Mr and Mrs Hesse

I am a housewife in Germany. A Swedish housewife in the country of the housewives. I believe the word and concept of a housewife was coined and perfected in this country. At the moment I am trying to sort out my own household and to organise it in a certain way so that I hardly notice that I have anything to do with it. But I have come to a realisation. The more you do housework the more it becomes. It seems to accumulate actually. Instead of the odd hour I did before I could easily spend the whole day doing obscure chores that lead to nothing.
To my immense gratification I live door to door with a older couple that has taken housework to the next level. To the highest level. There can be no other level. His name I know but I will call them Mister and Missus Hesse just to simplify the matter and to protect their privacy. (They have nothing to do with the great author, just to clarify.) Why is this of pleasure for me? Because of one reason only: I am so far behind them in efficiancy level of this particular branch that I would be reaching for the stars in housework to come close to their league. I can therefore sit back and enjoy the little quirks they deliver on a regular basis.
Yesterday I got another of those kicks and it made my day. I had done a quick lunch for Peter and Joshua and I opened our dining room window to call them in. They were playing in the garden. Peter was trying to assemble the wooden table without any success and Joshua sat in the sand pit and watched him intently. I call them and then I lean out a bit more to take a close look at the Hesse´s garden. It does not actually classifies as a garden per se as it is more a organised storage of grass, paving stones and green bushes with pink ball flowers on them.
Then I discovered it. Leaned up against the vanilla colored plastic partition-wall stood two garden umbrella stands. The umbrellas themselves where not present. (Surely they are protected with a plastic wrapper somewhere in the cellar.) The stands were the sort that weigh a ton and therefore not easy to move about all the time. I am always pissed off when the sun moves and I have to drag our stone stand around. But Mr Hesse has draged them both to the wall and positioned them next to eachother on a strip of small pebble stones which indicates that he has to have lifted them up a bit. Well, that might pass for some people. A hassle but not out of the ordinary. I agree. It is ok. But Mrs Hesse (Now, I just assume that is how they divided the work up.) has taken two cream cups, cleaned them and slid them over the metal pipe for protection. It is not that I don´t understand why they do it, for I do. I bow in awe for their foresight and their never ending energy to conjure up more chores and better way to keep things neat and cleaned.
Last week they kept me giggling for a few days in a row. Every time I walked to and from our front gate. Around all our houses in the whole neighbourhood there are red brick stones lined up next to the asfalt pavement. This is part of the design of this particular area of the town. Mr and Mrs Hesse take a keen interest in their realm of habitat. For several months now they have noticed that the brick stones lack an even surface and has started to crumble at several spots. Mr and Mrs Hesse take the matter into their own hands and hire two sweaty workers to lay new brick stones on the four meters that contains their rented apartment. The workers work long into the night and Mr Hesse is often seen out there to inspect. Even Mrs Hesse ocasionally comes out to watch the work progress.
I am only human enough to feel a pang of guilt when our 82 year old neighbour under us scratches up weeds between the paving stones on our lane. I smile at her apologetically and takes big soft steps passed her and make sure to close the gate behind me. I know that is important to her.
The Blond Gardener

Kindergarten Blues

Yesterday evening Peter and I enjoy a quiet evening with Frasier – the one with the bar mitzvah. As fun as it was when Frasier mistakes Klingon for Hebrew it suddenly hits me that my life is about to change forever. My oldest daughter Maja will leave me tomorrow. She is taking her first step in to her own world. She is starting Kindergarten. The good old days of lazy play are over… now it is only a matter of time until she lives far away and we see each other only a few times a year. Did I mention that she is three?? Why this melancholy? Is it because she is asleep although it is only 9 pm? Or is it because she dresses herself? No, that last thing I love. When she left this sunny morning she had a wonderful outfit on. The red and white checked pants, which was my choice and I argued: it is summer fluff and easy to take on and off. She took it. The rest, the striped long sleeved t-shirt, Joshua’s knitted cardigan (too small for her but a golden moment of memory for me of us giggling together when I close the small white buttons and told her to hold her tummy in. The cardigan stopped right above her belly button and leaves a curtain of red t-shirt hanging.) her winter hat and Pippi Longstocking shoes. Socks are soo overrated.
She has never been away for me more than three hours. In her life. Never. And I remember when. When she was about one year old, Peter and I went to IKEA to buy bookshelves and she stayed at home with grandma and grandpa. When Joshua was born she was out with Peter and Oma for a loooong time when I was trying to breastfeed and sleep. Even if it was a bliss to be alone with Joshua and to relax I still missed her and thought she had grown when she came rushing in with glowing cold cheeks to tell me all about the sling and the climbing she had done.
We got three good years my little darling and now I am very jealous of the people that are allowed to spend time with you and who will tell you all kinds of stuff of the world that might or might not be true. They could be angry with her. (Only I am allowed to be angry with her…) Or comfort her when she is sad. (Nobody can do it as well as I.) And I hardly know them. Do they see her properly? Not only the fact that she loves to hide her head in plastic bags or has a clinical need to put strings around her neck. Not to say anything about the small objects that she keeps in her mouth. But do they see her? That she is really sensitive and that she gets scared when people laugh at her (or with her for that matter) or when people (mostly men actually) get to close too quickly. She wants to be included but wont take anything. She has her own will and own opinions. Will she fit in? Will she be accepted but also: will she accept them?
What was in her pink bag this morning? By me a pair of underpants and blue trousers for the event of an accident. She took a wooden bed from the playhouse, a velvet silk scarves, a wooden box with a red rose on it, a little pillow, a little red blanket and MiniMe. She wanted the Winnie the Pooh ball but it would not fit into the bag. She allowed her brother to play with it until she comes home.
Off they went, Peter and Maja, on the bike. She in her yellow helmet with pigs and dogs on it (I don’t know what pigs and dogs do together but they are dancing on her helmet) and the early summer sun shining on her lovely face.
Bye my little darling, go out and face the world. Take risks, play and have fun. And then you come home again.

The blonde mother