fun times

always running

Ugh. What a few days I have had. Sometimes you think that being a father is tough work. I guess it is; but merely being a human can be tough as well.

Why tough? I feel my brain moves too slow. Or, rather, slower than those around me. One huge question has been whether or not Marta will stay here in New York with my folks for the next two months while we go back to Estonia with Anna and then return for Ian's wedding.

This was not my original idea but it was sort of sold to me as a nice way for Marta to get to know her grandparents and to attend kindergarten where they would teach her things that I can't. So I agreed. It made sense on paper.

Now, two days before we leave, I don't feel good about it, but I am not sure if dragging her back across the ocean is the solution. It's not just this that makes me unhappy with my choices though; I have to come back in September for Ian's wedding, then I have to go on a work-related trip in late October. By the time we get back to our home in Estonia after that trip it will be early November. I wish I could line all of these events and circumstances up and get them done but I can't -- everything is so messy and there are no good solutions.

In this situation, I hate the responsibility of making decisions. Wouldn't everything be easier if someone else made them for me? Because I know that if I make a mistake, it will be my own fault, and if I miss Marta during these two months, I will only be able to blame my decisions or lack of decision making skills. It has come to the point that I feel there is no right decision. There are only two mistakes to make, and I must make one of them. There will be no good feeling at the end.

Over the past month I have been from Helsinki to Vancouver to San Francisco and back to New York. Between now and the time I see Marta again I will have perhaps been to Sweden and Italy. I am feeling exhausted and yet in front of me are whole new challenges I must face down. In my job, nearly every sentence I write must stand up to criticism. There are so many details. And in the mix of that, two months of my daughter's life has just become another detail.

People criticize me because I waste my time doing other things, like blogging. But blogging is a wonderful waste of time because there are few if any consequences. Nothing happens. Isn't that wonderful? In my reality though, I am just disappointed in myself that I have not been able to take on all these questions and come up with answers that suit not only my needs but everyone else's. If that is even possible. It's probably not.

"me" versus "we"

When we moved to Tartu in February 2007, I was worried that Marta would have a hard time switching to Estonian.

The first day at 'lasteaed' (kindergarten), the teachers said she barely spoke any. But by the third day she was telling me "Issi, get up, it's hommik." ('Hommik' means morning)

Over the next half year she essentially learned the hard way that there were two languages. She knows them both, but it takes her some time to switch. When we left her with my parents in late June, early July for a couple of days, she made a hard switch back to English.

But she still makes little mistakes. Actually, only one mistake. She used the Estonian word for "we" ('me' pronounced 'may' for you English speakers).

She'll say things like, "me are going to the movies" or "me saw some butterflies outside." The other night, Marta was swimming after me with Becky. "Watch out," she cried. "Me are evil witches!"

I have tried to correct her many times, but she treats it like a chore. "We saw some butterflies," I will say. "Yes, issi, we saw some butterflies," she'll repeat. But a few minutes later she is telling mimi that "me" did something. And most English speakers don't pick up on it, because it sounds like she is saying 'we.' So they respond to her error and reinforce it.

Anyway, I am sure she'll figure it out eventually. But I feel I have done all I can to fix it.

marta's conversation with her babysitter

Marta: Do you have a sister?

Babysitter: Yes, I have an older sister.

Marta: Where is she?

Babysitter: She's at work.

Marta: Why is she working?

Babysitter: So she can make money to go out with her friends. She also goes to college.

Marta: What's college?

Babysitter: It's a place you go so you can get a job.

Marta: What job?

Babysitter: She wants to be a marine biologist.

Marta: Oh. I have to go poop.

family stories

Every family has its stories. American families, I think, have more of them because many of us honestly do not know our own roots. It's shrouded in mystery because nobody bothered to pass any notes down for posterity.

Not to mention there is no real use for such knowledge, is there? Well, maybe there is. I mean we could all just live for the moment right ... until we died. And then what? Then, maybe posterity matters. And our habits live on. Find any alcoholic and chances are that he comes from a long line of drunks. So the past does matter, doesn't it?

One story in our family regards the origin of my great-grandmother's family, the Petrellises. The Petrones were of Italian origin, that much is clear, but Petrellis is a Greek name, not an Italian one, and grandpa insisted that his mom (at left) was Greek "from an island off the coast of Greece and Albania."

Never one to let any lock lie unpicked in my infinite spare time I found out more about great grandma. It turns out that she wasn't born in Greece but in Italy in 1892. But the village she was born in was not your ordinary Italian village -- it was called San Giorgio Albanese, with the Albanese indicating that it was populated by Albanians, or rather Arbereshe, proto-Albanians who moved there centuries ago before there was an Albania proper.

So, little did anyone know but we are the progeny of a weird Mediterranean ethnic group. The Albanians (who call their own language "Shqip") have their own branch of the Indo-European language tree. The Arbereshe, though, are not really Albanians. They are the descendants of Albanians of the 16th century who have been living in Italy for hundreds of years.

Great Grandma wasn't completely "Arbereshe" though. Her mother was an Italian, while her father carried the Greek surname. But I found it hard to reconcile this idea that the family was Greek with the fact that they lived in a village in the mountains of Calabria with a group of proto-Albanians.

Then I happened up the fact that many of the Albanians that moved to Italy were not exactly Albanians either. They were "Arvanites" -- a Greek ethnic group that happened to share a common archaic Albanian language. The Arvanites were Greek Orthodox and defiantly Greek for centuries, to the point that they deny their connection with Albania, despite their linguistic connection. And a lot of them happened to live in Epirus, on the northwest coast of Greece, where there happen to be some islands.

According to the resources I found, the Arvanites were living in Greece for hundreds of years before they fled to Italy following Ottomon Turk invasions of the region. Now, this was starting to make sense. Great grandma was neither Italian nor Albanian nor Greek. She was all three!

The thought of sword wielding Turks driving my ancestors across the Ionian Sea to the hills of Calabria and the Sila Greca gives this comfortable American blogger shivers. But I am glad they made it, because if they hadn't made it, I wouldn't be here, and neither would Marta or Anna (or Papa for that matter.) So I guess the past does matter, and sometimes it is even interesting.

oh, anna

Sometimes we discuss the nature of our second daughter, Anna, usually using the first, Marta, as some kind of measurement.

The thing is that we know Anna is different, but we are not exactly sure how she is different. She has always had a personality. Even when she was born and she looked at me as if to say, "no big deal, I feel fine" about her birth, she had a personality. But I have a really hard time describing that personality.

These kinds of things are relevant. Marta is a very independent, outgoing, social, excitable child. She's a climber. When she was nine months old, I had to fight her to keep her from trying to climb up the ladder to a bunk bed. She honestly thought she could do it.

Marta also has a highly developed relationship with my Mom (Mimi) and all of her relatives. Mom has been writing me e-mails, saying that she desires to "bond" with Anna in a manner similar to Marta. But I am not sure to the extent Anna is available for bonding. Anna is available for feeding, and for some adventures, but simple hugging will have to pass for bonding for the moment, I think.

Maybe I express these doubts because I am just beginning to bond with our daughter myself. She seems to like the simple things in life. I have a hard time trying to imagine her organizing a group of kids the way Marta can orchestrate a whole gang of children. She doesn't even seem to want my attention. What she wants is a warm bath and some of that good stuff that you are eating. In essence, she seems content.

Sometimes when she sleeps, I am amazed by how cute she is. She has big ruddy cheeks and strawberry blond hair. One friend commenting on a photo inferred that this little blond cherub might have a different father compared to her olive-toned issi. But Anna's long toes look a bit too familiar. And when I look at her sturdy build, it reminds me of old photos from when I was a little baby.

Sturdy she may be, but she loves to be held. So long as the environment around her is interesting, she can nestle on your shoulder and watch the world go by. She also loves the swings at the playground. She is so happy just to do these basic things, like swing and taste new and interesting foods. Anna is nice child. I am glad she decided to come to us.