Fall and Fall Again | One Gloomy November Morning...

While every new day of autumn causes new bouts of joy in my sons' heart (he loves chestnut figures, lantern precessions and Halloween), I've had trouble warming up to the dull month of November. I find it hard to see the joy in wet feet and slimy green kids' noses. I also don't know why you have to sing “Rabimmel, Rabammel, Rabum” on St. Martin's day. 

It's not enough that the days are getting shorter and shorter. To make things worse, the clocks were recently turned back – and for considerably shady “energy sparing” reasons at that. I read that German farmers actually need more light in the morning because their milking cows get extremely confused about their new milking hours. A similar phenomenon has occured at our home, where our son is now jumping up and down on his bed at five instead of six a.m. from Monday through Sunday. This means Lights. Camera, Action! And a merciless floodlighting of the parental bedroom in the following, daily recurring order: night light, Led-closet light, ceiling lamp, first night stand light (“daddy's light on, ok?”), second night stand light (“mama's light on, ok?”), the cast-iron stand light in the reading corner and, finally, “Orgel Vieten”, the cheap and popular Ikea stand lamp with a beige paper cover. If by this time we are still in bed, our little early riser will resort to jubilating while stealing our duvets and building caves with them or jumping trampoline record highs on our new matresses. I don't even remember the last time I was alone in a bathroom because my son (noisily) insists on unrolling toilet paper, cleaning the toilet with our toothbrushes and checking how much water is in the toilet's water tank while I've reduced my morning routine to a lick and a promise. And because my son is very hungry in the morning after ten hours of sleep, and, like any man, gets very grumpy because of this, my boyfriend tries to get breakfast ready in the meantime. There we all are, having toast and coffee in the moonshine. Good morning, eye bags!

Two hours later, we're sullenly making our way to the Kita at dawn, when I feel a soft mass on the sole of my buckskin boots. Seriously – what's worse than overexited moms singing “Rabimmel, Rabammel Rabum” on St. Martin's? Smug dogowners that conceal turds under autumn foliage! The only remedies I can think of now are a trip to the tanning salon, heaps of chocolate and amber therapy (if not Prozac).

(sjb)