I picked up Laszlo from kindergarten a bit earlier than usual—about half an hour before the regular time.
Despite his evident joy, he liked staying there until the afternoon, which relieved me of feeling like a neglectful mother. He enjoyed spending the last few hours on the expansive playground with his friends. He dearly loved the other children.
When I picked him up, he came running over hand in hand with his favorite caretaker, Moritz, exclaiming, "Mom, it's not time yet, but I was just thinking of you!"
That moment made my heart skip a beat and made me wonder if it was possible to love one's child more and more all the time. It seemed that the more he grew, the more my love for him grew. And just when I thought it couldn't get any stronger, the next day proved me wrong.
He ran up to me, buried his head in my stomach, and then shouted, "Mom, you have to come! I need to show you where our robbers' den is!" Of course, I agreed, set down my things briefly, and followed him.
Other children waiting for their parents greeted me by name. "Hello, Dina!" called little Mathilda. "Oh, I'm so glad! Hello!" I responded, curtsying and then waving to little Willem, whom I bowed to; he giggled and then ran back to Laszlo.
Behind the large slide with two levels, we found a small thicket. Over the years, the children had worn a path there. "Mom," Laszlo whispered in awe, "this is our robbers' den!"
Some branches scratched my clothes, but I squeezed through. Laszlo led me to a small, circular pile of leaves. "Mom, this is our secret hiding place! Here we hide our treasures!"
Beneath a mound of sand, we discovered molds, specially shaped and variously colored stones, dried maple leaves, a piece of glitter string, and a small picture book.
Laszlo proudly explained, "This is our treasure cave, and my gang and I have to protect it from the other gang. After lunch, the other gang owns this place, and after snack time, it's our turn."
I laughed and tousled his curly hair. I loved his crazy curls. "Alright, let's go home and make a real robbers' meal," I suggested.
On the way home, we naturally stopped at a busy playground, where the children's energy on this wonderfully warm day was palpable. We couldn't just walk past without playing on every climbing frame, slide, and seesaw at least once. Among chattering parents and laughing children, I bumped into some acquaintances. During polite conversations with moms and dads, I sometimes felt awkward—as if I had lost touch with adult discourse. Topics like insurance and work matters dominated while I stood by, nodding politely, often excluded from vacation plans and joint activities that I couldn't afford.
Just before our front door, there was a small Turkish supermarket that Laszlo loved. There, we found incredibly delicious chocolate-filled butter biscuits.
"I'd like to eat Fluffbrot today!" Fluffbrot, a fond nickname for Turkish flatbread that we loved. My stomach growled at the thought. The warm tan of the bread glowed enticingly, while the aroma of fresh dough and roasted sesame filled the air. The crust was crispy, and breaking the bread revealed its fluffy, slightly stretchy texture. The black sesame seeds sprinkled on the surface added an aromatic note. A sight and smell that made one's mouth water. We loved to tear apart the fresh bread, shaped like a huge plate, and top it with whatever the heart desired.
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Driftwood Love
RomanceIn her thirties and burdened with a life that feels like an overstuffed backpack: a child she mostly raises alone, two main jobs, two side gigs, a shared apartment, and an ex who's chasing dreams with his modeling artist girlfriend. Not to mention...
