DotMoms

Guppy Love

By Christine

We have a new pet: 10 to be exact. The other day my daughter came home late from school. I had gotten into the minivan to search for her when I saw her amble around the corner with a jar filled with water in her hands.

I peered into the glass. Ten minnows swam in circles, completely disoriented.

"Look!" my bright-eyed 7-year-old exclaimed in her best "I finally have something to love" voice kids get when they’ve been denied a house pet for years. She thrust a piece of paper her friend had downloaded from the Internet into my hands. It described the protocol for caring for aqua-amphibian wildlife.

"Minnows like lettuce?" I pondered as I pawed through the crisper for an old leaf.

Careful not to slosh the animals out of their glass cage, my daughter placed the jar on the dining room table. Since it was lunchtime soon, I gently coaxed her to move the pond life elsewhere.

After our meal, I found an old ceramic bowl that had gotten as a wedding present. We had patched it back together where it had broken when mailed, and we’d never used it.

"Better time as any!" I said in a cheerful tone that surprised me. The kids had lost momentary interest in their new pets. After all, their favorite TV show had just come on. I arranged, then rearranged the stones the guppies would one day use to climb out of their watery jail and into freedom.

That night my husband, the consummate biologist, was thrilled to see the long-tailed creatures swimming about the floral ceramic background. Because he is allergic to everything that has fur, I had always thought he’d be adverse to anything that lived inside our house that wasn’t human. Not so! These guppies were something special.

Night after night, we have observed the animals. Their legs have grown longer and stronger. Some of them have almost lept out of the bowl and onto the kitchen counter.

We’re going on vacation soon, and a friend has agreed to take our new friends in our absence. Somehow I’m filled with sadness that we won’t get to see our "babies" grow out of their tails and into their frog legs. It is guppy love at its best!

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Speechless

by Christine

"You look different," my husband eyed me from the edge of his coffee cup. It was 8 a.m., and both kids were in school. I lifted my gritty eyes to meet his.

"It might have something to do with the fact I got up at 4:30 this morning," I sounded more defensive than I wanted to.

"No," he said quickly, trying to recover. "You actually look good…"

Passion. Remember that one? The I-can’t-wait-another-second-to-see-you kind of commitment that pulled you two together in the first place?

My husband and I used to take breaks in between snuggling at the breakfast table to take bites of our toast. That’s how pathetically in love we were. Now we’ve settled into a smooth hey-you kind of existence. It’s comfortable. I don’t even need to say one word at night as we flop onto the couch for an episode of Law & Order. I prop my feet onto his lap. He whips off my socks and gives ‘em a good rub.

My scientist husband has never been an overly verbal person. Married to me, he barely gets a word in edgewise. Couple that with my working from home, and you’ve got "Download City" the moment the poor guy gets home from work. Typically, it takes me two and a half hours to download my day to him. In turn, he gets about 10 minutes of impatient listening. Try as I might, I just can’t seem to wipe the glaze off my eyes when he talks science.

He might get me to shut up more if he gave me a few compliments. Even there he’s standing on losing ground. He tries to shower me with adoration with things like "you look nice", but he needs to work on his tone, such as removing the sound of surprise in his voice as I waltz down the stairs at the end of the day, showered with a spritz of perfume behind my ear.

Over the 15 years we’ve been together, I’ve become a sleuth of sorts. I’ve taken the few words he does say to mean great things.

"Thank you" when passing the salt means "You are a goddess for being so thoughtful."

"Yes" when I ask him if he will pick up the children from gymnastics translates into "because you work hard all day and simply need a break, dear!"

When he says "I don’t know," it can be interpreted as his saying "Your beauty makes me speechless."

As with most nights, he’s all talked out. We silently shuffle into bed, mumble an "I wuv you…" and snap off the light.

That’s marriage after twelve glorious years.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Interview with Hot Moms Handbook Author Jessica Denay

by Christine

Moms take on many different forms. From the waitress at the coffee shop to the minivan mom at the park to the executive in the boardroom, we can all be Hot Moms according to Jessica Denay, author of The Hot Mom's Handbook. It is in the attitude, not the size or situation a person has. Dot Moms meet Hot Moms in a recent interview with this California author.

Christine Hohlbaum: Jessica, you have quite an amazing background. Tell us more about yourself.

Jessica Denay: I'm a 31-year-old single mom who grew up in Nutley, New Jersey. My career started as a high school teacher and counselor for troubled teens. When the school I taught at shut down for lack of funding, I went into Manhattan and began teaching privately for young performers on Broadway and young professional athletes. I started working with Keely and Pierce Brosnan's son in 1998 during the filming of The Thomas Crown Affair. An incredible experience, with them I traveled the world and met some legendary people. I relocated to Los Angeles and continued working for the family as a tutor part-time until recently when my friends and I decided to turn HotMomsClub into a company.

I was married to actor Bryan Dattilo (Lucas on “Days of Our Lives”). He's a great dad, and we work very hard to create a solid healthy happy environment for our son despite being apart.

Christine: Your new release The Hot Mom's Handbook centers on helping mothers regain their power. Do you think mothers today are powerless?

Jessica: I believe mothers are the most powerful force in the universe. This book helps moms tap into that power. It's a gentle reminder of everything we already know as women but gets lost somehow in the demands of motherhood.

Christine: I noticed there are quite a few famous people quoted in your book. How did you go about collecting the ideas/quotes?

Jessica: All of the incredible moms who contributed to the book have inspired me in some way. I have learned and continue to learn from all of them. I simply asked them to lend stories, advice or quotes, and they did! My editor and I went through and fit them into the chapters. It is truly an eclectic group. You have wisdom from all ages, races and occupations; you have the 81-year-old hot mom who tells us the secrets to keeping a marriage hot after 60 years; you have the surfer mom, the belly dancing legend, a comedian, authors, athletes, experts, my mom, and celebrities from Kelly Preston and Kathie Lee Gifford to Cher! There is truly someone for everyone to connect to.

Christine: How can I get a copy of The Hot Mom's Handbook?

Jessica: The book is out in stores as of April 17 and is available on amazon.com.

Christine: What does being a Hot Mom really mean?

Jessica: A Hot Mom is confident and empowered. You can be a Hot Mom at 25 or 90, a size two or size 22, stay at home mom or working mom, it has nothing to do with age, race, size or situation. It's your attitude, your confidence. A Hot Mom recognizes that motherhood broadens and expands her. She's not merely "just a mom."  A Hot Mom knows that taking care of her spirit, her sexuality, herself  -- is important for the well being of her children, for it is only when you find your center and balance that you can be the best value to them. You are the example. There is a Hot Mom in EVERY mom, you might just have to wake her up!!

Christine: Women are often told by society that they should be this way or that. How does The Hot Mom's Handbook treat the topic of sexuality and motherhood differently than, say, your typical women's magazine?

Jessica: Your sexuality is huge part of you as a human being, as a woman! Yes, you are still a woman after you have children. We all have hectic days when we only have enough time to shave one leg. It goes beyond the upkeep. The key is remembering that your inner siren still needs attention, that nurturing your relationship, to your body, you partner, is glue of your family. You are modeling healthy relationship for your children.

I think the biggest difference between what HotMomsClub is saying and what magazines have been saying is that for so long people were afraid to condone doing things for you, that if you weren't doing for your children 24/7 then your were a "bad" mother, a "good mother" is a martyr and thinks only of her kids. 

We argue that doing things for you, nurturing your spirit, your soul, your relationships make you a BETTER mom, for it is when you are centered that you can be the best mom and best example. Doing for others and not taking any time for yourself builds resentment. You need to recharge your batteries, fill your bucket, make your light bright. Whether it's pedicures or bubble baths, date night or hikes, it is crucial that you put yourself on your to-do list (your partner too!)

Christine: Your Web site includes an online magazine. What types of topics do you cover?

Jessica: We cover everything mom-related. Each month centers around a specific theme. We have Beauty, Style, Relationships, Parenting (of course!), Fitness and Health, Sex and Astrology. Monthly, we feature hot products, "Moms That Rock," moms who are making a difference, HotmomPrenuers, celebrity mom interviews, and much more.

Christine: A component of your work involves charities. What does Have More Compassion have to do with being a Hot Mom?

Jessica: Have More Compassion: these words say it all. This is the charity based on our acronym. The Hot Moms Club is committed to helping battered single and struggling moms. With the help of incredible sponsors like Paul Mitchell and Stila, we provide make-overs for the mom in shelters struggling to get back on their feet. We talk and encourage them. Last year Britney Spears donated her pregnancy clothes to Have More Compassion.  It is the part of our company that we are excited to expand and grow!

Christine: That is great! How do I start a Hot Moms Club in my area?

Jessica: Gather your friends, do things with your kids, or make a moms’ night out. If you already have a moms group, rename yourselves the HotMomsClub. It's funny how people actually become their labels. Join our site and search for moms in your area and check events.  It's up to you to stay connected.

Christine: You are involved in a film project called Groomed. Can you reveal what it's about? Are you in the film or did you write the screenplay?

Jessica: Groomed is a romantic comedy I wrote years ago. It's silly, slap stick comedy, a mixture of Meet the Parents, My Best Friend’s Wedding and Wedding Crashers. It was optioned this year and is slated to move into production this summer. We already have two great actors attached, and we'll begin casting soon!

Christine: Hmmm…maybe there’s a DotMom out there who is ready for the transformation to a Hot Mom in Hollywood!? Thank you for your time, Jessica. Best of luck in all your projects!

Jessica: Thank you!

Mrs. Moper

by Christine

Remember the 1970’s sitcom, "Three’s Company," starring John Ritter? Do you recall the zany red-haired landlady, Mrs. Roper, who was as loud as her clothing? Well, I want to feel a bit like her today. I want to be loud. I want to be zany. I want to be obnoxious and clueless and blind to life’s realities.

Instead, I’m more like Mrs. Moper, a moping, frumpy lump of virile madness. Why am I moping? It might have something to do with the fact that it is snowing outside. Yes, I live in the Northern/Western Hemisphere. I realize it is April. Tell that to the cloud puking the white stuff on my lawn.

Another reason could be both of my children had scarlet fever for five days. Or that my husband has been travelling around my home state for the past week (whilst said children have been sick), attending a mind-blowing conference and spending evenings with my best friend. Or maybe it has to do with the fact that it is very, very warm in Virginia, and I am stuck in the house with two glassy-eyed children.

Moping could come from the fact the one thing I asked my husband to do while he was in the United States (accept a UPS package to take home with him) couldn’t be done without immeasurable phone calls, emails and faxes to various parts of the country, simply because my friend didn’t answer the door when she should have.

But that would be complaining, something Mrs. Roper never did. She’d simply flash a smile at the world, earrings bobbing to the beat of her nodding, air-headed cranium.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

A classic case of mother-24/7-itis

By Christine

It is embarassing, really. No one would believe me. They would think I'm making this up. Shoot. Maybe I am… These thoughts swirled around my head as I wondered whether I was having a heart attack. Truly.

Even as my heart raced, what made me doubt myself was the fact that my right arm was numb, not my left, which is closest to my heart.

"Oh my god! Maybe it's a stroke," I became hysterical. Short of breath, I dialed the doctor's office.

"We're on vacation for the next two weeks. How about the end of March?" the cheery assistant suggested. Pulse quickening even more, I agreed, hanging up the phone with the subliminal knowledge of someone who didn't really want to know what she already knew. Reaching for my mouse with my right arm, I felt the numbness again. The desk's varnish had been rubbed away where my palm always rested to operate the mouse. I didn't actually see the sign of workaholism until a few days go when I finally went to my appointment.

Wrestling with myself in the waiting room, I tried hard to ignore the ocotgenarians in the office.

"They have better reason to be here than me," I scolded myself. Mixed feelings of guilt and shame creeped around my neck. The assistant called my name. I tossed a scarf around my emotions and followed her into the doctor's private office.

Sitting across from me was a woman my age. She was a mother, too, it turned out. I told her of my plans to run in a 10K race in Munich at the end of June.

"And these silly heart flutterings just got me to thinking -- maybe I should have a check-up!" I attempted to laugh. The doctor saw right through me.

"When do you experience shortness of breath?" she asked, pen poised.

"It;s typically when I'm around my children," I said meekly. She put her pen down and sat back in her chair. "What do you do when they're at school?" she asked in a softer voice. I told her how I was writing another book, finishing the translation edits of a second, and working with clients who were nine time zones away. I recounted how my husband travels, works long hours and the only relatives in the country are not within a half-day's drive.

"You do all these things, your kids are only in school until 11:30 a.m. every day, and have no child care?" She leaned forward. I nodded, feeling the familiar tightening around my heart once again. She pressed my chest with a stethoscope, took my blood pressure and sat back down. She leveled her gaze, which seemed to pierce my very being.

"I've decided to take a week's vacation at a family hotel in the Bavarian Alps," I offered, hoping I had passed her scrutiny. "The hotel gives their guests 60 hours of child care." The doctor's face brightened as she watched me almost leap out of my seat at the thought.

"It looks to me as if you have a classic case of mother-24/7-itis," the doctor explained. She took an EKG of my heart, just to make certain. Minutes later the prognosis was official. I wasn't having a heart attack. I just needed a break from my life. Badly.

So I'm going to a new plane, a place of relaxation and nothingness. I'll be in Mother Recoveryland with other heart-palpitating caregivers who answer to the call of "Moooooommmmmmyyyyyyyy!" 24/7. When I get back, I'll let you know how it went. You may not recognize me. I surely hope I do not recognize myself.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Femme fatale

By Christine

"Where did my femininity go?" I patted down the pockets of my sweat jacket and matching sweat pants, hoping to find it.

"I had it just a minute ago. I know I did." I searched under the bed and found board books, an old sippy cup, and a child's sock. Nope, it wasn't there.

Padding down the stairs, I looked in the living room. On the way, I stepped on a Lego with my bare foot. I screeched. My femininity had gone missing. How did I know? One look in the bathroom mirror told me so. There was no amount of Dead Sea mask that was going to erase those worry lines. Not even a bucket full of conditioner would tame my frizzy Mommy do.

There was only one solution. I needed some serious fun.

Luckily, I have a few friends. They call on occasion, in the hopes I might have time. The other day, one friend offered me the chance of a lifetime: to meet the members of the legendary rock band Deep Purple ("Smoke on the Water") and Alice Cooper (no, he never bit the chicken's head off) at a press event the very next night.

Spontaneity isn't on the roster of a mom with young kids. Neither is begging, for that matter. But I needed a night out to find myself again, to reunite with the fun-loving person I once was. I carefully broached the subject with my husband.

"I’ve got a press pass to do this thing..." I began tenuously. "I'm going to write a magazine article about the Munich Olympic Walk of Stars," I continued. My husband grunted into the phone. Liza Minelli had been honored just the week before. I wanted to replace my sweats with my Levi's, don a little make-up, and feel almost famous for a night.

In the end, my husband realized my need to reclaim a sense of self and the importance of getting this writing gig. Pulling out of the driveway, I waved goodbye with a lightness in my heart. I was about to walk with the stars, if only for a brief moment.

Waiting seems to be a part of show business. Anyone who has worked on a concert tour or film set will tell you there's a great deal of dead air time between jobs. After we connected with our contact, we waited over two hours to see Deep Purple sink their hands into the wet concrete which would later be placed on the Walk of Stars around the Olympic Lake, much like the Walk of Fame on Hollywood Boulevard. The band member with the widest smile made my heart melt. I went up to him and asked for his autograph. It was Steve Morse, the lead guitarist.

Gushing like a teenager, I said, "You are so sweet." I was such a goober. Could I not say something more sophisticated like, "You know, that riff on last year's tour had a unique quality. Would you show me how you do that some time?" He posed patiently with me as my friend snapped a picture. He then signed a random piece of paper I found in my bag. I wished him luck and thanked him for the great music he and the band make. Later I met Alice Cooper who smiled and called me "Dear." At that moment, I felt my femininity yawning itself awake.

When Deep Purple performed that evening, my friend and I had a different perspective on the band jamming on stage. We had just seen them up close and personal. I couldn't help but feel proud watching Steve make his guitar sing. It was a caring "You go, honey" type of feeling, which made the experience all the richer.

As I smiled into the black nothingness that stood between me and the stage, I realized I was a feminine woman -- and a mother, too.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Freak of nature

By Christine

Playdates used to be about managing the rules of sharing and emotion. But my kids are growing, and with them, their ability to play together. What used to be “him against me” has turned into an “us against you, Mom."

At the age of four, my son Jackson has a lot of friends who like to play soccer in the house and race cars across the room. That would be fine, if we lived in a stadium or at the airport. It is not okay in a 1,000-square-foot home with too much furniture and too little patience.

The other day Jackson’s little friend Mark* came over for a few hours. He had been here the week prior, which will remain in lasting memory because of his ability to break things, exceed the sound barrier and generally lend an unlistening ear to any of my suggestions about safety. In an unthinking moment, I invited him along for a spontaneous visit when I saw his mother in the parking lot.

“Oh, you need to go shopping? Let me take Mark while you do that…” I heard myself saying. It was Friday, and I had no intention of writing another word for the day. It was time to celebrate! Or so I thought.

After navigating their way down the icey hill, the boys ran full tilt across the street. No, they didn’t look both ways. Yes, I clutched my son’s hand the rest of the way home.

Over the course of the two and a half hours that Mark was at our house, he slit Jackson’s ear (“because he had my toy”) and made it bleed, spread all the toys about the house, whined that he wanted to watch TV, and scuffed the living room floor with several matchbox cars. Jackson played along with Mark’s antics, refusing to listen to my warnings or increasingly firm voice.

“Be kind, show kindness,” I kept telling myself. With several meditative breaths that would have made even Buddha dizzy, I mustered the strength to remain calm and appear in control.

When it was time for dinner, Mark refused to sit at the table to eat. He preferred to take a running start, then slide across the floor on his stomach. I spoke sternly, telling him to at least sit with the others so he wouldn’t disturb them.

“No,” came the answer from his pouting face.

The children at the table stared.

“Did he just say ‘no’ to my Mama?” I could almost hear their thoughts pouring out of their gaping mouths. The tension in the room was palpable.

Anastacia’s lyrics from her album "Freak of Nature" came to mind: “Excuse me. What u said to me? Oh no you didn't.…”

In that moment, I found a voice I have never used on a visiting child before. The glass in our china closet rattled.

He slowly lifted himself off the floor, heading toward the table. Before he got there, the doorbell rang. It was his mother.

Mark won’t be visiting our small home any time soon. He’s one freak of nature I can do without.

*The child’s name has been changed to protect the bratty.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Discovering I'm a housewife

By Christine

Whoosh, slap, whoosh slap! I’m in heaven. No, it’s not ice cream this time. It’s a brand-spanking new washing machine that is the object of my joy. I haven’t felt this kind of excitement since I slid down a two-mile waterslide at Watercountry USA last summer. It’s been 10 days since my old machine lived its last spin cycle. Do you know what it is like to manage the laundry of an athletic family of four without a laundrymat as back-up? Oh my word. I must be a housewife.

Easy up, Sally! Now hold on there just a minute. It seems like only yesterday that my Smith College roommate and I were listening to Michelle Shocked warble a tune about her Alaskan housewife friend in her 1988 hit song, "Anchorage."

"I sound like a housewife, I think I'm a housewife," her musical protagonist claims.

"That won’t be us," my friend and I grinned into our Ivy League frappes way back in 1988. We had plans. We were going places. Now she’s a housewife in Boston, and I’m one in Munich. And we’re happy as clams.

What happened?

It isn’t true that I’ve settled, is it? I haven’t ‘opted out’ as The New York Times, et. al claim, as if there is only one way to maintain a healthy working life. Ellen Goodman’s Boston Globe article "Desperate Ex-Housewives" about Terry Hekker -- whose writing in the 1960’s embraced domesticity -- got me to thinking. Terry finds herself divorced after 40 years of marriage. Left penniless, she questions everything she stood for all these years. Ms. Goodman’s "housewife beware" attitude left me rattled and bewildered.

Come now. There are good things about being home. In fact, I think of myself as a writer who has chosen to stay home with her kids. I’m not really a housewife. Well, I’m not only a housewife. But, what’s wrong with being a housewife? Why do I feel a sense of inadequacy, a sense of broken dreams when I utter the term?

My own burbling delectation over an appliance has me suspicious. According to Ms. Goodman, we should be out working, making a name for ourselves and forget staying home with the kids. What these writers tend to forget is children do not raise themselves. Someone has to do it. Why do I need to catechize my own motives for staying home with my kids? It’s shocking to think I have embraced housewifedom with such enthusiasm, and yet I’d have it no other way.

Ms. Goodman writes: "There was the shock of finding herself [Terry] treated like ‘outdated kitchen appliances’." Now that statement is revealing. It shows how much Terry has forgotten about being a housewife. And how much shame goes with the role, pressed into the sinews of every housewife's back as she makes a home for her family -- and herself.

Have you ever asked a housewife how much she loves her appliances? Just ask me, Terry. You’ll find me under ‘H’ (for Hohlbaum) in the phone book.

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

The Hunchback of Notre Mama

By Christine

Good things come in threes. Or at least, that’s what the Germans say. While I agree that things tend to occur in groups, I’m not certain how “good” they always are.

Whenever my mama saw me struggling, she’d say, “Oh baby, your biorhythms must be off.” Somewhere in the crevices of my childhood, that sentiment morphed in my mind into an end all, be all explanation for why things sometimes go awry.

The other day was a prime example of biorhythmic causality. A chain of unfortunate events left me battered and bruised with a hot water bottle stuck down my shirt. It went like this.

It was our first day back from Christmas vacation. We had spent six glorious days with 17 other people in a Swiss alpine village. Seven of the people were children. The kids had constant playmates the entire time. Life was not boring, and we had a great deal of fun.

Upon our return home, the novelty of the kids’ new toys wore off within the first three hours. Looking up at the clock on my husband’s first day back to work, I saw we had another 10 hours before bedtime. That’s when I whacked my elbow on the edge of an open desk drawer. For the rest of the day, I swept the floors and hung wash with one hand.

Next, I attempted to pull an object off a high shelf while on the phone with a friend. The kids’ candle-making set beaned me square between the eyes. Tumbling to the floor, I half-cried, half-laughed into the phone. My friend had keys in hand, ready to drive right over to see what was the matter. I assured her it was fine and mumbled something about biorhythms, which doesn’t translate very well into German.

The next morning, having nursed my elbow and head with cooling gels and a hot water bottle all night, I awoke cheery and hopeful.

“I’m going to beat the third thing,” I chanted, brushing my hair to an internal beat my husband could not understand.

Downstairs, my children rediscovered the joy of their new playthings. As I sat cross-legged on the cold floor to play with them, a twinge in my back bolted me upright. The last time that happened, I ended up being transported to the ER in an ambulance. Grabbing the hot water bottle sheathed in a purple stuffed moose, I stuffed it down the back of my shirt. It was still warm from my elbow incident, and I now looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Good things come in threes. And bad things, too. At least I know my biorhythms are to blame. How else can you explain it?

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).

Sweet nothings

By Christine

The letter was folded into quarters and taped to the back of a hand-drawn picture of Robbie Williams (a popular British pop singer in Europe). It was signed "Love, Maxi." My daughter laughed.

Sophia, age 6 ½, loves boys. She likes to chase them around the schoolyard, teases them to chase her back, and openly embraces them without reservation. In return, the boys love her. In fact, when it comes to calling her friends for a playdate, she lists a handful of boys' names first. This makes me nervous, but it is also a fact of life.

The deal-clincher for Sophia's interest in boys came one day when she fell down at school. A fourth-grader named Beni came to her rescue. He escorted her to the teacher's office and offered moral support and a loving hand. Beni became a revered personality in our home.

"If I ever meet his mother, I will thank her for a great job she has done in raising her son," I promised Sophia.

We live in a small town, and a few weeks later, I was invited to a birthday party. The hostess, as it turns out, was the very mother I sought! We laughed about the coincidence and the fact that her son was so kind to Sophia.

Since she is just learning to read, Sophia gave me Maxi's love note to read aloud to her to be certain she didn't miss a word of it. As she kicked back her head with delight and a giggle, I flashed back to when she was one year old. She had just received a birthday gift from her aunt –- a fuzzy rabbit she named "Hase." She laughed in the very same way. At the time I thought she might have found her soulmate in Hase. It was as if she had known him all along.

Watching her laugh this way again, I began to wonder if Maxi was a soulmate, too. She seemed less excited than I was at the attention she was given. She acted as if it were nothing, sweet, but really nothing. Two days later she wrote a letter back professing her love to Maxi, too. At that point, my excitement over Maxi's sweetness had subsided. I had moved on to a feeling of pride that Sophia could write so well!

Life is funny, you know. Beni's kindness fostered Sophia's confidence that the world of boys can be a loving place. It must run in the family. It just so happens that Maxi is Beni's twin brother!

Christine is an American author and freelance writer living near Munich, Germany, with her husband and two children (Jackson, 4 and Sophia, 6).