Life with children is exhausting, chaotic - and beautiful. Our author records his surprising insights into "living with kids".
I've seen the most beautiful children's birthday party in a Netflix series. A Mexican cartel boss gave his six-year-old daughter two live ponies, a white tiger, a mariachi band, the complete Versace Kids collection and what else. This was a great Gatsby style celebration with a lot of staff. Of course I liked that.
But my wife and I don't work for any cartel, and frankly, that kind of party wouldn't go over well in our lovely Franconian and very Protestant town. Our son Ragnar turned five in June. For reasons I've long since forgotten, we didn't celebrate his birthday until last weekend.
After the car and fire engine phase, Ragnar now really likes knights. You can now talk to him very expertly about ballistae, halberds and trusses. About plate armor, mail and catapults. We have already visited the Nuremberg Imperial Castle twice. Since then, he has known that a suit of armor weighs around 20 kilograms and, by today's standards, would cost up to 500,000 euros, depending on the version.
So Ragnar wanted a knight party. And we liked that. But we didn't want to cause so much stress. My wife was probably going through the most strenuous weeks of her professional life so far. Instead of baking a cake, which my wife usually does the night before, we ordered Knieküchle from the local baker, a Franconian fat pastry that actually existed in the Middle Ages. That made things a lot easier. In the garden we built a knight's camp out of blankets. In the middle was a fire bowl. Nine children came. We know some of them because Ragnar has already arranged to play with them. Some we only know from bringing them to kindergarten in the morning.
And I'm sorry to say this: but there are friends of my son's that I absolutely hate. Where I ask myself: What do the parents do with them at home, apart from handing them a cell phone with YouTube? And at least in the case of the children we're talking about here, it's not a question of a lack of education or precarious financial circumstances on the part of the parents. It's more the children of middle-class families who freak out.
So one goes completely crazy, runs through the garden with his sword and hits trees, bushes and flowers. The other screams and slaps his earthy hands against the wall on the first floor. And the next one beats the lanterns in the garden from the trees with a pool noodle. Another one just hits everyone on the head. And then someone asks for a cola. I say stop. Nobody stops. My wife says, "Stop." Nothing happens. And I think what heroes the kindergarten teachers of these children are. And I think: maybe our children are like that elsewhere?
Around 7 p.m. we are alone again. My wife and I are having a beer. "Maybe no more children's birthday parties," she says. "Or just without children," I say.
