole.' 

Studying home culture

The apples are falling from the trees in our garden. I'm sitting in a sweater with a cup of tea. Our local hedgehog was out last evening meticulously snuffling his way around looking for just a few more calories before hibernation.

Fall, glorious fall, is here again.

The boys are off to press apple cider in L's uncle's mini orchard, leaving me at home in a contemplative mood.

It's been 10 years since I left the US, and in some ways, I'm beginning to feel it.

Occasionally, students ask me about the nuances of adult-type things in the US (credit cards, job interviews) and I have to confess my ignorance, since I was a young student when I left.

Similarly, there have been a lot of social changes in the US in the past decade since I left, some of which make me feel twinges of patriotism and others that make me mutter: '...And that's why we'll never move back.'

And then there was the embarrassing incident when I informed a student that 'pic' is not generally used in spoken conversations. Still feeling a little red about that.

A few years ago, L and I were in a hotel in the US and decided to see if there was something interesting on the TV. I sat there blinking at the flashing screen, completely lost in the strange ad campaigns and bellowing TV personalities.

...And we're back! Will Jen and Rocky be ECSTATIC about the complete and total renovations that we did IN A MERE TWO HOURS or will their minds BE COMPLETELY BLOWN and not in a good way. FIND OUT AFTER THE BREAK!!!


So, to augment my receding cultural knowledge, I watch a few American TV shows, read online forums with mostly American members, and keep an eye on what my high school friends and acquaintances post on Facebook (not creepy! I swear!).

In many ways, I think it's helping me stay mostly up to date, though I suspect my knowledge of memes and slang is lagging behind.

Fortunately, since I grew up in a remote area with pretty much only a Walmart and a JC Penny's, I'm used to being a little behind on the fashionable things.

I do suspect that my Home Culture Studies are lacking in diversity of views though, since I want to read and watch things that don't make me too angry.

I was reading an interesting book a few days ago about this phenomenon - that the internet gives us much more information of a vast diversity and depth, but that we naturally self-select things that reinforce our own views and prejudices.

Give me another decade, and I'll be convinced that the US is filled with educated liberals with strong social consciousnesses and a love of quality books and ethically-produced food.

And that's why I never block people on Facebook.