huffingtonpost - 2 days ago

The morning before my oldest child’s first day of school in Berlin, I found myself wrestling with a roll of gold construction paper, a glue stick, and a creeping sense of panic.I was trying to assemble a Schultüte – a giant paper cone traditionally filled with candy, school supplies, and tiny gifts – because I had somehow missed that every German child receives one at the Einschulung, a welcome-to-school ceremony that is a rite of passage here.I’d heard of the cones before, but when my son’s teacher handed him one at preschool graduation, I assumed that was it. It wasn’t until the night before the ceremony that I realised that was a bonus cone. The real Schultüte was still to come.I ran to a massive craft store by my apartment and asked the store clerk where I could find the all-important Schultüte. He pointed to a big display and said, “We’ve been sold out for a week.”I panic-bought construction paper and decorative pom-pom balls. My husband used his glue gun to make a giant cone and we filled it with school supplies – including 20 pencils with my son’s name written on each one, as per his teacher’s instructions – and candies.I’d used a stencil to neatly write his name and the year on the outside of the cone, but the marker bled. The result was that it looked kind of like the graffiti we see every day as we pass remnants of the Berlin Wall. I hoped he thought it was cool instead of the mistake it really was.At the ceremony, surrounded by other kids holding elaborately themed cones perfectly crafted in some far-off factory – one in the shape of a dinosaur that was the size of my 3-year-old, another with a stuffed animal attached to the side – I hoped he wasn’t embarrassed by his homemade one.Watching him onstage, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d be singled out because of my mistake. Teased. Labelled as an outsider. That fear pulled me back to the fifth grade in Minnesota, when, like in a bad 1980s movie, a classmate taped a “kick me” sign to my back.It had taken me hours to realise why kids were laughing at me. It wasn’t the kicks I remember so much as the feeling that I didn’t belong. I worried that my ineptitude with life in Germany would mean my kids would be perpetual outsiders, too.  That morning onstage was a milestone for my son. But it was also one for me: the moment I realised I wasn’t just a mom raising kids in a different country – I was trying to guide my child through a culture that he was already more fluent in than I was.When my husband and I moved from California to Berlin on what was supposed to be a two-year stint, I never considered that my kids would be the children of immigrants. We were here temporarily, and we thought we’d be back home before my son started kindergarten.Parenting in Europe was supposed to be a breath of fresh air: less pressure, more independence, and no helicoptering (or so the parenting books promised!). I’d devoured articles about how the French, Dutch, and Germans parented better – leaving kids and parents happier – and was eager to see the results on my own growing family.But things changed. Two years became six. I’d known learning German would be hard, but I hadn’t expected daily life here to be such a minefield of missed cues. This wasn’t a case of living overseas for the first time and being surprised by how things are different – I’d lived in Asia and London. However, I’d never parented overseas before.The author with her husband, Charlie Chrisman, and three children in Berlin.Thankfully, all three of my children became quite at home here. They’ve had active social lives (juggling their playdates and birthday party invitations could feel like a full-time job), but I routinely wrestled with the fear that I would misunderstand an important milestone for my kids.My stomach ached thinking about the time I brought a hanging lamp to a lantern festival. “Is this OK?” I’d asked another parent, one who had been in Berlin a year longer than me. She smiled warmly, then said, “They’re supposed to be on sticks. For the walk.” Another fail.Six years living in Germany, and that feeling hasn’t gone away. My three children – now 4, 6 and 9 – have become tiny cultural ambassadors, correcting my German pronunciation and schooling me on how things really work here.“Well, Mom, in Germany…” is a phrase I hear often, like the time my oldest came home one afternoon and said his friends had already gotten their Seahorse badges and that he felt left behind. “What’s a Seahorse badge?” I asked. He took a deep breath, looked me straight in the eyes, and kindly explained that, “in Germany, getting your Seahorse badge means you can swim the length of a pool. It’s a big deal, Mom.”My children’s confidence – their ease in a place that still feels foreign to me – is both beautiful and jarring. I want to be able to guide them through life’s ups and downs, at least while they are little, not google German customs when they ask me a question or forget that on December 5th, I’m supposed to fill their shoes up with candy from St. Nicholas so they won’t be the only ones who show up to day care empty handed (something I’ve put in my calendar to remember for this year).But more and more, I find myself trailing behind them, playing a weird game of catch-up.It’s not like I haven’t tried to integrate. I’ve taken language classes and a government-sponsored course for immigrants called “Life in Germany,” where I learned about the country’s political, economic and cultural systems. I watch German TV and listen to German podcasts to absorb the small cultural things that aren’t taught in textbooks.But no flashcards or language apps can replace the deep knowing that comes from growing up in a culture, from sitting in morning circle at day care and repeating the same rhymes, the same stories, day after day.Those articles I read about European parenting – they don’t mention how hard it is to be an outsider, for parent or child. The one who doesn’t instinctively understand how things work. The one whose kids have to wait for her to catch up to all the other parents.While I know I sometimes embarrass my children with my broken German or cultural gaffes, I also see the pride they take in knowing more than I do and being able to help me. “It’s fier, not vier” my middle son says, when I’ve mispronounced the word for four, again.“When you see a German V, you pronounce it like an English F,” my oldest says, like a miniature, benevolent private tutor. When I open my Duolingo app, my kids gather round me, eager to translate. And out in public, my 6-year-old loves telling new people that he speaks German better than his parents. The smile on his face says it all – he is so proud of accomplishing something that he realises is hard for us.My kids see me struggle almost every day. But they also see how hard I work. They watch me do my German homework, listen to me repeat words I’ve mispronounced, and see as I successfully communicate with strangers, even if it’s with bad grammar.I won’t ever catch up with my kids’ cultural knowledge of Germany, and I still worry that my kids will pay a price for the things I don’t know. But I’ve come to believe that I’ve given them something else. By letting them see me struggle with a new language, ask for help and try again, what they’re really learning from me is how to be brave in unfamiliar places. How to keep trying. And how to be kind when someone else is finding their way.Lantern Festival in 2022 in Berlin, when the author had purchased the “correct” light.In our basement, we’ve got three small lights for the lantern festival – one for each of my kids who are still in preschool and an extra one to bring in case another parent finds themselves like I was that first year. I tell new parents about my mistakes so that they don’t repeat them, and to let them know it’s OK to come to me when they’ve messed up. When I asked my eldest recently about his memories from that first lantern festival and whether he felt strange that his wasn’t like everyone else’s, he cocked his head to the side like he didn’t understand. “My lantern was cool, Mom,” he said. “It was big enough I could pretend it was a light saber.”In another year, my middle child will start first grade. It’s a chance to do the Schultüte all over. I haven’t decided whether I’ll buy one from the store or give him a handmade one like his brother’s. But whatever he gets, I hope he knows that it was given with love from a mom who might not get it quite right, but keeps trying anyway.Kate Chrisman is an American writer living in Berlin who once cycled 2,000 miles across Asia on a $300 bike with zero training. She’s reported from Mongolian coal mines, advised China on clean energy, and led budgeting clinics for young adults in cities no one could afford. She holds a master’s from the London School of Economics, speaks Chinese, and is working on her German. A Serial Eyes grad with a thing for true stories, she writes screenplays, essays and short humor. Watch her run run around Europe on Instagram @katerchrisman.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.Related...I m A Parenting Coach – This Is Why So Many Kids Can t Seem To Sit StillI m A Parenting Coach, Here s How I Stopped My Son s Tantrum In 7 SecondsIs Second Best Parenting The Secret To A Happier Family?

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