Jedi, Sensei, and Coaches

We’re back in 2021!

Solid neighbors are worth their weight in gold here in Lausanne.

We have multiple friends who share stories and need to vent the pent-up stress and frustration from neighbors who come to complain when they prepare dinner too loudly, when their kids play during napping hours on the weekends, or who do too much during quiet hours on a Sunday. We have friends whose neighbors have even pulled strangers off the sidewalk to try and attest to how unnatural and irritating the whining and crying of one of their children has been. Our gratitude grows with each passing tale.

The young guy living below us always offers a wave when we see him. He’s never complained when toys land in his yard from our balcony. He smokes one thing or another to unwind at the end of the day, which may help our cause, come to think of it. He’s a saint and we hope he never moves.

We’re so grateful to live above him. Especially now, as we’re approaching a full year of some form of restrictions, limitations, and/or lockdowns with two lead-footed, early-rising, clunky-piano-learning, wrestle-hungry boys who can’t wait to set up mattresses in the hallway to show you the flips and rolls they’re learning in p.e. and gymnastics after school. 

I’d love to have a daughter around to balance things out every once in a while, but man, it’s fun being a boys-dad these days.  If they weren’t loud enough for our neighbors, we’ve recently been diving deeper into Star Wars and immersed ourselves in all things Karate Kid and Cobra Kai.  So Jedi and All Valley Tournament contenders clash, duel, bonk, spin, and KIAI! around these parts nowadays, when they’re not practicing their puck control and slapshots. At least all the fake chops that turn into nose honks aren’t that loud.  

Sparring even boils over to the slopes from time to time.

While they love to see how high they can kick, how fast they can punch, or how many times they can twirl a lightsaber while wearing one of my hoodies (to get the full Jedi effect), they also love to break down the differences between Cobra Kai and Mr. Miyagi’s wisdom or meditate on the distinctions between the light and dark sides of the force:

“It’s harder to stay in control and not strike first, right?”

“Does that make the Jedi and Miyagi-Do stronger?”

“I know kwotty (karate) is for defense, but sometimes I just wanna strike hard!”

“Why are Mr. Miyagi and Yoda so smart and so powerful and kinda silly and SO short?”

“Does that mean you and mommy are smart and powerful too?”

It’s awesome to watch them get so passionate and wrapped up and even thoughtful about stuff.  It’s always inspiring to me when people celebrate the things they love. I love the hope and inspiration that take root when people open themselves up to wonder and joy.  Lisa talks about how studying abroad in Australia for a semester in college planted seeds for this hope to explore a different part of the world with her family someday, and here we are. That’s one of the million reasons it’s a blast to share life with her. 

Passion, joy, hope, celebration…they’re also all just a few of the reasons Ted Lasso was my favorite show of the last year. I know that’s not a hot take at this point, but that show is so ridiculous and ridiculously good. Watching the boys enjoy their goofy and wise gurus reminds me of how much I loved the unassuming brilliance of Jason Sudeikis’ football coach. I watched all 10 episodes by myself in a couple of days, back in November. Then I tried to gently recommend it to Lisa without overhyping it to the point of scaring her off, so I could watch it all over again.  After a couple of episodes, she was hooked too, which says a lot for someone who doesn’t dig anything that tries to be funny.   

The show balances being funny, endearing, and positive so well without being too saccharine or hokey. It does all those things I mentioned above, celebrating wonder and joy and things you love and the value of finding connections with the unlikeliest of people, with humor and grace.  Ted nails being a fish out of water.  It pegs the rarely-easy integrity of being comfortable in your own skin.  Lasso lifts up an almost egoless style of leadership that’s such a breath of fresh air. 

 If you haven’t yet, watch it.  Splurge for Apple TV+ for just one month and check it out.  I know, I know, this isn’t the gentle recommendation I used to get Lisa on board.  But I can tell you like funny stuff, and you trust me. 

So give it a try…maybe…if you get a chance (DO IT).

The other thing I’ve been stoked to explore and dive into lately has been coaching. Maybe watching Coach Lasso was the last nudge of inspiration I needed to go ahead and try on my coaching visor. After a couple of years filled with hanging out with Nash, figuring a lot of the day-to-day aspects of life in Lausanne, and holding down the fort, it’s been fun to take some classes about coaching business leaders, clergy, and/or anyone looking to grow and lean into their strengths in any area of life. 

 I’m fascinated by the prospect of learning to ask better questions, listen deeply, draw out the best in others, and see things from new and different perspectives.  Lisa has been awesome at tagging out and taking over the boys for an evening here or there while I Zoom with teachers and students from all over the States. 

It’s been life-giving, soul-satisfying, good work to learn and practice something new.  I’ve been practicing here and there when listening and talking with the boys or discussing what’s next with Lisa, too.  But I need to keep practicing, keep accumulating hours, keep working on the craft and nuances of coaching with other people too, before I drive my family crazy. I’m looking to rack up over 500 hours of practice to earn certifications and keep getting better. Every little bit helps. So if you’re interested in being coached and have an extra half hour every now and then, let me know. No kiddin’, email me or reach out (mrodden78@gmail.com).  

While I’m no Yoda or Mr. Miyagi yet, no one would ever need to crop my head out of a picture of the three of us because of my height, either.  On my good dad days, I can pull off Miyagi or Yoda levels of silly in my boys’ eyes, too. Since we share that common ground, why not study, grind and put in a lot more coaching practice and see if I get a little closer to the wisdom and power the boys recognized in them, while I’m at it?

Lake Life, Road Trips, Whole 30 Hangovers, and Beef

The question Lisa and I get the most when catching up with friends and family these days is some form of, “What’s it like over there, now?”  People are curious about life in Switzerland in general.  Maybe there’s a little escapism in there, dreaming of life away from the weirdness, anxiety, and frustration this year has brought.  But I also sense a hopefulness or yearning for some commonalities and connection in all the forms of that question.  Regardless of whether things sound better or worse over here, we’re still going through this mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad year together in somewhat similar ways, right?  To be fair, maybe I’m just projecting. I think I’m looking for all those same things when I touch base with people who aren’t here with us, too.

So, in the interest of escapism, connection, catching up, and maybe even sharing some of the same kind of Charlie Brown good-griefness and whatever-it-takes coping (no shaming here, we aren’t that Swiss yet), here’s what life’s been like since February…

• There’s no place like home.  Along with Dorothy, we’ve been clickin’ our ruby red slippers together and repeating the same mantra over and over again.  Maybe we’re trying to make ourselves believe it just as much as she did, though. Switzerland had a strict quarantine for about eight weeks back in the spring (don’t really leave your home, unless you’re going to the grocery store for essentials on your weekly grocery trip).  Playgrounds were taped off, homeschooling kicked in.  We’re still not mentioning what we had to do to survive those days, right? We made it and memories fade or hopefully will be addressed by therapy down the road. We’ll do whatever is good for society, but please, for the love of everything holy, for Pete’s sake and anyone else’s sake that matters or might be listening, please, please, please, please, let’s not have to go down that homeschooling road again.

But we have enjoyed each other’s company and we’ve found rhythms together. We cook together, read together, play games together, color and draw and craft together, practice sports inside and out together, and we haven’t gotten completely sick of each other in this little old apartment yet.

Lisa started working remotely which cut out about two hours of commute out of her day.  It looks like she’ll keep working from home for the most part until at least January.  So now we can have lunch together pretty regularly, she takes the kids to school most days.  For the most part, we stay out of her hair while she works—the boys and I consider any week where we don’t crash a call more than once a day a success. Not a lot of successes by that definition, but we manage one occasionally. It’s hard to think about readjusting and giving up so much fringe time before and after school with her when she heads back at some point.

• After that initial halt, the boys resumed school for the month of June, and then continued on a normal schedule when school started again in late August (only high school students and teachers have to wear masks). We’ve gotten used to downloading contact tracing apps and wearing masks anytime we’re inside any store, when we’re on campus with the boys at school, and when we use public transportation. We’re headed back towards a pretty strict lockdown (without homeschooling this time, so far) starting Wednesday night. The number of cases per million have been closing in on those same metrics in the States, lately, and hospitals are on the verge of capacity in some hospitals across the country. The culture over here seems to be compliant for the benefit of the greater good, for the most part. There have been some small demonstrations against mask requirements in bigger cities, but the push for personal freedoms hasn’t flared up nearly as much as in some other places. 

• During our close-knit quarantine, we indulged in some near-the-lake impulse purchases.  Lake Geneva has been a nice getaway when there are fewer travel options available. It’s only a ten-minute walk to head down to the lake and try out a SUP (standup paddleboard) or an inflatable rowboat with the boys.  Cooper loved to take friends out on his paddleboard and steer them around near the shore, at least until he went 2 for 2 on conking them on the heads and making them cry when switching side with the oar.  One of us fell off every time he or she tried to stand up the last time we tried using those in Mexico, and since we’ve been here only one of us (the other one) has fallen off once. We’re far from being pros, but we’re wobblin’ a little less these days.

Fulfilling Lisa’s two year old desire to rent out a paddleboat with a slide on it, now that the boys were both old enough to enjoy it.

Bring it on! (laughing in the face of wedgies and bunched-up britches )

• We did manage to travel by car to Paris, Tuscany, Zermatt (Switzerland), and Chamonix (France) in the last 4 months.  We were able to mask up for some fireworks and to trek around to some outdoor cafes in Paris, sticking more to the backroads and a more local-way-of-life those few days. 

We shared a house with a pool with some friends and stayed isolated outside of a couple of wineries and the best food truck and burger I’ve had in Europe while in Tuscany. We also had our first Michelin-Star tasting menu experiences with the boys (they were champs with pretty good manners and patience throughout the excellent and sometimes exotic courses) for my birthday meal at Antica Corte Pallavinci outside Parma, following the example of the last few chefs on Top Chef this last season. The boys loved electric-scootering our way down around the Duomo di Milano in Milan on the way back home, too.

Even the baby boars are chill and living la dolce vida in the Tuscan wineries.

We found marmots, pulled our way across a lake, trekked across the tallest suspension bridge we’ve been on so far, and hiked farther than the boys had hiked so far (I think the views and promises of hot chocolate kept them trudging along) in Zermatt. And we got to ride a train up to a cave in a glacier with some friends in Chamonix.  Even if it’s not what we planned to do and share with friends and family who were scheduled to come to see us, we’ve appreciated the opportunity for some beautiful plan B trips and experiences. We’re hopeful that we can begin to reschedule some of those rain-checked adventures in the not-too-distant future.

• After coming back from that week of pasta, wine, and desserts in Tuscany back in August, we joined our friends in trying out Whole 30. They’d done it before, but it was our first run. You couldn’t ask for a better time to try it out. We’ve been staying in and cooking so much, and most fruits and vegetables were still in season. However, they haven’t heard of Whole 30 over here, so there aren’t compliant condiments and flours and helpful ways to cut some of the grind and prep out.  So, we gave this whole no dairy, no gluten, no alcohol, no legumes, and no sugar thing a shot under some decent circumstances, and it still was ROUGH. 

The books and blogs are honest about how tough the first fifteen days with withdrawals, headaches, exhaustion, mood swings, gastrointestinal adjustments, and cravings all popping up from time to time. 

The books and blogs are not honest about how you’ll feel like you have tiger blood and new energy and superpowers and your complexion will just be glowing and you’ll have more patience and be a better spouse/parent in the second fifteen days.

Big ol’ bologna sandwich on that one. 

Swing and a miss. 

Don’t get your hopes up. 

I felt a little better over the last 3 days of the month, maybe.

But we made it. And I think we picked up some healthier habits along the way.

• Nash is devouring being in Reception 4 (Pre-K) and being in school every day just like Cooper.  I don’t think there’s been a day yet when I’ve picked up him when he hasn’t had a huge grin on his face. He has the same teachers Cooper had the first year we got here. Not only that, he gets to go to the library like his brother does, have playdates like his brother does, even start to learn some songs on the piano like his brother does. He just finished the fall session of swimming a couple of days a week with his class at school (they’ll pick it back up after Easter). The confidence he gets from hockey and being a big kid inspired him to lead a ragtag band of rebels over to the diving board to jump into the deeper pool last week.  His teachers were impressed, but I think the swimming coaches were more annoyed that he went too far above and beyond their lessons.

Cooper is in Year 2 (1st grade) this year, and has moved over to the main building on campus.  He gets to add football (soccer) to his After School Activity schedule, he loves having art as part of his weekly schedule now, and he’s reading more and more thanks to teachers here and back home (big thanks to Mrs. Kim!).  He loves/hates piano lessons (he’s stoked to go over his buddy’s house who is learning the drums for a rock and roll playdate where they’re coming up with a playlist that includes and might only feature We Will Rock You over and over and over again). He can’t get enough Minecraft, and he’s pumped to start having sleepovers this year.

We’ll take reading in whatever form we can get it.

• To wrap things up, about a week ago Cooper and one of his friends let their frustrations get the best of them on the ride home from school.  They see each other a decent amount when our families hang out, and the relationship has almost developed into a brother and sister frenemies level at this point.  From what I can gather, they started insulting each other, kept fueling the fire, and ended up yelling they wished they went to different schools. Sighs, slammed doors, and tears punctuated their responses after Cooper was dropped off. Truces, peace, and apologies were kinda/sorta exchanged later that night, and then they had some room to breathe apart from each other. 

Three days later, we are headed to the rink for some free skate time so Nash and I can get more confidence on our skates, and Lisa and Cooper can race and challenge each other with new moves.  We’ve reached out to our friends to let them know since they often go skate too. On our way there, Lisa casually tells the boys that we are meeting the other family at the rink.  Cooper immediately asks if she’s coming too, along with her parents. Lisa smiles and says that she’ll be there, yeah.  Cooper sighs, so Lisa asks what’s up. 

Sidenote—He’s been into learning new words lately. He tried to use Psych at the dinner table the other night, and he sounded like Borat trying to use a not joke: “I want some saltpsych.” We’re working on timing.

In the backseat of the car, responding to Lisa’s question, head down, eyes up, Cooper responds with another new word he’s trying out, “(her name) and me got beef.” His sentence drips with both heartfelt grumbling and a tentatively confident tone as he’s not exactly sure he’s used got beef the right way.  Lisa and I try to stifle snickers and snorts in the front seat as we keep heading towards the rink, the eloquent little thug refocusing on Mighty Ducks on his iPad in the back.

When we get there and hop out, she’s bouncing with excitement.  Cooper is a little slower to thaw, but he’s too excited to skate for there to be much grudge-holding and disagreement. They’re soon compare skating tips and tricks, laughing, have fun, and end up helping each other pack up before we all decide to go grab burgers together.  The night ultimately ends up back at their place for drinks as the kids share some Oreo brownies before chasing each other around the house pretending to lasso each other. 

…Listen, I know it’s low-hanging fruit.  But sometimes slow learners like me need all the easy-to-reach fruit, the life-lessons that keep thumping you on the back of the head, we can get.

No one is shocked that first graders tell jokes and butt heads. Or that they share Halloween costume ideas and then get ultra-competitive comparing pro piano skills. It’s common for them to giggle together one minute and make each other cry the next. 

And maybe I still break out my Pollyanna-tinted glasses too often.

But it’s good to know that they see the world differently, come from different places, push too hard and rarely back down, and still manage to end up excited to laugh over brownies from Starbucks. 

I hope that they’re figuring out how to be wholly who they are while appreciating others who won’t always agree with them.  We’re trying to instill gratitude for and interest in the diversity of students who end up at their school from different places around the world.  We’re hoping they learn how to maintain respect as they develop curiosity and a growing sense of who they are and what they value. 

Beef happens, Coop.

Don’t be afraid to learn from it.

Don’t let it be the last word.

And please don’t let any real or perceived division loom larger than all the good stuff that friendships and differences add to life. 

Brothers (and non-pictured friends) don’t shake hands (or got beef), brothers gotta hug.

Let me know if there’s something you’re curious about that I didn’t cover. No doubt we take differences for granted, and I’d be glad to continue to pull back the curtain on Lausanne life.

Two Years In (or Hockey Part Two)

And just like that, we’re past the two-year mark.

Two years and two months since we touched down after a sleepless trans-Atlantic flight. Two years and two months since we melted through an 90+° F first day in a temporary apartment with no air conditioning, before crashing through a splintering kid’s bed as we wrestled over-exhaustion and sharp homesickness that first 24 hours.  We crammed as many challenges into that first day as we could. Get the hard stuff out of the way first. 

That first days seems like just yesterday and a distant memory all at once, but in fairness time and memory seem a little dizzy recently. Any way of appreciating or reflecting on time spent doing anything feels like riding the spinning teacups after these last six months.  Give me a roller coaster over a spinning ride any day.

So, where were we?  A puck caught over the glass eight months ago sucked us into hockey becoming the next great adventure.  Next fall was “sooooooo loooooooong” from the end of the Junior Olympics for a kindergartener begging to finally get a chance to lace them up and try this new passion out.  He had no idea how far away it’d actually seem.  We are all so ready to safely pick up something new, to enjoy the normalcy of team sports we’d missed out on since tee-ball (naturally, it’s called Bubba ball in our neck of the woods in Texas).  We rented some skates for the season, made sure there won’t be many presents under the tree this year because all their hockey gear ended up being $urprise early Christmas gifts, dug out Chase Daniel Mizzou football jerseys to wear until the new hockey jerseys from the hockey school come in, bought an extra hockey stick because Cooper keeps switching dominant hands (or because great parents don’t make sure to have their kids check out which stick feels more natural before having the sticks cut to the right size), and committed to a season of hockey school come hell or high water. Both of which are probably on the table at this point this year, I guess. At this point, COVID-19 lockdowns are stronger than both hell and high water, so we’ll see.

Now we’re striding boldly into the world of sports parenting—over-confident, naïve, but sure that we’d never be one of the ridiculous ones who yell too loud, over-help, or care too much about 4 and 6 year-old competition.  Being a sports parent—even one of the laid-back, let-the-kids-have-fun-and-figure-out-how-hard-work-makes-a-difference, let-the-coaches-do-their-job variety—can’t help but get you stretched way out in the middle of an internal tug of war.  Especially when they’re on skates and their coaches are primarily French-speakers.  Do I go help when no one else does, and be that parent who walks out onto the ice?  Or do I let him struggle and fail and learn and hopefully still find the intestinal fortitude to stick with it? Do I yell at my kid from the stands when they decide to sit down during drills and repeatedly smack a puck against the walls while the other kids participate in the drills? This was supposed to be so easy. We’d bring the orange slices, occasionally, and then just sit back. I was supposed to be able to just watch and encourage and be amazed at how they transform my kids and all the rest of them.

Nash has been lumped into groups with older and better skaters, been conked on the head and shoved down, and had different coaches for the first three weeks.  He sets his stick down at the beginning of practice because they aren’t using them yet, and some other little knucklehead always grab his stick when it’s stick time.  Which is just the catalyst he needs to go ahead and deflate like a balloon. He gets so exhausted that he’ll occasionally take a knee or flat-out just lays on the ice sometimes.  He’s had meltdowns and frustration flare-ups (he takes to high-sticking and big ol’ windup and swings like a kid takes to a pile of leaves). Every one of the first three weeks, he’d end up being brought over to the edge of the ice once or twice by a coach…maybe to reset or maybe to just get him out of the way. 

Nash gets a little anxious every Saturday morning before practice, but damn if he doesn’t have grit, too.  He beams after practice, feels better because he has all his armor, and he’s even told his swimming teacher at school that he likes to do hard stuff because he can get a little better every time.  He made it through his first practice without coming off the ice a couple weeks ago, and since he can’t understand French, he chooses to try and speed skate around the group when the coach is giving instructions, knowing he’ll just have to watch and learn whatever drill she’s describing later.  As long as he’s not scared and still trying…keep on skating, punk. Thank God he’s the second one and trying to catch an older brother.  I’m not sure Cooper would have been able to stick it out at that age.  Lisa and I are pretty sure we wouldn’t have been interested in sticking it out, either.

Cooper though, he’s got the bug.  A buddy from school ended up signing up for hockey school too, and they’re encouraging and pushing each other.  He pushes hard in the drills, practices with indoor sticks and light pucks at home, drives us out in the rain to practice on his rollerblades in the alley across the street, and is down to go practice skating at the rink whenever we bring it up. 

Any guesses on what he wants to be for Halloween? 

A vampire hockey player, naturally. 

That spark he had when he started tee-ball is back, and for the kids who wants to pass on almost any idea for adventure we bring up, it’s fun to watch him dive in all the way on something. 

Of course the hockey school isn’t self-sustainable.  Luckily, the boys don’t have to sell a certain number of coupon books or cards.  You’d think selling chocolate bars would make sense as a way to get some extra revenue here in Switzerland, huh?  But that’s not on the nose enough.  Along with enrollment, each kid purchases a mandatory 15 bags of fondue cheese for the winter season.  30 bags will soon be making their way to our shoebox of a freezer. 

Only the finest fromage—fit for fancy, flavorful fireside feasts—for this family of four, found through the fun financial foundations of fondue fundraising.

Next time I’ll try and catch up a little more and let you know what life looks like this fall for us.  But I wanted to get up and running again sooner rather than later. 

Powder, Pucks, and a Little Hulk

Winters are one of the main reasons you’d move or travel to Switzerland.  It’s what you picture, where you’re sure they’ve found the inspiration for countless snow globes all over the world. Chloe Kim and other Olympic skiers and snowboards live here for seasons at a time to train.  So, if you’re here, before too long, you’ll make the trek to soak up the snow and the sun shining above the clouds that seem to form a lid on Lausanne and anything else down below.  Your jaw will drop in awe at the views way up in the mountains, and you’ll be living that that winter wonderland life, too.

But, at least for us Roddens, that winter life doesn’t come without a few bumps along the way. It’s magic and it’s a mess often all in the same day. 

Sometimes you book ski lessons for all four of you, and then you leave Nash’s skis at the train station down the mountain, so two of you ski while the other two have snowball fights, slide down hills like slides, and wait to wave like crazy when the others come back around on the button lift. 

Maybe the next time you go, you’re all set for ski lessons for all for of you, and you’ve got everyone’s skis because you’ve triple and quadruple checked this time, and you get on the train only to find another train has derailed up the mountain and you can’t make it up the ski-lift with a 3 year old.  We’ve made lemonade from lemons before though, so we go to the kids’ bunny slope behind the train so we can all let Cooper show us how much of an “expert skier” he’s become and to get Nash some extra time on skis.  Which excites Nash until he finds he can’t keep up with Cooper, and hates holding on to your leg or your hand or your pole, so he just plops down in the middle of other kids’ lessons.  And when he feels up for the challenge again, and you’ve hooked up the harness so he can ski standing up while you hold on behind, maybe you make the world-ending mistake of nudging him so he has a little momentum.  Now…well, now you and your three-year-old attract all the attention and every eyeball on the hill as he melts down into the snow, skis kicking and flailing, before turning over and screaming, “You’re—a—WOOSER (loser)!!!!” 

Side note. This kid doesn’t handle disappointment or frustration well.  He’s the same dude who just a few weeks ago got annoyed at having to ride his scooter up a hill. The same kid who proceeded to jump off, sidekick his scooter over, and proceeds to focus his rage on the guy who allowed him to bring and ride his scooter in the first place by screaming: “YOU WUIN (ruin) ME!”

Who screams you ruin me at anyone? 

Where does a three-year-old learn that phrase?

Granted it’s not original, but am I allowed to turn around and yell it right back?

Yup, he’s the same punk who cuts over on the sidewalk right in front of your feet at a Christmas Market, trips and falls down, and turns to shout at me as I stumble to not fall directly onto this under-cutter: “Why you TWIPPIN’ me all the time!” while Lisa and Cooper snort and wipe tears from their eyes, cackling at the near two-person pile up and fury that capture the true essence of the holiday spirit.

Did I say Happy New Year from Switzerland already?  Happy New Year!

All in all, honestly, life is so good.  It’s a mild winter here so far, with temperatures staying in the 40s and no real snow to speak of here by the lake.  Just up the hill 15 minutes, where the boys’ school is, they’ve had a little snow, and the mountains have had enough, but it’s been a clear, beautiful, more-sunshine-than-not winter so far. 

One of the perks about Swiss living is the expectation of independence for all ages, even kids.  Even though Lisa and I have tried to help Nash and Coop ski a few times, it’s so much more rewarding (while allowing us all to stay a little more sane) to watch them struggle, try, focus, and work to ski with instructors.  Watching their confidence grow, getting a thumbs up as they practice skiing down the hill as you ride the button lift back up the hill (Lisa and I aren’t aces by any means either, yet) reminds us that they can do a lot more than we give them credit for sometimes.

Because he’s in Year 1 (kindergarten), starting last week, Cooper got to start ice skating once a week with his class on Thursday afternoons.  The peer pressure and encouraging instructors kept his whole class happy, tough, determined, and trying for their first crack at it last week.  He’s also choosing to take Taekwondo (ever-excited to embrace his Korean heritage) and water colors as his two school-provided after school activities this term.  After trying out a bowling alley on New Year’s Day with some local friends because it was one of the few things open, Coop’s decided to become a professional bowler when he grows up. We’re planning his birthday party there in about a month. 

Nash is still in school two days a week in the same building as Cooper.  Whether he’s ready to burn the world down or light it up with his smile and personality, he never fails to bring passion and energy to his days.  He comes home talking about baking, music, trips to the forest, puzzles, and spending time with his friends. Because the refrigerators are small in the apartments here and the freezers are even smaller, he’s my grocery store/bodega buddy seemingly every other day. 

Speaking of shopping, on the weekends, we do any family shopping we need to take care of on Saturdays because everything closes on Sunday.  Sundays are meant as a day of rest—a day to spend with family.  Some weekends we’ll go up to the mountains for a day to try and finally get this family skiing thing down, or to find a good sledding (they call it sledging here) or tobogganing hill to take advantage of the snow higher up.  We also try to travel a bit on Sundays if there’s a day trip we can make.  Nash is always down for an adventure, with Cooper digging his heels in the whole way but ultimately enjoying exploring with the rest of us when he gets there. 

A couple weekends ago, after a year and a half, we finally managed to head to a French town just across the border.  Ah France, where the meat is cheaper, you can get instant mac and cheese, and lots of non-perishables are less expensive too. Amazon also ships to France, but not Switzerland. There were a few people opening big Amazon boxes in the parking lot, no doubt getting their online shopping fixes as they unboxed treasures and values the Swiss only dream of (or have to travel across the border to pick up, I guess). 

There’s always something new to figure out, witness, and/or explore.  Some weekends it’s the French Amazon Connection, and the next it’s the 2020 Winter Youth Olympic games, which are taking place in and around Lausanne right now.

First, we took in 3-on-3 hockey (4 on 4 with the goalies).  Tickets are free for all events if you sign up online in time, and we got to sit right next to the ice.  The boys jumped out of their seats the first time a puck hit the glass, their heads spinning at how well and fast the Youth Olympians could skate and how flexible those goalies can be. Then we checked out a full 6-on-6 hockey game where Russia handled Canada.  With his recent practice on skates, Cooper caught the hockey bug hook, line, and sinker.  He followed the puck, admired how tough they were when they slammed into the boards, and was quick to judge the puck-handling and passing skills of each team. 

We had such a good time, we decided to go back to an 8 pm game on a school night the following night, to see how Team USA stacked up against the Swiss team and their legion of fans.  Lisa helped the boys make USA signs to wave for the game, because when you get a chance to live up to everyone’s preconceived notions of the loud Americans, why not lean in a little bit?  (This time, Lisa caught the full force of Nash’s wrath when he couldn’t make the sign look like the vision in his head.  “YOU BWEAK (break) MY WIFE (Life)!” he screamed over his shoulder as he stormed out of the room.  At least he’s an equal-opportunity rage monster).

We were able to get good seats next the American bench, and the boys loved waving their homemade signs and trying to wave at the players as they warmed up.  One of the guys stopped right in front of the glass and pointed to Cooper, who soaked up the attention like a sponge but had no idea what to do.  Then he tossed a puck up and over the glass to me, and I passed it to the boys.  I’m not sure who taught this 15-year-old guy how to make a hockey fan for life, but he’s already got the skills of a pro. Cooper’s eyes were saucers and he couldn’t wave fast enough or yell thank you loud enough.  USA won their game 8-2 with speed and some great handling and passing, and Coop has slept with the puck the last three nights. 

Tonight during dinner, Nash chose a picture of my guys’ trip to Green Bay as something green while playing I-Spy.  I asked the boys if they’d want to go see a Packers game with me someday.  Nash, mouth crammed full with pizza, nodded enthusiastically and immediately.  But Cooper? Cooper said, “I’m kinda not as interested in football or American football or the other sports right now, Dad. Will you take me to a grown up hockey game some time?”  Luckily, we’re picking him up from school early on Wednesday and Lisa is working from home so we can all go to the Gold Medal game.  If You Give a Mouse a Cookie might be a world-renowned children’s book, but I think there’d be more truth in the potential follow up in the series: If You Toss a Five-Year-Old a Puck. 

Again, Happy New Year!  We hope your New Year is off to a good start, or that it’ll get better soon. 

We've Been Here FOREVER…It’s Been over A Year Already?

As I climbed the rope ladder, making sure my harness didn’t get tangled on my way up, I got a better glimpse over the trees, across the rocky ravine with the snaking creek below, to the tower on the other side. 250 meters (273.403 yards) away. Holding on to the ladder with one hand, I unhooked my carabiner from one safety lock and secured it to the next one as I started shimmying across the cable near my feet, holding on to the another cord above my head, making my way to the jumping platform.

“If you’re going to wait to zip line until you’re 36, you could do a lot worst for your first ride. Might as well zip along with the Alps in the background,” I thought to myself. “Try not to take the view for granted after you jump.”

I’ve seen other people zip line before, and I’m pretty sure there’s always been someone there at the launchpad, an employee ensuring someone didn’t get too excited and forget to clasp everything together correctly. But hey, they do like their self-reliance here in Switzerland. I checked to make sure I had everything hooked up properly. Hook over the zip line. Check. One carabiner locked in on top, and the other riding along for good measure. Check. Everything untangled and ready to go. Yup, that’s how they taught us when we got here. If all these other people jumped on their own, day after day, there’s nothing unsafe about this. They wouldn’t be open if this wasn’t fun. They wouldn’t stay open if people could accidentally forget how to clip in and occasionally turned this zip line into a sky dive, either. I looked across to the other tower and saw a couple of specks who were my buddies unhook their harnesses from the line. I took in the view one last time—the forest, the trees, the mountains, the little villages and farmland—leaned back, took a deep breath, and jumped.

What percentage of people actually yell, “WHEEEEE!” when they jump? Maybe more than I’d guess. I heard someone yelling and chuckled in my head at that goober, until I realized that it was me screaming like Nash on a slide at the school playground. I may be spending too much time around playgrounds and slides these days. Come on, you know what I mean.

Anyway, the view was incredible; it’s exhilarating zipping way up high with a view below and in front of you. I wasn’t regretting the ride. I was wondering why I hadn’t done this before.

Eventually I slowed down and came to a stop before the landing platform. No big deal, they said this could happen. I was supposed to crawl backwards hand over hand hand while hanging upside down until I got to the end. Which felt like this was my own personal Mission Impossible moment. It also felt like Harry and Marv trying to make it to Kevin’s treehouse.

Don’t think those thoughts though, in the moment. Because, like me, your own inner Harry or Marv might just be prodded awake by the comparison. And then, like me, your hands might slip off the line. Then your momentum slows and reverses, starting to pull you back out away from the tower, slowing gaining speed as you zip backwards towards the middle of the line…

…and that’s how I found myself dangling from the middle of the zip line without any zip left.

I was impressed during the wait. “Try not to take the view for granted…” echoed inside my head. So I was impressed as I did look around, across, and even upside down…all the way down to the creek below. Probably not many have had the time to really live in the moment and appreciate this view, allow it to sink in, like I did. But it’s also tempting to close your eyes and pray a little bit while you’re hanging around waiting on someone to come help.

I was impressed by the strength of the hook and carabiner and harness.

I was impressed by the real secret agent-like employee who hooked herself up and scaled all the way out hook me up to another cable that helped tow us back to the platform.

and I was impressed that my shorts stayed clean and my knees didn’t wobble or melt completely when my feet finally reached the wooden slats of the tower platform.

I still wonder sometimes if I would have gone to the adventure park with the ropes courses and zip lines if I knew that I’d end up being the knucklehead swinging in the breeze that day. I think I would have. At least, I hope I would have. But fear is tricky. It wraps me up and holds me back more often that I’d like to admit. It usually beckons forth the worst in me, instead of the best.

It makes me want to take a stand in defense of ignorance, though. What we didn’t know back then, would it change what we ending up choosing if we did? Because as scary as the unknown can so often be, hope and possibility also live out there and give me courage and strength I might lack otherwise. It pushed me farther than I expected on the ropes course and zip line that day. And that ignorance helped us all choose to pick up over there and plop down over here 13 months ago.

I can’t believe it’s been that long.

If I’d known how much letting go I’d do over here in the first year, I might have been scared off. Or if I’d known how much patience I’d need, or learning I’d face, I might have pumped the brakes a little bit. Most of us would value figuring out how to let go, growing their patience, and continuing their learning, I reckon. But valuing them and actually being forced to work on them are two different things. I want the rewards, not really the accompanying work.

While we figure out this chapter together as a family, it’s energizing being settled enough after a year to lean into the positives of the new normal. It’s in the low 60’s today, which for me is a beautiful September day. There are so many things to do outside, to explore and experience and see. If you didn’t stop to appreciate the view in so many different places here, you’d really be going out of your way to stay distracted. We almost don’t have a choice but to live in the moment and try and take it all in. It’s amazing how living with a little less actually frees us up, too. We’re finding who we’ve been up to this point doesn’t have to determine who we’re going to be. And actually, who we’re going to be isn’t even as important as who we’re being and becoming here and now.

I was listening to a podcast a while ago and the host, Bart Campolo, was gushing about how much he loves Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcast. On the podcast, Gladwell looks back at historical events with fantastic and well-researched context, with the ability to tell engaging stories, and with a little bit of a scientific theory on how memory often isn’t quite as sharp as we think it is (to be fair, maybe I’m already in the bag on this one. It’s one of my favorite podcasts too). Campolo simply but compellingly described why he’s so intrigued by Revisionist History. Slightly paraphrasing, probably, I remember him saying how exhilarating it is to have your mind changed.

In an age of extremism, partisanship, and pundits, when fear again pushes us—pushes me—to the comforts of black and white views on many issues, I’m immensely grateful for Campolo’s naming of and appreciation for this value that seems counter-cultural today. It is exhilarating to have your mind changed, because it rewards our curiosity and stokes our humility. We’re opened up to more opportunities to learn. Having our minds changed tends the soil and waters the seeds of understanding and compassion, so that people become more valuable than my own stances or identities. So that walking each other home—enduring together with people from different places and stories, different experiences, joys, and pains—ultimately helps us live better than always prioritizing being right.

Our last 13 months in a new country with new culture and roles and jobs and schools and norms and people and opportunities and frustrations and beauty and everything else has been exhilarating because our minds, our lives, have been opened up and changed. We used to talk often about how much longer we’ll be here. Can we just plan backwards? What’s next for you, for me, career-wise? The boys even pick up on it. They’ve learned to add a little hopeful optimism to grand requests for things like swimming pools and pets and mixers for the kitchen so we can bake more by prefacing any big ask with, “Hey, when we move back to Texas can we get…?”

And while we love and cherish the people we miss (along with the food and prices and clear and simple road signs which mark wide roads where you don’t have to suck in to squeeze down a street or into a parking space), we’re trying to model for them the importance of loosening our grip on all the plans we have for someday down the road. We’re working on fully unwrapping the gift of not-knowing, acknowledging the power of ignorance at times.

I heard an interview with Rabbi Nahum Ward-Lev where he was talking about the places where we can find the most life and vitality in our day-in-day-out rhythms and ruts. His advice was simple and challenging and is still working on me. He said it’s in the losing, the failing, the letting go. For when we let go, when we lose, we’re given the grace of humility. And through humility, we rediscover the grace of listening and learning. And life gets richer. And we lean on each other more. There’s a dynamism there, Rabbi Nahum says. Amen. Let it be so.

I’m grateful for a wife and two boys who don’t take themselves too seriously. Who are willing to loosen their grip, go with the flow, and try something new. I’m not sure when I’ll zip line again, but I’m grateful I didn’t know what would happen, and that I was able to enjoy the ride and the view when I loosened my grip on what I can control and tried something new.

Except don’t ever actually loosen your grip on the actual zip line itself. Humbly, I’ll have to insist that whatever you do, hold on for dear life. Leave the dangling and screaming to Harry and Marv.

Catching up

Hello, my name is Mike, and I’m a waffler. I guess you could say, at times (more often than not, even), I’m indecisive or reluctant to choose. My default position generally seems to be, “I’m not sure.” Which is a crowd-pleasing stance, I’ve found. People love to wait around—after asking sometimes even simple questions—for others to consider, ponder, wonder, reconsider, ruminate, put themselves in other people’s shoes, consider again, and finally arrive assuredly and resolved at…“I’m not sure.”

What should we have for dinner? My knee-jerk response is a shrug. What should we do this weekend? I mean, there are so many choices, and I want everyone to have a good time, and I haven’t been here or to any of those options before, so really, who could be sure at a time like this?!? What should we hang up on the ridiculously-tough, cement-like living room walls? What will you do when Nash goes back to school full time? Did you love or hate the last season of Game of Thrones? …I’m not sure…

I’m not sure if I love to ski or not. I’m not sure if getting four distinct seasons is worth a couple months without air conditioning. I’m not sure if French is quite the romantic language people seem to think it is (actually, I’m pretty sure what I think about that one.)

And I’m not sure I’m a writer. From what I’ve heard and read, writers never claim that writing is easy or happens without a soul-scraping struggle at times. But most of them sure seem to suggest that they could never not write. I had no trouble whatsoever not updating this blog for the last—holy smokes—six months. I found plenty of other things to do, some a lot less productive than others. Maybe we were still getting settled in or adapting in the first year. We tend to expect to hit the ground running no matter how big the change seems. It sure feels like Lisa, the boys, and I have come a long way in ten months. But there’s been a turning and churning and gnawing in the back of my head this whole time, trying to process little by little, looking for an outlet that helps share life with those I haven’t spoken with in too long, turning back to a practice that can help me consider, ponder, wonder, reconsider, ruminate…etc.

Long story long, or long intro long, I’m sorry it’s been a while. (Thank goodness for Lisa and Instagram/Facebook, huh? ) But I couldn’t let this collect dust any longer. Let’s try this again.

Want to catch up quickly? What’s new since the beginning of December…

• We got a car. Maybe it was the cold and snow of winter, or the hunger to take more day trips on the weekends that didn’t rely on buses and trains, or the hope of traveling with two young boys with more space and a few less glares, glances, and sighs, but we gave in. And just like my parents before me, we are the owners of a sweet, sweet station wagon. We chose a black Hyundai i40 with two rows of seats, instead of a majestic cream-colored Chevy with wood-paneling and a third row that faced backwards like the one we wore out on vacations and trips to grandparents’ houses. There’s room for skis, it holds 110 Francs worth of diesel each tank, and it beeps and blares to help avoid most wheel scuffs and fender dings while parallel parking.

• Speaking of scuffs and dings, we’ve had our first (minor) injuries and ER visits. Cooper had a stomach bug that sent him to the ER back in December. Luckily, he just needed a little more time and some medicine to move things along. Turns out like Nirvana and maybe Eric Clapton, he’s better unplugged.

  We took a short ski vacation in February, and Lisa found out the sled lanes can be just as dangerous as the slopes. She crunched her knee while trying to steer a sled with two boys and no rudder on it away from a snow wall, and ended up needing a brace for a while. Allegedly it was an accident that cut our ski-cation short, but someone wasn’t loving the cold cabin life anyway.

Maybe helmets and knee braces should be standard safety accessories for all mountain sports.

Nash was more impressed with the cool lights and tree house bed in the cabin than he was with the skiing and sledding outside.

Pastry? Check. Pair of mom’s sunglasses? check. Partial picture of mom’s thumb? Check.

Oh, and Nash was frustrated with the snack options in the kitchen recently, so he tried to take a bite out of my left hand instead. Jerking my fingers out of The Hulk’s mouth, my wedding ring caught and chipped his front tooth. So we got to make a couple of trips to the dentist to patch and smooth that off, and I learned how to file an accident report through our insurance. Experience is the best, but also a tough, teacher. At least he makes sure to tell everyone who talks about his tooth that it wasn’t daddy’s fault, it was his fault. He may lose control every once in a while, but he’s honest.

Our first visitors have made the trek across the pond! We got to explore Bern and Zurich, along with Chanel’s grave here in Lausanne because Candace, Jessica, Rachel and Sharon showed up. Lisa’s mom and her husband helped us make mandu, found some spring tulips in Morges, and even dragged us along to Paris and Lugano and let me travel back home to Missouri to see family. With the help of audio guides, we really soaked in a castle with Rich. We even got a chance to hang out in an Alien Bar, enjoy the view from Le Deck, and scaled Glacier 3000 with Jeff and Bridgett. I hope they had as much fun hanging out as we did having them here. The boys get stoked when people come to visit, and so do we. We’ve got space to stay if anyone needs an excuse to come check out Europe.

Spiderman wanted a picture with the big church the day before the roof caught fire.

Notice the lack of gloves and warm enough clothing for this trip up the mountain. Nash had his face protected from frostbite the whole time. Didn’t see the view at all. You can’t win the parenting award every day, huh?

• We’ve seen long wooden bridges in Lucerne and a city known for its bears in Bern. We saw a big atom and a mini-Europe, a famous whizzer, a grand square, and a banner of bikes in Brussels. We explored caves and mountain rivers in the rain in Vallorbe, and we’ve practiced baseball to remember our roots on the nice days. Along the way, we’ve toasted, offered cheers and thanksgiving, and collected as many views as we can. We’ve posed next to statues and stopped to pause and smile as often as we can. We’re working on slowing things down and enjoying each and every day, weekend, opportunity, and trip as much and as often as we can.

Some of us pick up some posh and unimpressed mannerisms more quickly than others.

He (they) will rock you.

Life is often different and often just the same over here. Some days, I’m back at another French lesson, as I slowly pick up a little more each week. It’s just rollin’ off the tongue these days. Lisa’s adjusting to her role at work and just started her own French lessons too. And some days…we’ve cranked through laundry all day long as we’ve potty-trained. Some days we’ve endured scoldings from the customs agent at the airport or the desk lady at the public pool, and other days we have picnics on the balcony (not barbecues though, dadgummit. Grills aren’t allowed). We go to music festivals down by the lake some days, and on others we wait around half the day for a tow truck when we pop a tire on a roundabout curb, because there’s no room allotted for a spare tire in our boat of a car. But we’re figuring it out, we’re celebrating more than we’re grumblin’, and we’re trying not to take any of it for granted. It isn’t easy, it’s usually crazy and messy, and it’s so stinkin’ good, too.

P.S. Just in case you’re like me, and you’re not sure…about your job, about your dreams, about who you are or could be. Whatever it may be about which you wonder, let me share something that’s got me wondering even more these past couple of weeks.

I was listening to Bill Simmons interview David Epstein, an author who’s just releasing a new book entitled Range: Why Generalists Triumph in a Specialized World. I think the book begins with a simple but possibly unpopular premise: kids are being herded towards one specific sport through club and select teams too early in life. Epstein then looks at famous athletes whose experiences and journeys contradicts that idea. He also shares other stories that suggest that diversifying interests, pursuits, even the sports our children play in elementary school better equips both them and us for the unexpected challenges of life, sports, and everything in between.

During the interview, Epstein enthusiastically points out that we are who we are in practice, not in theory. He adds that we have this idea, this commencement speech idea, that we can introspect our way to what we should be doing, to our calling, our vocation, our purpose in life. He insists this isn’t as helpful or honest as we’d hope.

Instead, he suggests that our insights into ourselves are constrained by the roster of our previous experiences. We should experience more of what we don’t know, seek opportunities to learn something new, and in the process we’ll find out more about ourselves. Epstein and Simmons agree that we should try stuff, lots more stuff, reflect on it, and zig and zag and carry on in that spirit until we find a niche where we can be uniquely successful and fulfilled.

I’m not sure I’m a writer. But I’ll keep trying it on, and I’ll seek out some other opportunities to stretch and grow my arena of practices, to enlarge my roster of experiences, so that maybe I’ll find a little more fit and understanding. Or at least I won’t leave as many potentials unexplored. Who knows what may lie ahead? I’m not sure.

Thankful for These Things...

It still blows my mind that we get to explore, learn, and experience so much together in a different part of the world. While we absolutely and earnestly missed sharing Thanksgiving with family and friends this year, consider yourselves “tight-squeeze hugged”—as Cooper calls it—from all four of us if you’re reading this, we really try to stay grounded and present and open to the new people, places, cultures, ideas, tastes, and sights we’re lucky enough to witness. Even though they’re young, we’re really hoping the boys at least have foggy memories of Barcelona, beaches, big churches, and bike rides that they can recall and for which they can give thanks in the future.

Here are a few other things I’ve been thankful for in the past week:

• for a shoot-from-the-hip, gets-it-all-done wife who’s already posted twice on Facebook and once on Instagram about our weekend in Barcelona. So I can just post a bullet list, blog, right? Booyah. You really should do what Nash, Cooper, and I do and follow her (at least on Social Media) everywhere and as often as possible.

• for orange soda on vacation. A little grace and indulgence now and then, remembering not to take things or ourselves too seriously. That’s self-care too, isn’t it…sippin’ on the good stuff, whatever your sweetness is that makes your eyes twinkle, glimmer, and gleam with joy and excitement?

• for Selfie Sticks. I mean, we haven’t gotten one yet. But some other motivated, entrepreneurial, T-Rex-armed individual who kept cutting off scenery or kept getting almost all of some faces or who couldn’t stand the way his or her neck looked that close up has ultimately ensured we’re going to get some quality pictures some day down the line.

• for how excited these boys get about embracing their heritage through eating japchae noodles, some banchan (Korean sides/appetizers), sauce that’s “just a widdle bit” spicy, and Korean meat (all while sitting just one table over from Jackie Chan’s twin sister. Who knew she’s keeping a low profile in Spain?).

• for vision, passion, dedication, and ridiculous creativity. I’d heard and read about Antoni Gaudi and his unique style, but my expectations were humbled when we pulled up to Sagrada Familia (the Church of the Holy/Sacred Family) on the double-decker tour bus. Gaudi spent over 40 years dreaming up and building this basilica. From the stark differences in styles from one side and facade to the other, the inclusion of nature, different eras and materials, to the amazing way it all binds together to reflect the passion and glory he sought to humbly offer up to the world and people of different backgrounds and beliefs, it was awe-inspiring to see a project close to a hundred years in the making. They say when people asked if he worried about not finishing before he died, Gaudi offered that his boss and benefactor (God) wasn’t too worried by timelines. He seemed to trust that if he got something amazing started, his vision and hard work would become contagious. He even built a beautiful little schoolhouse just next to the church for the children of those who worked with him. The way he brought together stone and the beauty of a forest inside the structure, the stained glass work, the countless spires/towers, and even the doors he dreamed up, collaborated with and/or inspired others to produce…man, I can’t imagine attending worship in a place like this. It’s funky and flowing and harsh and beautiful and many more eloquent words have been used to described the place and it’s creator than I could come up with. Wow.

• Oh, and I’m thankful for real family pictures in the rain with hoods plastered to our heads, Nash conked out with his mouth wide open, too-big rain jackets draped over other jackets, and one well-put-together handsome devil in the back. One of us had to hold it down and hold us all together. It’s not a candid picture for Pete’s sake.

• for the way these boys are starting to instinctively wrap arms around shoulders for pictures. Those picture pull-it-in side hugs are day-makers.

• for a four-year-old photographer who’s more and more excited to take a phone, open up the camera app, and punch that little white circle for another picture.

• for how small we feel sometimes, and how good that can still feel, too. And wonder that creeps up on both curious little boys and the parents who take their picture.

• for the confidence, fun, persistence, and teamwork we found on bikes. When we booked the bike tour with Fat Tire Bike Tours (started and/or owned by some Aggies, Lisa thinks), Lisa and I agreed that this was either going to be an awesome experience or an awful one. There wasn’t a lot of middle ground here. It was the highlight of the trip, no doubt. Thank goodness. And for a kid who is cautious and takes to things so slowly before warming up to them, Cooper loved it and felt so proud. He had tricks (standing up while we rode), he “helped” me up the hills we had to climb, he shouted, “Hola!” to just about everyone we passed…he was in his element. I hear Nash alternated napping and narrating behind Lisa, but he never once complained.

• for not-bad-timing and taking mirrored pictures of each other riding bikes. One of us can smile and not get their face stuck behind the phone in a picture, while the other one is nervously snapping a picture while trying not to hit too many curbs, posts, or speed bumps with the double wheels in the back.

• for the completely underrated comfort, maneuverability, and freedom of not straddling a bike anymore when you’re blessed with short and squatty legs.

• for this tough little dude who felt pink eye coming on and needed a band aid to sleep Sunday night. And for the fun of trying to hold him down to wipe his eyes with freshly-brewed black tea bags, which is a common home remedy over here in Switzerland, apparently. Oh, and for the ingenuity and fun Lisa brings by turning that torture into a spa treatment that the boys soak up and giggle through when she gets home at night.

I think that covers it. Hope y’all had a great Thanksgiving!

P.S. I’ve got one more story of the morning we headed out to Barcelona. I guess I’m thankful we can laugh about it now.

The alarm goes off at 4:50 am. We don’t want to lose a day traveling, so we risk the crankiness of waking up before the sun to catch a train to Geneva in order to make an 8 am flight to Spain. The boys pop out of bed excited and surprisingly not cranky, eager to ride in the perfect vehicular triple threat: train, plane, and taxi (or automobile, if you’d prefer). On the brisk—no, alright, downright cold—walk to the train station, the boys are belting out “We Are the Champions,” caught up in the renewed Queen renaissance that Bohemian Rhapsody has brought about. Hopefully it’s not loud enough to wake anyone up this early in a country where Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated and everyone has to work and go to school on just another Thursday.

The train ride goes well. The airport isn’t too crowded. One of our backpacks does get flagged at security…which makes sense because we brought the kids’ Camelbak water bottles full of water. Whoops. Easy enough to fix.

The flight attendant who greets us on the plane looks like Oliver Platt and sounds like Bridgett Jones. He’s charming, super friendly, great with the boys, so of course Cooper asks innocently but loudly as we walk down the aisle towards the back of the plane, “Was that a girl or a boy, Mommy? I liked…that person.”

Lisa sits with the boys, we’ll take turns and I’ll get to sit with them on the way back, and I sit across the aisle in the aisle seat. The flight and the plane are pretty nice for such a cheap flight, but there is no extra leg room on this puppy, not even for a stumpy-legged man like me.

People stop filing onto the plane and score! There aren’t three people on my side of the aisle. There’s just a slender woman dressed all in black like an extra alongside Mike Myers in a Sprockets sketch on SNL and me. We’ll be able to spread out. Ahhhh, that’ll be nice…wait, hold up. Why sit right next to me? Go ahead and take the window seat. I don’t care if that’s not what your ticket says, don’t be Swiss and such a rule follower in this situation, scootch on over. Leave the middle seat open. This can’t be your first time on a plane, let alone a kinda cramped European one.

Lisa and I are impressed with the boys once we get up in the air for a while. There’s a huge difference in how they are on a plane since flying over here back in August. Maybe it’s just the shorter flight.

At one point, Nash slinks down and disappears beneath his seat, like he’s tucking away in Mary Poppins’ or Hermione’s bag. When he doesn’t come back up for air, Lisa shoves the backpacks that they’d kept under the seats in front of them across the aisle to me and dives under too, knocking off Cooper’s Legos and cars with reckless abandon. She’s making such a mess, what’s she doing? Then Nash starts to scream. You know that freaking out, banshee scream? Yeah, louder than that. He sounds scared or hurt or both. Oh, he’s stuck. Lisa’s wiggling and kicking, telling Nash to turn his head, calm down, you can’t pull your head back, Nashy. The screaming gets louder. And in the wondrous miracle of life, I get the pleasure/horror of watching my second son being born a second time, delivered up and out from under a seat with no leg room by the young guy sitting behind Cooper as Nash screams just like he did on the day he was born. The impromptu baby-catcher thankfully smiles patiently and hands Nash back over the seat to Lisa who works to calm him down, calm herself down, and strap him in tighter than he’s ever been strapped by a seat belt in two and a half years on this earth.

I can’t help but smirk and stifle a laugh at the craziness of it all. Yup, they’re so much better this time around, no doubt.

Lisa gets situated, takes the backpacks back, and that’s when we both notice the huge wet spot on my lap. I hadn’t felt anything leaking while I held them for her, but now…my jeans look like Tom Hanks/Jimmy Dugan didn’t quite stumble to the locker room urinal in time in A League of Their Own. Fool me twice, Camelbak water bottles. The boys are old enough to never need a stinkin’ water bottle with a built-in straw again; those things are getting packed away in our storage cave when we get back. Now that I’m soaked, it’s Lisa who’s laughing.

Cooper, all this time, has been watching a movie on his tablet with his headphones in. Oblivious to it all, but yet somehow right on cue, he pipes up:

“We are the champions. We are the champions! No time for losers, ‘cause we are the champions…of the world!”

You Should See Them Climb...

“I promise he’s getting friendlier," I tell the dad of one of Cooper’s classmates, as Nash shakes his head and shouts, “NOOOOO!” This dad and I have become stay-at-home-dad buddies, sharing Swiss beer reviews, exchanging suggestions and frustrations on how to hang things on walls made of cement instead of sheet rock (eventually offering up a good, friendly English-speaking Turkish handyman Lisa found on Facebook as a recommendation), even going shopping together at Ikea, a Swiss Costco, and a lighting store for a day.

Yup, you read that right. You should’ve seen the look we got when we ran into a mom from Cooper’s class in the maze of the Ikea showroom. Two dads shopping together at Ikea, never thought that’d be on any itinerary of mine.

But hey, he’s got a car. His wife got a car with her job, and it’s easier for her to take the bus to work so he can drive his daughter to and from school, so he’s glad to share it. That’s what he was doing, offering us a ride home, which is quicker than the buses we take to and from Coop’s school up the mountain (about 40 minutes each way), and Nash flat out didn’t want to ride in someone else’s car or car seat. So as graciously as you can while holding a hollering two-and-a-half-year-old, I declined the quick ride back down to our place, and we headed back to the bus stop by the school instead. As we approached the bus, the feeling of Fall shook me out of our normal routine, and I decided we’d head into the Sauvabelin forest by Cooper’s school to check out the leaves, to enjoy the crisp morning air and get a little exercise, and to let Nash explore and play along the trails.

And Nash rolls with it. He really is coming out of his shell and into his own. The kid who couldn’t talk until after he was two never even takes a moment to breathe now. The words rush and tumble out of him. Resting Nash Face only makes an occasional appearance these days; it’s being replaced with a mischievous smirk more and more week by week. “I wike all the leaves, Daddy!” he blurts out. “Are der Spiders in here? Are der wolfs?” He hops out of the stroller (we walk so much we still take it every where, his stumpy legs are hanging in there for greater and greater distances, but they still wear out before too long) and points out some mushrooms; “Wook at dees, my Daddy!” We become mushroom hunters, finding tall skinny ones like folded up umbrellas and short round ones like little toad houses, brown ones and white ones, the ones that hug the damp ground and others that sprout out sideways from musty stumps.

I’d heard there’s a tower in the forest, where you get a great view of Lausanne, the lake, and the mountains. I look for signs and try to apply my limited French (two lessons in now, merci beaucoup) to see if we can wind our way to it. As we cross bridges and trudge uphill, I spot a stick that looks just like a wand. Cooper has become mesmerized by the first few Harry Potter movies, so Nash has been sucked in too, naturally. He’s got the taste in all things that all second siblings have—he loves whatever Cooper loves at this point. I hand him the wand, telling him to be careful, that some wizard, maybe even Hagrid (his favorite) might have dropped it here. Beaming, he shows off just how careful he can be by pointing it right at me and shouting “Expecto Patronum!” Pshu, Pshu, Pshu he fires that wand all over the woods, at every doggie he sees unless unfazed they come close enough for him to stick out his hand to be licked. And then, as we round the next bend, the tower appears right ahead of us:

“Whoa, dat’s cool!”

So we head over to the turnstile doors that lead in. I push hard and it doesn’t budge. Really, after we find it it’s closed? I thought the sign said it was almost always open. I push and pull and can’t get it to move. Preparing to try and let Nash down gently, a feat no one has ever pulled off, I step back and see someone else coming up to the tower entrance. I act like I’m getting something in the stroller and notice that this guy pushes a small, easily-overlooked (at least that’s how I justify it) button that frees up the turnstile. We’re in. The tower has three twisting tiers of steep stairs, with a platform for rest between each one, on the way to the top. I thought I’d carry him up the steps, but he braves them himself before I can even offer. Rushing up and climbing all on his own at first, taking my hand or finger in his tight little grip when he gets a little worn down, he scales the tower one grunting step at a time.

That’s what these boys do over here. They push on and they adapt. They surprise us with what they figure out and can do on their own. They’re resilient and brave and they love the autonomy. They’re not just surviving; it’s kind of remarkable how they’re thriving. Cooper can’t wait to tell others which buses to take if they don’t know. He hops down and holds the button on the outside of the bus door so Nash can hop down on his own while I lug the stroller on and off. They both know some of the landmarks, shops, and major bus stops by heart. Nash is so good at his scooter, we let him keep up with Cooper. A lot of times it scares others at first who then become impressed at how such a little dude can hold his own, do his own tricks, and use his back shoe to slow down and keep control on his little red Radio Flyer scooter too. He’s following in the footsteps of his older brother who always begs to go to a skate park with his scooter, bro. I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask Père Noël/Santa Claus for a skateboard.

The day after scaling the tower, Cooper had the day off for parent teacher conferences. His first choice for the day was, of course, the skate park. But since it was raining all day, we punted, and in our rain gear we made our way back to, you guessed it, the tower. He had to find his own wand in the woods, too. (When Nash told him he found a wizard wand in the woods after school the day before, the look on Cooper’s face, trying to figure out if we’d found an actual wand, was so genuine and pure: “Wait…wha—what, what spells does it do?!?”) This time, the rain and the cold took a little of Nash’s spunk away. He asked me to carry him for the second visit. But he was the tour guide, the tower guide, for Cooper, loving his roll as the experienced expert the whole way up and down. On the way back to the bus, they debated the questions that vex generations, like who’d win in classic match ups like Harry Potter versus Luke Skywalker, Chewie versus Hulk, Dumbledore versus Darth Vader, and Voldemort versus Spiderman in between duels with their new wands, of course.

It’s been a magical week, including and even beyond their new wizarding ways. Yesterday it snowed, big, feathery flurries that blew the mind of a two-year-old who’s never seen snow before and lit up some fuzzy memories of snowy delight for Cooper too. I’ve never seen a snow angel made with less snow on the ground; it was still too warm to stick. They couldn’t stop sticking out their tongues, their hands, staring at the sky, dancing in circles…puppies have less energy than these two in their first Swiss snow.

They’re setting up the Christmas market in town. As the temperature drops, Wonder seems to blow in with the cold winter winds. These two have long lists at night when I ask them what they were thankful for today. They sleep hard because they live life fully, embracing their growing confidence in life here in Lausanne, excited about what they just might find next. Holy smokes, it’s fun to ride their coattails, and seize the adventure along with them.

Are We Home Yet?

Things are starting to look familiar in the apartment we now call home. The living room rug, dingier than we remembered but still clinging to the dried up Play-Doh that’s set like concrete , still really ties a room together. It was fun having Christmas in October when the boys found out their Nerf Guns, blocks, more Legos, baseball gear, and favorite books actually showed up on the sea shipment (when a handful of bottles of whiskey arrived safe and sound, my eyes may have lit up too). We’ve opened boxes to find cards full of well-wishes and pictures of friends and family. I can hear our own washer humming and dryer clanking around as I’m typing this. I’m not sure why we thought we’d need so many stinkin’ hangers—three overflowing tubs full—over here where they rarely include any built-in shelf or closet spaces at all.

It’s kinda surreal seeing the container that was loaded up in front of the house show back up at your new Swiss apartment.

As everything was being unpacked, this corner breathed some home and comfort into the new place.

I’ve put together 19 pieces of furniture from IKEA. I’ve helped take apart, move, and reassemble a wardrobe. I took apart and reconfigured some patio furniture from ALDI, too (these European companies must name their businesses in all caps because they know people will lividly howl their names fuming in frustration—or at least spit them as terse curses under their breath when their kids are in the room—while assembling furniture surrounded by allen Wrenches and dowels, particle board and crazily-contrived angles that no one should be asked to contort into while balancing the rest of the teetering parts you’re trying to secure…but that’s just how I put it together).

Two patio furniture construction workers taking a well-deserved break.

We’ve had our first holiday here, a Halloween week that’s included:

• face painting and pumpkin soup at our local grocery store,

• pumpkin carving,

• no trick or treating,

• a costume and disco party at a park with a bone-chilling (cold, not scary) procession for no one’s enjoyment but the unimpressed farm animals we processed around in a big, eerily-quiet circle. Cold and dumb, I think, is what Lisa called it. Lisa’s usually honest, but that’s putting it nicely.

• a school party at Cooper’s school during the day and a festival for the whole elementary side of the school with trunk or treating and more face painting and more discos. That’s what they call dances over here, discos. Wouldn’t it be weird if they called all dances break dances or raves or mosh pits or any other time-specific dance fad?

Some people might argue we need more holidays back in the states centered around face-painting and discos…but as for me and my family, give us trick or treating.

This was the one time we smiled all day, before the procession and disco as frostbite was starting to set in.

Most of the time, this space and our routines don’t instill the same anxiety and exasperation we felt the first few weeks we were here. We can almost relax and breathe deeply nowadays. We’re settling into new ruts and rhythms. So now we can start calling this place home, right?

I’ve thought a lot about what that word home means lately. Of course, it’s where the heart is. It’s where you can be yourself, where you don’t have to try so hard or act like someone else for the benefit of someone or everyone else. It’s where you get at least a few of the people, and a crazy loyal few get you too. Home describes those places that come alive in technicolor, like Dorothy stepping out of the freshly crashed farm house. They’re saturated with memories, inside jokes, unforgettable sights and smells, “ohhhh, remember when…?!?”, and the occasional “that used to be…” They’re inhabited with ghosts of people who shaped us, formed us, loved us, maybe even hurt us…who brought out something of who we are today in us. Maybe someday Lausanne, with it’s beauty (there’s snow at the tops of the Alps around us now, yall!) and quirks will be a place like that too.

For me, home surely means a place of comfort. I’m a creature of it. Home is where I know my way around, where there aren’t many barriers to common sense or some sort of mutual understanding. Home’s a place where I can plan a day and more often than not I can sort of stick to the plan. It’s where I have control to drive where I need to go (with parking options that don’t get us all jammed up like Austin Powers) and places are open at times that fit my schedule, thank you very much. None of this most-things-close-at-6 junk. It’s where there are shared expectations of friendliness and warmth, and where glances aren’t exchanged every time the boys or loud or when I can’t help but speak English. I know, learn the language! I hear ya. French lessons start this week.

If home really means comfort, this might not ever feel like home.

I was listening to Dave Chang’s podcast recently. He’s a successful chef who’s started the Momofuku restaurants, recently opened Majordomo in Los Angeles, and had the hit series Ugly Delicious on Netflix. He was talking to a friend, colleague, collaborator, and fellow chef Christina Tosi about opening restaurants, failing time and time again, and what sparks their creativity As they innovate and push themselves, they both agreed that comfortable is the absolute most boring place to be. They couldn’t stand the idea of settling for comfortable. Obviously, we’re wired differently, Chef Chang and me. So that’s why I’m not an elite chef.

I like my definition of home. It’s cozy and safe and predictable…and the more adjectives I use the less appealing it seems. Maybe it’s needs some work. What can I figure out about what home means while we try to make a new one here in Switzerland? If we don’t open up, if we don’t learn and come away somewhat different, if we don’t let these experiences teach us and shape us, then why did we embark on this adventure in the first place?

There’s this notion throughout the old Hebrew stories of God, even throughout the stories of Jesus and those he influenced, of how both God and people often dwell in places. Dwell is a term that seems to incorporate both absolute presence and something less than permanence. Dwell is sometimes understood as setting up a tent among. When we dwell, we create connections, we live among, we exist here and now with others in this place, we stake our tents here…but those tent stakes aren’t necessarily cornerstones either.

There are stories of Abram and Moses and Hagar and Jonah and many others who for one reason or another are called, asked, and sometimes they’re even forced against their will to become strangers in strange lands. In Psalm 137, one of the most poetic and tragic psalms, exiled and deeply unsettled Jewish captives both yearn to remember the place they call home, and struggle to pick up their harps and sing with any life about where they used to be. Sometimes change and hardship and discomfort are the spark of beautiful creativity, and sometimes they seem to bind up the joy and passion that would stoke the embers of that same imaginative innovation. For most of their written history in the scriptures, the Israelites struggle with their identities and relationships with God, each other, and their neighbors while they are displaced, oppressed, and/or outsiders. That sort of struggle, that kind of lifestyle sounds a lot more uncomfortable than cozy and familiar.

Maybe I’m trying to find purpose, to make sense, of our grasping for home in a place where it just doesn’t feel the same. Maybe I’m a little in denial, but I don’t think it’s a sense of homesickness or longing for where we’ve come from, as much as it’s trying to dwell here well in the moment and in this season of life. Maybe growth and opportunity and reinvention are all just waiting for us to dwell with discomfort with the same appreciation I’ve carried for so long for comfortability.

What if the better story leads out of making your home where things aren’t comfortable, but they’re challenging and teachable and transformative, too? In that case, maybe we’ve been more at home all along that we’ve realized. It’s kind of fun thinking that this could be a new way of defining home for the boys, for us…figuring out something new and different with joy and speed bumps and laughter and frustration and grit and barriers and love all mixed up together.

Close Your Eyes and Jump

The last movie I went to see in the theater back in Texas was Mission: Impossible-Fallout. Which is how many now? Mission Impossible 11…maybe? Anyway, It was pretty darn good. I’m blown away when each new one comes out at the fact that Tom Cruise does most of his own outrageous stunts in each movie.

I stumbled across a clip on YouTube of Cruise on The Late Late Show with James Corden talking about doing his own stunts, which leads to him challenging James Corden to go skydiving with him. Check it out; there’s some funny stuff in there.

In case you’re in a hurry, there’s a point at about 4:12 where Cruise and Corden go over some hand signals they can share while in the air. There’s thumbs up, so so, and then James comes up with one he can use when things go to sh…when things get messy. The signal is two closed hands (imagine knocking on a door twice), followed by a open-hand splat.

Up in the air, after they jump, they share thumbs up, and then James remembers and/or needs to use the messy situation signal. Knock knock splat.

It’s been 47 days since we shuffled our feet to the edge of the open door, tried to pry our toes away from clinging to the edge, and jumped from Texas out towards Switzerland. And just between us, there have been more than a few times when if you would of looked at me with inquiring eyes, a big grin, and a thumbs up, I would have shot you back a cold squinty stare while offering that newly created signal, or my eyebrows would have jumped up above my hairline in terror as I signaled back knock knock splat.

Take the first couple days as we got here. In the grips of a Swiss heat wave—hovering between 85 and 90 with no a/c because, come on, it doesn’t get that hot— we went to Fust, a Swiss Best Buy, to get a fan…only to find they were of course sold out. Please try next week. Oh, you mean after the sauna-like conditions have moved on? You bet. All four of us were fighting a losing battle with jet lag, sweaty and cramped in the smallest space I’ve lived in since my freshman year in the dorms, we were up all night because the boys couldn’t get to sleep. Lisa had noticed that Nash’s bed was a little weak and creaky on her shift, but too tired to relay the message, she came in and crashed as she tagged me to console him. I plopped down next to him after a day of worrying about being too loud for our downstairs neighbors and we both crashed to the floor as the bed exploded beneath us at 3:30 in the morning. I bet the neighbors below slept right through the crash. I bet they were only jarred awake a few seconds later by my unrepeatable howls of frustration and Nash’s wails after the momentary shock wore off.

But it got better over time, right? Sure. I love laundry over here. Everybody in the apartment building shares a washing machine in the basement and a room with a heater for a dryer. When you’re the new family in the building, other people have signed up for the best shifts for the next 5 months. So you get bound to a Wednesday morning changing out mounds of laundry (did I mention the landlady was on vacation for two weeks when we arrived and we couldn’t add money to our laundry card?) that piles up in the hot room because the clothes never really quite dry. And you’ve got to be respectful and a good neighbor and be done by the end of your allotted time, but don’t cut the washing cycle short or the clothes are wringing wet and you have to dry them for two days on your balcony. Love laundry over here.

Knock.

Knock.

Splat.

And the boys adjust well, but they do take some time to adjust, which leads to pastry addictions (don’t send your broom on the longer sea shipment in the land of pastries and croissants, by the way), fights in the foreign grocery store that end with yogurt plopping on Nash’s head, skirmishes over water bottles that progress into a tangle of two boys tumbling down the stairs on the bus as the Swiss gape and giggle (don’t even mention who gets to push the button for our stops every ride, every day), and a steady stream of new favorite phrases like, “I’m so bored!” and “It’s taking so long!”

Knock knock two heads together, splat.

Throw in Cooper zooming on his scooter into a crosswalk in front of an oncoming bus, followed by the bus driver making me and the boys get on the bus, apologize to all the people who fell as he slammed on the brakes, ride a few stops on a bus we didn’t want to take, and then provide our information for the police in case anyone sues (Cooper respects him some crosswalks now, though),

Lisa needing a root canal less than a month after moving to a country that has no dental insurance,

staying on hold for over an hour and a half for a customer service call in French in a place known for their warmth and consideration,

the bland, bland expensive expensive food. I knew I’d miss complimentary chips and salsa and some good authentic Tex-Mex. I didn’t know I was actually saying good bye to spices and depths of flavor when I left,

and our attempts to use a Honda Jazz we rent as a long bed truck, moving Ikea furniture and big televisions that cause the boys to duck and us all to suck in within that spacious yacht of a car.

Oh, and the mini Alp that is the hill that leads up to our apartment that’s often traversed with exhausted kids, a stroller, two scooters hanging over our shoulders and bags of groceries too.

Who knew a hand signal would be so fitting and would wear out it’s welcome at the same time?

Psst…Can you believe he’s complained that long about moving to Switzerland? Who feels sorry for this dude?

So now he tries to put a bow on it ;)

You know what though…I’ve heard that it’s in those messy situations requiring a made up signal that we find an opportunity to learn and grow. Adam Hamilton says that we all know where the greenest grass grows…where there’s manure. So together, we endure and survive. We get stronger and try to pass survival on our way to thrival…or thriving. These boys are independent and tough and are picking up street smarts every day (they’re just like their mom). We laugh and lean into the adventure…and we lean on each other.

And even though we closed our eyes at first when we jumped, when we open them, we see things from a different perspective. There’s beauty all around us. The view’s incredible from way up here.

We’ve met some great people. We can’t be comfortable in what we used to have or who we used to be anymore, and that’s not such a bad thing. It’s usually cooler up here in these heights. People are more often than not remarkably helpful, patient, and understanding. Grace is so often extended, and man that leads to a lot of gratitude that drowns out the muttering and cursing under your breath. And it creates a hunger to do what we can to offer grace when we get a chance. It’s not all bad being strangers in a strange land—if we let it form who we’re becoming.

…Seriously, though, tomorrow is laundry day again, and our landlady won’t let us refill the card with anything less than 30 francs even though we’re moving out of our temporary apartment in less than two weeks. Guess who gets to ask a neighbor if we can use his or her laundry card tomorrow if we pay them back for the washes we use in the morning …