You have no passion.

When your 8 year old daughter tells you that you have no passion, it hurts.  You see Pippa has decided that she is a flamenco dancer in her soul.  I am not.

This all started when we took her to Seville last year and she watched one of the best flamenco dancers in the world perform.  The woman was serious.  Her face was wrinkled and her eyes sorrowful.  She danced with such extreme passion that it was hard not to be moved.  Maggie thought the lady was crazy.  She wanted her to smile.  She was not impressed by her intensity.  Pippa was transfixed.

Watching the flamenco dancer told a story of pain and passion.  Pippa studied her every move.  When the show was over, Pippa’s new life began.  She begged me to buy her an entire flamenco dancer outfit.  This was the easy part because every tourist shop in Seville is teeming with the crap.  Pippa rarely asks for anything, so the costume seemed innocent enough.  When she put it on, she was transported.  She had truly studied the performance and started dancing with such passion.  Her face mimicked the lady she had watched before.  Her feet started pounding the ground with real rhythm.  I truly was moved.

I also thought that this would be a phase.  I was wrong.  She continued to dance.  Every time she would dance a sorrowful dance.  Pippa’s face would express pain and sadness.  A pain, her then 7 year old life, had never experienced.  She told me she felt flamenco in her soul.

Fast forward to this winter.  My parents are visiting us in Portugal and they suggest a vacation in Spain.  We head to the Marriott Playa Andalusia in Marbella, Spain.  It is a fabulous resort filled with activities to do.  One night they even had a flamenco show.  We reserved the front row.  Pippa dressed in her flamenco costume and after preparing my parents for what they were about to expect, she settled in to be wowed.

 

The three female dancers began dancing to music that was recorded.  This was their first mistake.  As Pippa pointed out to my parents, they needed to dance to live guitar music to be authentic. Strike one.  When the dancers were smiling, Pippa wanted to leave.  She whispered in my ear, too loudly I might add, that we should leave because these women were not professional.  Strike two.  The women continued to put on a pretty decent performance, albeit not as good as the one in Seville.  Pippa was crushed.  Strike three came when no male dancer appeared.  In Seville, the intense dancer did several dances with a man.  These were dances of a lost love and they were deeply moving.  Pippa said that without a male dancer, these women were missing the point of the passionate break up.

My parents were really impressed by the show. They enjoyed the dancing and they couldn’t wait to see Pippa dance flamenco back in the room.  When we got back to our room, Pippa said the show was crap.  She picked apart the dancers lack of understanding of true flamenco.  She told her grandparents that she was glad they liked the show, but that it was for tourists only.  The only thing she liked was their costumes.

The next day we were visiting the stunning ancient city of Córdoba.  We saw a professional flamenco shop with real costumes, not ones for tourists.  Pippa ran inside.  She studied the dresses, the shoes and the castonettes.  A sales lady asked Pippa if she needed some help.  Pippa started talking about the show from the night before.

She told the lady that her grandparents had taken her to a flamenco show where the dancers were smiling.  The sales lady said that was wrong.  Pippa told her she thought it was terrible to not show passion.  The sales lady asked Pippa to dance.  In this small shop in Córdoba, Spain my daughter started to dance.  The worker clapped an intense rhythm that is a huge part of flamenco and yelled olè, which they also do during dances to encourage the performers.  The sales lady said that Pippa understood the passion needed to be a flamenco dancer.

Pippa and the sales lady then discussed, in depth, why a hotel would not show true flamenco.  Tourists, they concluded, need upbeat things, not things with true passion.

On the drive home, my daughter said to me that, “flamenco is about pain and loss, you just don’t get it mom.  You need to have passion to understand flamenco.”

How does my daughter who has never experienced pain, nor loss fake it well enough to trick us all?   This is a mystery of life.  Also, I have experienced both pain and loss, but apparently this did not translate into my body, because I lack true passion, according to my child.  I could be hurt, but I am more stunned that I have been ‘out passioned’ by my baby.

(This is a picture of the ladies smiling.  Pippa refers to this as proof.)

Do what makes you happy.

I love the expression, “do what makes you happy,” but somehow that seems hard to do. I was asked recently by my youngest daughter what makes me happy. I quickly responded that she and her sister make me happy. It’s true. I never wanted children originally. I had a career as a television news producer. I liked pursuing stories and hanging out with my colleagues. I liked that my priest and I went on cool vacations to exotic locations.  I liked having no one to worry about except me, my priest and our dogs.  Yet one day something changed.

I was visiting my grandmother and parents at our summer home in Canada and recently one of our elderly neighbors had died.  The husband, now a widower, was sitting on his porch alone.  He looked sad and lonely.  I said to my grandmother that I felt sorry for him and she said, “he  never had chick nor child, hide nor hare.  You will be sitting alone one day on the porch with just your husband and no one will visit you either.”

It hit me then.  One day when my job is over and I am old, it will just be me and my priest alone.  Maybe we still have good friends, maybe we don’t, but the idea of just being old and alone crushed me.  I told my priest immediately that I was making a trip to my gynecologist and seeing if I could crank out a kid.  I was 29 years old.  I got pregnant two months later and Maggie was born two months after I turned 30.

My grandmother never got to meet her.  She died when I was 6 weeks pregnant.  I hadn’t told anyone I was pregnant, but my grandmother knew.  I was home for Christmas and she touched my nonexistent belly.  She said, “you’re pregnant.”  I was stunned.  How could she possibly know?  She said she could tell and she was happy.  My grandmother’s name was Margaret.  The little girl in my belly would grow up with the same name and she still hears marvelous stories of my awesome grandma.

Pippa was a result of Maggie desperately wanting a sister.  I could hear her in her room at night praying for a sister.  I was happy with just having Maggie, but she wanted more and it had to be a girl.   I tried to tell her that I couldn’t guarantee her a sister (as a side note, I also really didn’t want to grow a penis, so I wanted a girl too).  The idea of creating a little boy and all of his parts, freaked me out.  God answered Maggie’s prayers.  Even the one where she prayed her baby didn’t have red hair because she didn’t want to be jealous of her.  Maggie loves my red hair and she used to think only mermaids and really lucky people got to have red hair.  She did wear an Ariel wig a lot as a little girl.

To get back to my main point, I think my quick answer to Pippa that being a mom makes me happy, is true.  I didn’t know that when I was consciously avoiding getting pregnant.  My priest always said he would like to have kids, but he also said it was up to me.  He claims he knew I would change my mind.  He said that he watched me with kids and knew I loved them.  He saw me working at summer camp and running  kids games at our cottage.  He knew, but he didn’t push me or even really tell me.   It all came down to one lonely man sitting on his porch.

I understand that being a parent is not for everyone.  People live full and happy lives alone.  They surround themselves with friends and they make themselves invaluable.  They find happiness in a million different things.  I still find happiness in a long run or a hike in the forest, but if I was being honest, I am most happy when I am with my girls and my priest.  Hearing them laugh or even fight, makes my heart sing.  When they tell me they love me for no other reason than they just felt like it, I feel warm and content.  Being a mom is the last job I thought I wanted.  Sometimes wise people and God know what you want more than you do.

How can my priest embarrass us more?

Picture a very cold and rainy day in Disneyland Paris. Starving and soaking wet, we are lucky enough to get a table inside The Lucky Nugget Saloon in Frontierland. The restaurant offers basic food, but awesome entertainment. Real old time western stuff. Piano playing and singing hurting songs.
We were sitting at our table in the second row enjoying the performance.
Then this puppeteer comes on stage with a sultry girl puppet. The girl puppet apparently fell in love at first sight with my priest.


The singer asks my priest to join her on stage so that the puppet can serenade her new love.
He obliges far too readily. He proceeds to blow kisses to the puppet and he tries to get fresh with her. All of this as his daughters die a little on the inside. He is ruining the act, as Pippa points out. He’s not supposed to be so easy. So cheap, so fresh.  Clearly, he was meant to play hard to get.

He was seriously so cheesy that even the puppeteer was thrown off.  He went in for a kiss and grabbed the puppets face, as witnessed in the above photograph.

He was also constantly waving and looking at us for our approval and to point out that he belonged to someone.  It was funny, if not mortifying.

When he returned to the table, Maggie was quick to point out that her father had assaulted the puppet.  She said she was sure we would see the puppet on social media with a picture of my priest along with the hashtag me too.   Then she said, “#TimesUp dad.”  I laughed until it hurt too much.

This family kills me.  Every time.

Dude looks like a lady.

My kids loved the Aerosmith ride at Disney Paris. They wanted to go on it repeatedly. I have terrible vertigo and after my first ride, I was done.
My priest had to sacrifice and take the girls another 6 times over the course of several days.
After one ride, Maggie came rushing back and said, “Mom, Pippa heard the song playing and thought it was ‘leave it like you left it.'”
I had no idea what she was talking about. My priest said, “she was trying to sing that famous song, ‘do the funky lady.'”
I was still confused. I asked my priest to sing the song and I realized he was singing , “Dude looks like a lady.” I proceeded to tell him the real song. He was shocked. He had been singing “do the funky lady” for years. He even showed Maggie a dance he was sure went with the song.
The entire ride has this song blasting in your ears as you do loops and crazy drops. My family all invented their own versions of the song…all terribly wrong and terribly funny.
But the fact that my priest invented his own dance too…well, it nearly killed me.
If you want a dance lesson on how to “do the funky lady,” please let me know.

Free Christmas Village includes creepy elves everywhere

Who doesn’t love a free Christmas village and market? Well, if you don’t…stop reading.

My family loves these things. Cheesy Christmas music.  Decorations galore.  The Portuguese really embrace the holidays.  The markets are full of roasted chestnuts, which sound great in theory, but in reality they taste like ass.  Plus, my favorite drink, Ginja.  This is a sweet cherry liqueur served in an edible chocolate cup for €1 per shot.  I discovered these last Christmas and life hasn’t been the same since. Liquid gold, my friends.

The one element of these markets that throw us all off are the creepy elves and characters that loom around every corner.  Like the elf in the picture below…just chilling in a tree.  Pippa was terrified.

Or these creeps at the entrance….

It is always a mixed collection of odd characters.  A psycho snowman, a weird fairy or my personal favorite, the cross dressing Santa’s helper.  One of these people expressed an intense interest in my priest.  She had a painted on mustache and a crazy wig and told my priest that he was very handsome.  I promptly said that he was available and that they would make a good couple.  The elf said that she was interested while speaking in a bizarre, fake male voice.   My priest just laughed in that “this is awkward and I want to disappear” kind of way.  My youngest daughter told the elf to back off because her dad was taken.  The elf wandered off and tried to pick up another dad.  Not the encounter you would expect at a Christmas fair, but it is one I have begun to enjoy.  Maybe…a little too much.  I am trying to squeeze in at least two more markets this season. You can’t buy for this type of comedy/torture.

Let it snow.

It has been many years since we lived in a place where snow was even a possibility.  Christmas for my family is usually mildly chilly at best.  Here in Portugal, it might get as cold as the mid-50’s at night, but during the day when the sun is shining, it can feel like the low 70’s.  While most of Europe is covered with yucky, gray skies in the winter, we always seem to get at least some sun daily. Apparently, Lisbon is the sunniest capital in Europe with 2799 hours of sunshine annually.

This year Lisbon was listed as one of the best cities to visit at Christmas.  The lights are spectacular.  Decorations are everywhere.  There are endless Christmas festivals.  The one thing I can’t understand is why all of these festivals include snow activities.   Ice skating on fake plastic rinks because it is not cold enough to have ice.  Plus, fake tobogganing down hills of white plastic.  Fake snow falling from light posts, which is really just bubbles.    My daughters love these snow activities.  They always ask me why I hated living in the snow.  I really did hate living in Toronto in the winter.  I hated snow gear.  I hated ice.  I hated all of it.

Now my children think that these fake snow activities are just like the real things.  They think sliding down plastic hills is awesome.  They don’t understand that there is no cold weather gear needed for this.  They can do it endlessly without getting frozen.  They don’t get wet.  They don’t have to take off 5 layers of clothing just to go the bathroom.  This fake winter wonderland is tricking my kids.  They dream of living in the snow.  I am considering shipping them off to spend one winter in Toronto.  I bet our endless blue skies and beach days in the winter might look pretty good then….I hope.

Pretend Halloween 🎃

Celebrating Halloween is not a Portuguese thing.  Even as I say this, I am kind of lying.  There are decorations for sale at many stores.  Costumes are readily available.  A few stores even sell bagged candy, but not many.

On November 1st in Portugal, kids come around and ask for “Pão de Deus.” Bread for God.  It is in celebration of All Saints’ Day, which is a national holiday.  They knock on the door starting early in the morning and it lasts all day and you can give them candy, nuts or some change.  But this year, we actually had 9 real trick or treaters on Halloween night.  I was so excited.  It is destined to get bigger.

In our family, my kids dress up and they get to knock on our 6 outside doors and some windows.  I prepare 12 different characters.  A mean Russian baker who throws flour at the girls,  a cheerleader, a grandma….you get the idea.  I shop for weeks to get a variety of different candy because we have limited options to actually hand out.  I know it is a lame substitute, but I have started to love this fake Halloween night.  I run from door to door putting on my crazy outfits and disguises.  At some doors, I am crabby and just throw candy at the girls and other times, I make them perform songs and skits.  The night is fun and full of laughs for all of us.  My priest has to play 12 separate characters too.  He tends to be Australian surfers and insane Swedish nannies.

In all, the girls hit 24 doors.  We make them go to the doors in wild patterns.  They run and can hardly wait to see who opens the next door.  It is pure joy watching their amusement.  I know that they might prefer a traditional Halloween, but I have to say that I absolutely love celebrating Halloween in our wacky way.  Selfishly, I keep my girls close by and I get to watch their happy faces…I’ll take that any day.

 

Paid only in love.

I have been volunteering full time at a start up school in Sintra, Portugal.  I teach all of lower school and now middle and high school English. The days can be long and challenging.  Almost all of the students are native Portuguese speakers and many are from Angola and are learning in totally new ways.   I am enjoying watching them learn English and seeing their satisfaction when they communicate correctly.

As a volunteer, I get paid only in love and appreciation.  One little boy celebrated his birthday on Friday.  He turned 8.  I threw him a little party.  Nothing exceptional.  A small cake made out of Oreos, some candy, a hat and a Kinder egg.  He was overjoyed.  Maggie said it was like he was given a million dollars.  I have never given anyone a million of anything, but I have to agree with her.  His face was beaming with happiness.  I sent his mom a quick birthday message for him on Facebook and this was her response.

This made my day.  “He love him teacher Ginnelle to much.”   Appreciation is worth its weight in gold.

My priest must stop speaking Portuguese

In Portugal, after you purchase anything, they ask you for your tax number. They call it the NIF. It is a nine digit number and apparently by using it to buy groceries and things, it will eventually lead to you getting some money back from the government. I don’t really understand it, but that is what I am told.

I memorized this number pretty quickly and I repeat it, when prompted, in Portuguese. On the other hand, my priest struggles endless with saying his number in Portuguese.  His has a lot of repeated numbers, so you would think it would be simple.   When he opens his mouth, his Portuguese is so brutal that the clerks can’t focus.  They look at him blankly.  Some chuckle. Some shake their heads.  Some make him repeat the number very slowly.

Today was my favorite moment yet, because the clerk was so amused he couldn’t stop full on laughing; like belly laughter.  Then he said that my priest shouldn’t attempt the numbers again in Portuguese….English only.   I am always so embarrassed when my priest gives his tax number, because he butchers Portuguese, but he insists on practicing.  Finally, this clerk confirmed what I have been telling my priest for over a year.  Give it up dude! Portuguese is not his jam and although he provides the natives with great comedy, almost everyone speaks English and they do so a hell of a lot better than he speaks Portuguese.

I sincerely hope he got the message.  Keep you posted.

What you discover about Europe with kids

I have traveled through Europe many times.   I have done it alone, with friends, with my husband and now with my kids.  It used to be about seeing museums and hitting as many sites as possible.  Now, we traveler slower.  We seek out parks and playgrounds.  The kids manage to sniff out spots to get dirty and wet in every country.

These park stops have become the joy of my vacations.  I never thought I would revel in sitting under a tree watching my girls play when there was so much to see.  In these park stops, I have the chance to see European kids and families and I realize how very different we Americans and Canadians are with our kids.  There is very little micro managing.   The parents hang back, drink coffee in nearby cafes and just enjoy watching their kids.  The kids, on the other hand, are free.  Maggie observed that when they get hurt, the European kids, tend to really exaggerate.  I told her just like football (soccer) players do…they learn by example.  The parents don’t fuss even when the kids are whaling.  They do the equivalent of “suck it up buttercup.”  The kids run off and continue to play.  The parks here are not as safe as at home. They have challenging and sometimes scaring equipment, but no one seems to worry.  That is a real challenge for me, but I am learning.

No one seems in a rush.  Parents are not on their phones.  They are actually watching their kids from a distance and often enjoying the company of other parents and grandparents.  Family is still vital and appreciated.  They might be thinking about grocery shopping or chores, but you wouldn’t know it.  They seem in the moment.  Dads and moms are hanging together.    It isn’t a spot, like many of my local parks in the US, where I only see moms and I only see them on their phones.  These European parks made me realize I want to live like this.  Enjoying the park, the sun and my family.  The time will come when going to the park is no longer cool and until that day…I will try to live like the Europeans.  Plus, they kiss a lot, not just their kids, but everyone, and I like that too.