tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31507934688268644812024-03-12T16:43:27.785-07:00Courageous or Crazy?!?!Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-1118597695160837772016-08-29T13:31:00.000-07:002017-06-01T15:19:25.479-07:00Expats Again!18 months after moving back to Texas, we accepted an opportunity with Vinny's work to move back overseas to Belgium! I have decided to start a new website reflecting this new chapter in our lives. Feel free to continue following our adventures at <a href="https://belleinbelgium.com/" target="_blank">Putting the Belle in Belgium</a><br />
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Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-23382262034407605392015-11-03T13:14:00.000-08:002017-05-11T13:14:32.609-07:00More<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
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I fell in love. But it wasn’t love at first sight. The first time the Dutch doctors popped my third child into my view (despite their “Ah, mooi”s) I screamed at the crying, gooey alien.</div>
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Five months earlier I’m lying on my back with gel on my stomach and my husband's hand clasping mine. Cosette is bouncing up and down on a chair in the dimly lit room, staring at the black and white screen hanging from the ceiling. The ultrasound technician speaks. “Ja - so. Must I tell you? You see it’s a boy, yes?” she proudly says. She smiles at my daughter. My eyes widen.</div>
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Cosette speaks my mind, “A boy? Oh NO!!! It’s supposed to be a GIRL! We don’t need another crazy boy like Holden!!” My eyes close. I try to breathe.</div>
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The technician is confused and flustered. “Another boy? What do you mean?” She blinks.</div>
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Tears well in my eyes. “Yes, yes - we already have a boy, but he’s at home because we can’t <em>take him anywhere</em>!” Tears spill over. There is a running faucet on my face. During the next two minutes I relive three years of frustration and exhaustion - the sleepless nights, the flighting to put Holden in the stroller, to keep his shoes on, to put his clothes on, to keep his pajamas on, to change his diaper, the screaming, the chasing - at home, at the museum, at the park. The struggles to get him to sit, to eat, to read a book - the loud, active, son I <em>already had</em>. I went into this third child thing with the complete and total faith that the universe would not send me another son. Of course, I adore Holden, he’s funny and loving and wonderful - but at this moment in time, all I can think of is the exhaustion. Cosette becomes agitated - no doubt a result of her mother sobbing like a fool. Vinny ushers her outside the room and leaves me alone with the tech. I scold myself for being so ridiculous and selfish and I wipe tears with the back of my hand. “I’m so sorry. My son is just a handful - two handfuls, really. I’m just tired. I’m sorry. I’m so glad the baby. . . that he’s healthy. Truly I am. I’m sorry, I’m so <em>very, very</em> tired.” I repeat.</div>
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She smiles. Her hair is short and she wears those funky glasses the Dutch are famous for. “You know. My daughter is two handfuls, too. It doesn’t matter boy or girl.” I give her a half-hearted smile. She doesn’t know what genes I’m playing with.</div>
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With my first two pregnancies - I <em>knew</em> what we were going to have. We had dreams about the sex of our children and they had come true. Vinny had told me he had a dream about our third being a girl and I took that as confirmed. I felt horrible (like I did with Cosette), I craved sweets (like I did with Cosette) and I had visualized it all - the baby girl, her name, her nursery theme. After the appointment, we walk back to our house in a daze. My mother - who we had surprised at Amsterdam Schiphol airport just a few days earlier with our news of pregnancy - is at our home, taking care of Holden as he sleeps. I by-passed her and go straight upstairs. “So,” she said. “I take it, it’s a boy?” she smiled. Vinny nods.</div>
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“You know. . . “ my husband says tentatively that night, “. . . it was always a 50-50 chance, right?” and he raises an eyebrow without looking at me - folding clothes and putting them into a suitcase. I’m lying in a ball, on the bed. Again, scolding myself for being so selfish, but reason is no match for a hormonal, pregnant woman.</div>
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“No. It wasn’t. I knew it was a girl, and now it’s not.” Two fleeting thoughts enter and scamper out of my brain like the mice in my kitchen - “It’s all the Netherlands fault” because, sometimes. . . as an expat, you like to blame anything that goes Not Your Way on the country - Gah! and second, “Well. . . we could always try again for the girl.” Heh. No. The two pesky ideas gulping down poison and dead by morning.<span data-mce-style="line-height: 1.5;" style="line-height: 1.5;"> </span></div>
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I always like the idea of surprises - but in reality, I’m terrible at them. I know it is a good idea to find out about the sex of the child half-way through the pregnancy. Over the next months, I become accustom to the idea. I hold my Baby Girl a little tighter - knowing she’d be the only girl I have and just. . . not knowing what to expect from another little boy. My Dad is surprised at my reaction, “Weell, Cea-leeest, I thiiink it’s a goood thang, be-cause you’re goin to be at home with Howl-den and ah-think it will be good because he’ll haaave ah brother!” I hadn’t really thought of it. I had only thought of Cosette and her desire to have another sister. What did Holden really think? What would our family look like with two boys? Maybe. It could be pretty cool. Then we had to decide on a name.</div>
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We bought French name books (the girls names we had picked were French - to go with Celeste and Cosette, naturally), we peruse websites for others. Although Vinny suggests a lot of American names, I want to capture our expat life in his name, plus he is half Dutch by heritage. We bought a Dutch name book when I was pregnant with Cosette. We open it again. I find it. I share with Vinny and he loves it, too. Brecht. It was just “Dutch-enough” but I hope it is easy enough for Americans to say. It’s kind of like, Breckt! Just like Americans say don’t say e-ch-o - they say echo. The ch is the same, I reason! But. . . truly, the Dutch way of saying it, Brecht - with a push of air between e and the ch - is like a breath of fresh air. It’s beautiful and calming. There’s no rushing it, and it’s basically everything I feel about living overseas - and hope for my new baby. Vinny and I had also visited Cafe Brecht in Amsterdam the previous December (named after the famous German writer, Bertold Brecht) and found it eclectic, fun, and relaxing. It is the perfect name. </div>
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Once we have the name, <em>His</em> name - I feel more connected to him. I <strong>love</strong> being pregnant overseas. My biggest complaints about being pregnant in America - the nosy people, the eyebrow raises at my size vs. my due date (hello, I’m 5 feet tall!), and the unrelenting Texas heat - are non-issues in Europe. I walk the streets of Leiden not only inspired by the beauty around me, but also without comment or question of my growing body. I am so thankful. And I walk. I walk and walk and walk. Pushing a double stroller, biking my kids around town - I do it all, with baby in belly. I am proud and strong. I can do this.</div>
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“You know - they don’t have private recovery rooms,” Holden’s preschool teacher warns me one day as I pick him up from school. Record. Scratch. “I’m sorry?” I say. I had registered at the hospital within walking distance to my house. I figured it would be fine. With this newfound information, I send an SOS to my expat friends to confirm.</div>
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“She’s right! - I was in a room with another woman who left her screaming baby in his crib while she went outside to have a smoke!” one friend tells me.</div>
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Another one said she had called her husband in the middle of the night on the second night, begging him to pick her up. “I was in a room with three other women and their screaming babies, it was awful!” she says.</div>
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I start to panic. My wheels start turning over the birthing tidbits I had learned over the years - most Dutch women give birth at home, and even those who give normal birth stay in the hospital for less than 48-hours. The two or four-woman recovery room was standard practice. I am planning a C-section and know I will be in recovery for at least three days. I’ve accepted a lot of cultural differences, but sharing my pain and space with others is not something I am interested in. I switch hospitals mid-pregnancy for one with private recovery rooms. “I mean - if my kids come up to visit, I don’t want them bothering anyone else” - I reason. Plus, in the new hospital, Vinny can spend the night. In the other hospital - with three other women and newborns - it wasn’t an option.<span data-mce-style="line-height: 1.5;" style="line-height: 1.5;"> </span></div>
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Vinny and I take a tour of the new hospital. It seems similar to my old one in Dallas. The staff is nice and attentive. After looking at the rooms, I ask “Where is the nursery?”. They look at me with questions behind their eyes. “You know. . . the nursery - where the babies sleep? In their beds?” more blank stares. “Like, where are the babies? There must be a window where I can see the newborns. . .” and I trail off. They point to a dark closet. And then it dawns on us all at the same time.</div>
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“Oh no - the babies stay in the rooms with the mothers. If there’s a problem or something, we can help and we take them back to our office - but no. Usually they always stay with the mothers.” This is new. Okay. I nod. Duly noted.<span data-mce-style="line-height: 1.5;" style="line-height: 1.5;"> </span></div>
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It’s the day of the birth. I go from the prep room to the surgery room - just like In Dallas. The air is tense as they put the epidural in and I decided (as if there was any doubt) that I NEVER want to do this again. Three times is <em>plenty</em>. They ask me if it’s a boy or girl and I tell them it’s a boy and his name is Brecht. “Oh no!!!! They shout - it’s bad luck to say the baby’s name before he is born. We’re minutes away from the birth, and I’ve been living in this country almost three years, but I’m still doing things wrong. They go about their prep but I start to panic. Where is the curtain that separates my eyes from. . . everything else? “Please don’t let the curtain be a cultural difference. Please don’t let the curtain be a cultural difference.” I chant in my head. But eventually - it’s up and things are progressing at a pace and procedure I’m accustomed to. I’d never seen my other two children before they were cleaned up and wrapped up all pretty. I’m an ex-CPA for a reason. . . I’m feeling a few more things than usual - the Dutch are light on pain meds, and all of a sudden - there he is - in all his purple gooey-ness! And I freak out from surprise - a culmination of a lot of stress and anticipation.</div>
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They clean him up and put him by my head. The hospital insisted that I didn’t wear contacts (which I complied with) or make-up (which I did not comply with). He’s adorable and cute and I’m so thankful that everything went safely and successfully. I’m having trouble seeing him through my awkward glasses and I’m distracted by the tugging.</div>
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“Um, I had anti-nausea medicine in Texas,” I say to the guy at my head.</div>
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“Oh. Ja? Would you like some?” More tugging. Damn those Dutch and their I’m-So-Tough-Going-Light-On-Pain-Meds. . .</div>
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“Yes. I believe I would.”<span data-mce-style="line-height: 1.5;" style="line-height: 1.5;"> </span></div>
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The night of my surgery, the doctor gave me encouragement to ask for something stronger if needed. The nurse came in later and asked my pain scale, “I’m an 8” I said.</div>
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“An 8?” she said with an eye roll.</div>
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I prop myself on my elbows as determined as I could be. “Yes! I’m an 8. My entire stomach feels like it’s <strong>on fire.</strong> This is the most pain I’ve been in, in my <em>entire</em> life - please give me something stronger than paracetamol!” (Tylenol) She comes back with a syringe of morphine. “Can’t you just put it into the IV?!?!?” I plead.</div>
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“Oh no - this will work much faster, “ she says. I have the bruise where she put in into my leg for six months afterwards.</div>
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The third night after the baby is born, I’m in my hospital room. Alone. Vinny decides to stay at home with the other two children that night. It’s been a hectic week. My Dad flew in from Texas to help with both Holden and Cosette, but it’s a big job. Vinny is exhausted going back and forth between the hospital and me and the baby and keeping things going at home. The baby has been pretty peaceful, but tonight he isn’t doing well. He keeps waking up, and I - in my C-sectioned recovery state - am having trouble getting him in and out of his bassinet by my bed. I call the nurse multiple times - in, out, in, out. Every time I ask the nurse to put him back in his crib he wakes up. I call her again to take him out. Brecht is crying - I can’t get him to calm down - I call the nurse for the seventeenth time that night. He’s crying. I’m crying. She takes pity. “I’ll take him for a bit, yes?” she says to me. It’s nearly 2:00 a.m. I am The Special Case. I tell her okay. I don’t know where she’s going to take him. I guess to her office in this nursery-less hospital. I feel alone, helpless, and inadequate. I close my eyes and go to sleep.<span data-mce-style="line-height: 1.5;" style="line-height: 1.5;"> </span></div>
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A couple hours later she comes back in. The baby is crying. “He needs his mother,” she smiles at me. She lays him on my chest, pops up the sides of my bed, turns down the light and leaves. The baby, my Baby Brecht sleeps. We sleep and sleep and sleep. I awake with him still on my chest, in my arms. After the most stressful, lonely evening of my life, I awake to this angel snuggling on top of me. I don’t know if this would ever happen in America - I feel like anti-liability rules would trump a simple humane solution. I hold my Brecht and think there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. I am grateful for giving birth in a Dutch hospital. At that moment - thousands of miles away from my homeland, and a few miles from the rest of my family, the grace of these Dutch nurses gave me the answer my son needed - just me. I fell madly in love.</div>
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<em>Note: Vinny’s mother passed away before our wedding, but we held true to the mother-son dance. I danced with him and we invited all other mothers in attendance to dance with their sons. The song we chose was More, by Frank Sinatra.</em></div>
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<em>More than you'll ever know, my arms long to hold you so,</em></div>
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<em>My life will be in your keeping, waking, sleeping, laughing, weeping,</em></div>
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<em>Longer than always is a long long time, but far beyond forever you're gonna be mine.</em></div>
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<em>I know I've never lived before and my heart is very sure,</em></div>
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<em>No one else could love you more. </em></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-77269989008732436662015-09-15T13:08:00.000-07:002017-05-11T13:08:47.285-07:00Am I Wrong<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
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The sun has beat upon Texas for months. Last Wednesday, I awoke to the sound of raindrops on my windowpane, like kisses from heaven. Little Man, Holden rushes into our bedroom at 6:30 a.m. "Holden! It's raining!" I smile into the darkness.</div>
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"What? What you say, Mama?" he responds.</div>
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"Let me show you," and I scoop him up into my arms. I unlock and step out the front door. We stand on the porch, sheltered from the drops. The parched, Texas ground sips the water falling from the sky. He squints into the early morning light and listens - I see his memory racing towards something familiar. His eyes widen, smile stretches, and face glows. "Mama!" he whispers, "It's a <i>beautiful</i> day in America!"</div>
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The move was hardest on Holden. Cosette, at five years old, misses her friends terribly, but she understands the move. She remembered my parents, our friends, our visits to Texas. She's sad about leaving the Netherlands, and can express it. We talk about our memories of Europe. We appreciate the happy things in Texas. Holden, who was three months when we moved to the Netherlands and three years when we moved back, didn't know what had happened. All he knew was that we moved him away from his entire life – his home, his friends, his school, his teachers, his museums, his grocery store, his parks, and his playgrounds. For the boy who resists change in his daily routine, this was a very bad thing. Our first month back, we were housed in a corporate apartment while we fixed up our house and waited for our furniture to arrive from the Netherlands. We were used to staying in apartments in Europe during our travels – and I did our best to make it fun. I had never been a full-time Mom in America (much less with three kids), and after V went back to work in Dallas on the third week – I tried to imitate our daily routine in the Netherlands as best I could. We took walks – in the sun and in the snow. We listened to Dutch SkyRadio on an iPhone app and had dance parties. The majority of our toys were in the sea shipment still in transit, so I went to the Dollar Store and bought workbooks, puzzles, and art supplies. But by day three of being full-time-mom-of-3-in-Corporate-Apartment-in-America, I could tell I was dealing with a completely different challenge than. . . all of the above. Holden had become the most difficult version of himself – a screaming, angry, mess. Before 9:00 a.m., I called my husband with tears brimming at my eyes – "Let's call the local preschool. I hope if he's enrolled in school, he'll calm down – it won't be the same, but maybe it will help." Meanwhile, that afternoon, I held him before nap time. He was inconsolable, a loose cannon in the apartment, ready to explode. I rocked him and sighed. There are few words you can utter to a three year old that stick. But I had to try. "Holden, I know you're upset. I know you're sad. You miss your friends, our old house, your school, our Jumbo, and the museums. But I want you to know – that <i>we're</i> all the same. <i>Our family</i> is still here – me, you, Daddy, Cosette, Baby Brecht, Tyler, & Dash – we're all here. And we're together. And that's what's important." His three-year-old eyes looked at me and blinked. I stare back. For a silent moment, he seems to understand. He too, takes a deep breath, and the tension in his body collapses. I lower him into his travel crib, and shut the door quietly.</div>
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Two days later, our family tours the preschool. It's in the church I grew up in, just a mile from our house. The director is warm and friendly. I explain our background and how we've just moved back from overseas. As we explore the details of the school, I become increasingly confused until I begin to feel like an expat in my own country. Before we left for the Netherlands, Cosette was enrolled in daycare while I worked full-time – so I know about the importance of labeling, making your own bottles, and the strict security procedures. But <i>preschool</i> in America was unfamiliar territory. In the Netherlands – I signed one permission slip upon registration that stated – you can take Holden wherever you like. I'd pick him up from school and they would have been to the market, the local farm, or the playground. It was easy – the teachers loaded the children in strollers and walked all over town. The school provided all snacks, lunches, and diapers. I'd pick him up everyday and talk to his teachers - "Ja! Hij slaapt goed, ate goed!" There were no boo-boo grams or documentation about his BMs. And I was really okay with this.</div>
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As we go through the tour, the director tells me I need to provide a nap mat. "A what?" I ask her. "A nap mat." she repeats. I've never heard of such a thing, much less owned one.</div>
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"Okay – sounds great. I'm sorry, but where could I get one?" I ask.</div>
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"Oh, anywhere, really." she replies.</div>
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Accustomed to specific stores carrying specific inventory, I press further. "No really – where can I find this thing?"</div>
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"Target – or perhaps Buy Buy Baby." Okay. This is helpful. I purchase one the next day. And a lunchbox.</div>
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A few days later, we drop Holden off for his first day of American Preschool. I've signed about thirty forms, given a blood sample (not really, but. . . ) and have his labeled change of clothes, nap mat, and have packed his lunch. Everything goes in a separate bin, and he walks into his classroom with a fearless attitude. I'm nervous, but proud. I mean – we've lived overseas! American preschool at a church I've attended for 30 years should be cake. Then I get a phone call.</div>
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"Ms. Bennekers?" she says. "Yes?"</div>
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"I'm so sorry to bother you, but I noticed that you sent Holden to school with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich." My eyes blink. Where in the world is she going with this? Cosette's teachers in the Netherlands questioned the peanut butter <i>and jelly</i> sandwich but what's more American than this?</div>
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"I'm afraid I forgot to mention this during the tour – but we're a peanut-free and nut-free school," she explains.</div>
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I cock my head into the phone. I'm really confused. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" I respond.</div>
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"I'm not sure if you encountered this in the Netherlands. . . ." she takes the acknowledgement approach, "but here we're a peanut-free school," she repeats.</div>
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My mind is dancing over peanut knowledge gained over the past three years. . . FB posts about peanut-free Halloween candy? And that's really about it. Are they afraid Holden is going to <i>share his sandw</i><i>ich?</i> That's terribly unlikely.</div>
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She reads my mind, "I don't believe anyone in his class is allergic, but the peanut allergy could be triggered via the air."</div>
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Now I'm stunned. "Really? In The AIR?" I exclaim with a mix of disbelief and amazement.</div>
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"Oh yes," she retorts. "I think you'll find a lot of schools around here will have similar policies. . . "</div>
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I feel like I'm completely out of date. Not only have I stumbled upon an advanced strain of allergy intolerance, but I've also learned that the Great American PB&J has become<i> offensive</i>. I press end call and shrug.</div>
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The next few weeks, I continue to embarrass myself at his preschool. After living in a biking culture for three years, my kids are still learning about <i>p</i><i>arking lots </i>and<i> </i>I'm still learning how to corral three kids to and from the car. We pick Holden up from school – baby in the stroller and Cosette holding onto the side. I sign him out, and he takes off down the hallway. Another Mom opens the glass doors. Holden squeezes past her daughter, through the door, and shoots down the sidewalk, towards the parking lot. I panic. I race after him, screaming his name, while pushing the stroller as Cosette runs to keep up. Holden barrels towards the road when he takes a sudden turn down the adjacent sidewalk. The Mom stands stunned, probably amazed at the speed of my child and at the volume of my shrill voice shouting his name. I grab Holden and tell him (for the 400th time in three weeks) about the importance of parking lots and staying with me. The other Mom, still mortified at the scene before her and her role as the tipping point, shakes her head and repeats a stream of apologies. With my head and heart fluttering, I try my best to console her, "Don't worry – he's used to being yelled at!" Nice. Real. Nice. <i> </i></div>
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Throughout the following months, I realized Holden had created his own defense mechanism. When he'd talk about his old school he'd say, the name of it, "Far away." or "Eiffel Tower. Far away." He'd still ask me if we could go to our friends' houses or the museums. But it was less frequent. Far. Away.</div>
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After a summer off, Holden recently started preschool again. "Mama – I so nervous for school," he'd say. But once we arrived – he didn't want to leave. I attended the back-to-school-night and all the rules and regulations and suggestions for efficiency and convenience made my head spin – but like Holden, I was happy to start a new year, with a few familiar faces.</div>
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Last night, before we ate dinner, the kids suggested we pray before we ate, just like Holden does at his new preschool. We held hands together and recited "God is great, God is good. . . " After we concluded, Holden's eyes sparkled. "Okay. Now we sing, Smakelijk eten!" - the song he sang at his old Dutch school before him and his classmates ate a meal. Together as a family, we sang the Dutch song. Pleased with our rendition, Holden picked up his fork and smiled, "Smakelijk eten allemaal!"</div>
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<b><i>P.S. Holden's favorite song is Am I Wrong. . . and for anyone who's ever met Holden, you </i></b><b><i>know how appropriate that is. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Am I wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>For thinking out the box from where I stay?</i></b><br /><b><i>Am I wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>For saying that I choose another way?</i></b><br /><b><i>I ain't trying to do what everybody else doin'</i></b><br /><b><i>Just 'cause everybody doin' what they all do</i></b><br /><b><i>If one thing I know, I'll fall but I'll grow</i></b><br /><b><i>I'm walking down this road of mine, this road that I call home</i></b></div>
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<b><i>So am I wrong?</i></b><br /><b><i>For thinking that we could be something for real?</i></b><br /><b><i>Now am I wrong?</i></b><br /><b><i>For trying to reach the things that I can't see?</i></b><br /><b><i>But that's just how I feel,</i></b><br /><b><i>That's just how I feel</i></b><br /><b><i>That's just how I feel</i></b><br /><b><i>Trying to reach the things that I can't see (see, see, see)</i></b></div>
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<b><i>If you tell me I'm wrong, wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>I don't wanna be right, right</i></b><br /><b><i>If you tell me I'm wrong, wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>I don't wanna be right</i></b><br /><b><i>If you tell me I'm wrong, wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>I don't wanna be right, right</i></b><br /><b><i>If you tell me I'm wrong, wrong</i></b><br /><b><i>I don't wanna be right</i></b></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-60108935753807327172015-09-04T13:03:00.000-07:002017-05-11T13:03:53.909-07:00It's Been a Long Day Without You, My Friend<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
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<b><i>June 2014 </i></b> - The sun is shining on a bright Dutch day. The North Sea wind teases the leaves of the school courtyard. Summer beacons. I feel happy and hopeful. Not only for the warm, long summer days that stretch ahead, but also because this is the last day I will be picking my daughter up from <a data-mce-href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2014/06/to-be-with-you/" href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2014/06/to-be-with-you/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">this school</a>. We've found another school across town that she'll be attending in the fall.</div>
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The new school was recommended by a friend and we called for a tour. My husband and I weaved through the small playground, smiling at the line of bicycles and tricycles set out for recess. After ringing the doorbell, the principal met us with an outstretched hand, led us to the conference room, and offered us a 'koffie'. Her smile was warm, her short cropped brown hair matched her crisp suit. Professional and attentive, she answered each question with concern and understanding. <i>This time</i> I knew the questions to ask – "Do your teachers speak English? Okay, but would they <i>mind </i>speaking English to me? How large are the class sizes? I read on-line you have English classes, do you find the other children are responsive to these lessons? What is the division of the age groups? Are the four-year-olds separated or are they in a class with five and six-year-olds?" I nodded with each answer and felt a sense of relief spread across my shoulders. She was saying all the right things. Despite the trek across town, pregnant or with a newborn, I knew that I wanted our last few months to be enjoyable and worrying about my oldest daughter's safety at school was not okay. We met the welcoming teachers, saw the children sitting and working in their stations, and felt the overall calm in the school. This school was perfect. We turned in our paperwork for the new school immediately. And in an awkward, but not unpleasant meeting, we gave notice to her current school that we wouldn't be returning in the fall.</div>
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As restless as the trees, I shift from one foot to the other on the paved courtyard. I stare at the kindergarten door - willing it to open. I stand, guarding my treasures - my son asleep in the bike, one hand on my handlebars, the other on my bulging belly. For a split second, I wonder if I am doing the right thing. My daughter had only been at this school a few months, was it really right to yank her out just to start all over for a few months before we moved back to the States? Was I giving it a fair chance? The door opens and our eyes meet. My smile catapults to the ground. She's wobbling, supported by her teacher with two huge band-aids covering her tiny knees. "What now?" are my final words. "She fell on the playground," is the explanation I receive. "They pushed me!" my baby says to me. And any doubt, any hesitation, evaporates. I load her into my bike, and we ride home. Not looking back.</div>
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<b><i>August 2014</i></b><b><i> - </i></b>Baby Girl's first day of Kindergarten at her <em>new</em> Dutch school. Just like first days of school around the world, there's shuffling, rushing, loading, excitement, stress, and anxiousness. The entire family loads into the car – I'm about two months away from my due date. I <i>could </i>bike – but when the car is available, the American in me, is going to choose the more comfortable option. It takes us about twenty minutes to traverse the city via vehicle, even though it is only a two mile distance. Weaving through the city centre takes time – stopping for bicycles, pedestrians, and lights. Unlike America, drive-thru drop-offs are unheard of since biking and walking is the primary mode of transportation. Even parking lots in the Netherlands are rare, and her school is no exception. After fruitlessly searching for parking along the street in the adjoining neighborhood, my daughter and I jump out of the car armed with promises to meet up with V and Holden in a bit. Hand in hand, Cosette and I follow the sounds radiating from the courtyard. Teachers are singing into microphones while students, parents, and faculty crowd. "Celebrate good times, come on!" blares from speakers. Baby Girl nestles her head into my belly and I lean down to hug her, balancing my weight carefully to keep from falling over. "You're going to do great. I'm so proud of you." I reassure her. The Principal spots us among the crowd and welcomes us. I run into a friend from book club. She tells us how much she loves the school. I feel comforted. In my small expat world, running into anyone I know, ever, is cause for celebration. I take it as a good sign. The music stops. Announcements are made. Doors open. My husband and son catch up just in time. As a family, we head to her classroom with many other anxious parents. We find her seat in the circle, already labeled with her name. The teacher is calm - she looks at her students with sense of pride. After allowing the parents to linger, she encourages the parents to go to the window and wave. We give Cosette a hug and then file out to wave at the window. Lots of kisses are blown. A few tears (from parents and children alike) spill over and then we file back into the school for a reception of coffee. Another Mom speaks to me. "I'm so sorry. Spreek jij Engels?" I smile. "Oh. You speak English?" she asks. "Yes. Sorry?!" and although at this instant – she knows I'm an outsider, she's still friendly. She has twin girls, who turned four over the summer. As a mother, this is her very first day of kindergarten. It's the same. Parents lovingly saying goodbye to their children. It's universal feeling of excitement and loss.</div>
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Throughout the year Cosette befriends many of the students. I respect and adore her teachers. I see my daughter blossom. She's happy. She looks forward to going to school everyday. With two other children and the trek across town - it's not always easy to get her there on time. Every day I hope I'm able to find a close parking spot. Everyday, I unload two (or eventually, three) of my children and walk her to and from her class - sometimes in the rain and many times in the cold. I'm not always punctual, but I'm trying. Her teachers seem to understand. "Mama – I speak English to the teachers, but Dutch to the children" my daughter explains. After the pressure to Only Speak Dutch at her last school, everyone seems OK with this arrangement. I'm relieved. She brings home pages and pages of artwork. She talks about her friends at school. The 'class teddy bear' is a weekend guest, with instructions to let him sleep in her bed. The American-In-Me puts Mr. Flip and all of his clothes through a wash and spin cycle first.</div>
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Days before I give birth, V has a work conflict and he needs the car. I bike across town to pick up my daughter. I'm proud and happy of my four-mile round-trip bike ride, five days before my due date. As I lock up my bright green bicycle, I've caught the attention of a few other Moms. The mother of the twins starts chatting. I tell her my father is coming from Texas to help me when the baby comes. "Oh, Texas? You're American!" she says. "That's a long way from here." We may not know many things about each other, and I still find it interesting that Europeans sometimes can't differentiate between American and British accents, but I'm happy for the conversation. During pick-up time, I usually stand off to the side of the hallway, waiting for Cosette. The other Moms chat to each other in Dutch. I remain quiet, excluded. But unlike a Middle School social, it's not cruel. We smile and nod. I know these women. There's a shorter Mom with a red jacket that's pregnant, too. There's a taller Mom with a purple jacket. There's a blonde Mom with a slick black jacket. We're all Moms that care about our children. I'm an outsider. Maybe I'd be an outsider in America, too – and there's a comfort in knowing that I'm labeled as an expat.</div>
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<b>December 2014 - </b>Rain drops flash in the line of headlights snaking their way along the winding canal. "Ugh! I should have known this would take forever!" I grip the steering wheel, focus my energies on willing the line of cars to move forward. I'm unaccustomed to driving across town at this hour of night. Cosette chirps from the backseat, "What's the matter Mama?!"</div>
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"Nothing honey, I just don't want you to be late for your first Christmas pageant," I glance in the rearview mirror with a smile. The ancient gate of the city glows in the floodlighting on our right as we sit at the red light. I breathe a deep sigh. Only a few more months in this beautiful city. My son and baby are sick at home with my husband. Forced with a 'divide-and-conquer' logistical decision, my daughter had originally picked my husband to attend her Christmas program, but she changed her mind last minute. I was so excited. For a full-time Mom, it's rare to leave the house and more than that, I welcomed the excuse to dress up for the occasion. My heels alternate between pressing the accelerator and tapping the brakes. We park in the neighborhood and high-tail it in our skirts to the church nearest to her school. They must have been taking bets in the teachers lounge about the Late American, as the staff weren't surprised to see us rushing through the doors. Instead, they smile and usher us to where we needed to be. With program in hand, I grab the first seat I see, while Cosette is wisked away to the front of the sanctuary. For the next hour, I am treated to a reenactment of the story of the birth of Jesus, in Dutch. Joseph, Mary, Wise men, Angels, Shepherds – the whole bit. As I sit there, by myself, armed with program and my iPhone Google translate, the reality of the moment overwhelms me. My daughter's <i>first</i> Christmas pageant is in <i>the Netherlands, </i>in<i> Dutch</i>. And although the songs sound a bit different, the story is the same. It is imperfectly perfect and beautifully simple. Not only are we celebrating the birth of Christ in her <i>public</i> school, but also in a style refreshingly <b>not</b> Pinterest-worthy. I watch angels in sheets and wire halos enter and exit the stage, sing along with my best Dutch accent, and laugh as hard as the other parents at the out-of-tune, but passionate solos. Near the end of the program, the 4-year olds were about to take the stage. A bit lost in the moment (or perhaps, unable to read the program), the mother in the red jacket brought me back to reality. She is racing from the back of the sanctuary to the front, to get a better view. "Kome! Kome!" she motions to me to follow her. Wedged between the other smiling Dutch mothers on the front row, we watch as our babies sang a memorable and enthusiastic version of "<a data-mce-href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOwrRyfKKIM" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOwrRyfKKIM" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Kling klokje klingelingeling</a>!" Bells ring, children smile, and tears fill my eyes as I watch Cosette and her classmates celebrate and sing. As the sanctuary erupts in applause, I long for everything to last longer. We are saying goodbye to these people, this school, this city, and this country in just a few months. I want more. I want to hang on to this moment forever. The pageant concludes and everyone meanders out of the sanctuary. "Dag! Fijne avond!" my daughter and her friends chime. I smile and nod a silent goodbye to the mothers.</div>
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<b>August 2015 - </b>For seven sweet, but long months, we've been waiting. Waiting for American kindergarten to begin. I did my best to fill our days with the American advantages – we've had countless visits to the library (the selection of books <i>in </i><i>English</i> made both of our heads spin), trips to the Perot Natural history museum, visits with the grandparents and great-grandma, etc. On the weekends, we've introduced the kids to baseball, ballet, and road trips through the beautiful State of Texas. They've grown to appreciate unlimited bowls of chips and salsa, sunscreen, and outdoor swimming pools. Everyday, Cosette tells me how much she misses her friends in the Netherlands. Occasionally, we count the days until she starts school again. We visit playgrounds and I wonder – <i>where are all the people</i>. In the Netherlands, I rarely spoke to other people at the playground or at the store, but I was always <i>around</i> other people. It's funny – on gorgeous days here in Texas, we go for a walk to the playground or to the neighborhood pool – and we're the only ones there. It's isolating in two different ways.</div>
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<br />The first day of school arrives. Again. But this time, it's American Kindergarten. I'm nervous in a whole entire different realm – mostly because I've been through it before – the competition, the rules, the pressure to conform. The moment is special though – my brother went to the same elementary school Cosette is enrolled. My mom comes with us to her granddaughter's first day of school and bakes her cookies for afterwards. There are rules and papers and newsletters but at least I can read them without the use of Google translate. I love and hate it, all at the same time.</div>
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The first day, we walk Cosette into her class, hang her backpack in her locker, and sit her down at her desk. Her chair is decorated with her name. For as excited as she was about starting school, she's become very quiet and shy. I put my arm around her and whisper into her ear – "The good news is. . . they all speak English?" and her eyes dart around the room. "But Mama, I had that one friend in the Netherlands that spoke English. . . " and her voice trails off. Halfway across the world, I know that today is the first day of school at her old school in the Netherlands. My heart breaks a little as I imagine her friends going into their new class, the excitement they'd feel after seeing each other after the summer break. "I know, honey, I miss my friends, too - but you'll do great." I help her with her crayons, say goodbye, and meet the other parents in the cafeteria for the "Cheers and Tears" kindergarten parents breakfast.</div>
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In the cafeteria, I see a questionably familiar face. It's hazy, but I know I know her. . . wait. . . our mental rolodexes are spinning.. . I have a flashback to Senior English AP class nearly 20 years ago. "Hi, I'm Celeste!" and she tells me her name, which I already know. We embrace. I have a friend. I have a friend! A real friend from high school in my daughter's cafeteria. Her son is starting Kindergarten too – and we're both thrilled to see each other after all these years. I can't help but think, so <em>this</em> is the advantage of being back where we started. To run into familiar friends in unfamiliar places. To go through a new adventure with someone who already knows me.</div>
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I meet my daughter at the front of the school in the afternoon. She has a large smile on her face. "Did you make a friend today?" I ask my daughter. And she says yes! Yes I did. I tell her I did too. And we walk towards our parked car, hand in hand.</div>
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<em>It's been a long day without you, my friend</em><br /><em>And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again</em><br /><em>We've come a long way from where we began</em><br /><em>Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again</em><br /><em>When I see you again</em></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-32108762599985299112015-07-10T12:56:00.000-07:002017-05-11T12:57:38.007-07:00Been here Before?<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
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Loads of groceries sit snuggled in the trunk of my SUV. The air-conditioning blasts as my dashboard glows, indicating 95F outside. Beams of orange and red stretch across the Texas sky. The sun says goodbye on another warm, humid day. I’m driving across the neighborhood to return a book from the library I borrowed about Paris. I pull up to a stop sign. I see a mother and her two adolescent sons on bicycles approach the intersection. The older son is nine or ten. He teeters to a stop, nearly falling off his bike on a small incline in the pavement. Although I had approached the intersection first, I instinctively let them pass before I accelerate the car. The mother casts glances of apology and waves to me as she follows her sons across the intersection. I feel like rolling down the window and shouting reassurance – “I lived in the Netherlands for the past three years, please – don’t apologize for your children! You should have the right of way all the time! And by the way - I love your blue Dutch-style Mama bike!” But of course, I don’t. I breathe. I cast a glance at my daughter in the backseat. I maneuver our car closer to the always-open drive-thru book drop at my local library.</div>
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“What’s it like to be back?” friends ask. Overwhelming? Confusing? Sad? Exciting? Comforting? Weird? All of the above? Yes. I think that’s it.</div>
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After moving overseas, I discovered there was an expat spectrum of happiness and acceptance. On one end, there are those who love their new country and want to stay forever. On the opposite end are the ones who wished they could have repatriated yesterday. Of course – there’s everyone in between. On a cold winter night, my girlfriends and I shared a couple glasses of wine and talked about. . . life. Expat life. Before my friend moved to the Netherlands over a decade ago, her guidance counselor at school had warned her “Once you move overseas, you’ll never see the world the same.” My friend went on to explain “It’s kind of like the Matrix – once you take the red pill, you can never go back. People may regret moving overseas, but the thing is, they can’t help that they said, ‘Yes. I’ll do it.’ They’re just the type of person who takes the red pill. That’s just <em>who</em> they are.”</div>
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I took the red pill. And so did my husband. That’s the type of people we are. We’re back in Texas in our same home, reconnecting with our old friends. We’re driving the streets I rode growing up and drove as a teenager. My daughter is pre-registered for kindergarten in the same elementary school my brother went to. But everything feels different. A little awkward. Like we want to tweak it just a little because we’ve seen it in a different filter. And it was good.</div>
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For my children – <em>America</em> is the red pill. They’ve gawked at ceiling fans, garage doors, and mailboxes. They have now attended their first baseball game, movie theatre, and library story time. We’ve feasted on Chick-Fil-A. . . and then I’ve climbed through the tunnels of the Chick-Fil-A indoor play area because my 3-year old refused to come down. They saw fireworks and tasted their first s’mores last weekend as they celebrated 4<sup>th</sup> of July for the 1<sup>st</sup> time on American soil.</div>
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“Everything makes sense. Once you’ve been there long enough,” I always thought. Gawking at the helmet-less children in a wooden box bicycle many years ago on a visit to Amsterdam, I became that woman.</div>
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We’re still figuring out how to <a data-mce-href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2014/12/come-back-to-texas/" href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2014/12/come-back-to-texas/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">mesh our European and American lifestyles</a>. For the last five months, we’ve been a one-car household, like we were in the Netherlands. I rode my bike to pick up my son from pre-school. As I strolled into the classroom another Mom commented, “I saw you riding that. . . contraption! You’re very. .. ambitious!” And I batted my eyes. I longed for the Dutch language. See, as an expat, you can do weird things or <em>everything wrong</em> and no one cares. You’re foreign. Or at least, a Stupid American. There’s comfort in that. She continued, “Oh, and I saw your husband the other day. . . walking to the drugstore? And I realized – you all must be used to walking a lot more than <em>we’re</em> used to!” With that – I wanted to book the next flight back to Amsterdam.</div>
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We often wondered <em>why</em>. <em>Why</em> do companies invest in moving their employees overseas? It was never explained during our pre-departure cultural training. Before we left for the Netherlands, my husband and I had considered ourselves well-traveled. We had seen some things, been to thirty or so countries. But in retrospect, we had always visited each country and viewed it with our American Glasses. American Glasses provide a lot of insight, awareness, and some fun party facts. But once you <em>live</em> overseas. . . you start to view <em>America</em> with a perspective of an outsider. And that’s the red pill. It’s not necessarily bad or good – it’s just different. From getting groceries home, to education, to healthcare, you’ve lived and understood that’s there’s an alternative way to everything. Ideas like “wouldn’t it be cool if you could bike everywhere?” morph from abstract concepts into concrete reality. And that awareness sneaks up in un-suspecting ways and moments. Like when letting a woman cross the street on her bike when you’re driving to return a library book.</div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-57140420647163561312015-06-27T12:53:00.000-07:002017-05-11T12:57:47.648-07:00Brave<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
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<strong><em>June 7, 2014</em> - </strong>I awake in a Best Western hotel room in Healdsburg, California. I glance at the clock. 5:30 a.m. I stare at the ceiling and groan at the irony of it all - I’m half a world away from my husband, kids, and dogs. I have no plans for the day until the wedding at 6:00 p.m. I could sleep until noon, if my body would only let me. Jet-lag is a beast. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad over to the window unit and flip on the heat. I peek through the black-out curtains. Grey. Foggy. Cold. In June. I’m used to this weather, but I’ve left my spring jacket and scarf in the Netherlands, clearly over estimating the ‘sunny California’ stereotype. I shuffle into the bathroom to grab another tissue. Maternity dresses bought in Barcelona hang on wooden hangers. I’ve been fighting a losing battle with a head cold for over a week. Pregnant, jet-lagged, and tissue-box-emptying head cold make for a rough combination. I rub my eyes and my mind becomes clear. Active. It’s racing. I lay back down. I tell myself I need to rest. It’s a big day. I need to sleep. But my thoughts are bouncing all over the planet – California, Waco, Brazil, Dallas, the Netherlands, and Puerto Rico. Words flash. Sentences come together. Feelings bubble over. I know what I must do. I’ll never sleep otherwise and this is too real, too honest to let it escape. I open my computer and begin to type.</div>
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<strong><em>Two months earlier</em> – </strong>Vinny returns from his business trip to the United States the weekend before my birthday. I’m finally out of my 1<sup>st</sup> trimester, but I’m exhausted none-the-less. Cosette’s first week of school proves to be emotional and cycling a few miles a day with the two kids is a little tougher considering I’m carrying one more in my belly. I’ve still kept up with everything – laundry, house, cooking, cleaning, kids, and work, but it’s taken its toll. I want to sleep. Curl up on the couch next to him and never leave. I embrace all the goodies he’s brought back from the States – maternity clothes which were tucked away in my Dad’s garage, gifts from my best friend Nikki, and his Target purchases. I sit in the living room breathing and resting - watching him unpack his bags. I’m sentimental for home and friends. “I have another surprise for you,” he says – after the kids have gone to bed. “Ugh. You know I <em>hate</em> surprises!” I tell him. After nearly ten years, I wish he’d embrace this facet of my personality. “I know. I know. But I booked your flight for Julio’s wedding in June.” My face softens. “Really?” I whisper. “Yes. You need to go. I’ve already taken the time off of work so I can watch the kids. Plus, the direct flights to Dallas dropped dramatically in price.” He’s saying all the right things.</div>
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<strong><em>June 2014 - </em></strong>Two months later, I board the flight from AMS to DFW. It’s <em>such</em> a quick trip. I’m armed with confirmations, maps, and a credit card (in my name to avoid the rental car disaster like last time). Four flights, 6 days, 3 rental car confirmations. Maps of the closest Target, Buy Buy Baby, and Ulta (ahem, well cosmetics <em>are</em> cheaper in the U.S.) to Nikki’s house. Plans for a dental appointment, lunch with Dad and Grandma, and dinner with friends in Dallas. Maps, GPS, hotel confirmation, and phone numbers for my trip to California. I’m nervous about the drive from San Francisco to Sonoma Valley by myself (it’s a few hours, I’ve never driven in California, and I rarely drive anymore, period) – but V has done everything he can to make sure I (and baby) feel safe. I’m excited. Pumped. As I’ve mentioned before, solo trips to the United States to see best friends is pretty much the most ideal vacation ever.</div>
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Everything goes smoothly. I shop. I catch up. I eat lots of Mexican food. Everyone gets to see for their own eyes that I am pregnant. I’m able to tell my Dad and Grandma <em>in person</em> the name we’ve chosen for the baby. All my pre-ordered packages from DSW & Motherhood arrive on time. I even manage to squeeze in a pedicure the morning before I fly to San Francisco. I pick up my rental car at SFO without a hitch. The GPS is exactly like the one we have in the Netherlands. I have 3 hours to get to the rehearsal dinner. The GPS says I should be there in an hour and a half. The GPS is directions are consistent with Vinny’s directions. I’ve got Nikki’s mixed CDs playing in the car. I’m rolling. I’m happy. I get stuck in some traffic in San Francisco but then fly over the Golden Gate Bridge to the sounds of Sarah Barielle’s “Brave” pumping through the stereo. “Okay Baby!” I say to my bump. “This is exciting stuff. Things I thought I’d never do – drive over the Golden Gate bridge 5-months pregnant. Happy Babymoon to us!” And then. . . I hit traffic. I slowly watch my estimated arrival time expand. The original 90-minute estimate yawns and stretches in the dusty sun. It eventually settles on about 3-hours. I text Julio. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to be late. I thought 3-hours would be enough time for a 1 ½ hour drive, but apparently not.</div>
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I arrive at the rehearsal dinner, late and flustered. I see Julio flagging me down, showing me where to valet my rental car from across the road. “I’m so sorry!” I tell him. But he says to forget about it – he’s just glad I made it. The evening begins.</div>
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Glasses clink and a lovely breeze tickles our faces as we dine on fabulous cuisine on the California outdoor patio. I’m seated at a table with twenty smartly-dressed men from Dallas and Julio’s family from Puerto Rico. I had been nervous – “Vinny, I’m not going to know anyone there and I’m going to be all by myself!” I had stressed weeks before.</div>
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“Honey,” he gazes into my eyes, “of all the weddings to go to alone and pregnant, this is the best option. A gay wedding in California? Julio’s friends are going to be awesome! They’ll love you - don’t worry!”</div>
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Vinny’s assessment proves to be correct. Julio introduces me to many of his friends and we all smile and chat the evening away. Many have heard of me and there are many others who are curious as to who I am. Snippets of stories flash – “We used to work together in Waco. . . actually we were roommates. . . actually, we worked together again at American Airlines. . . we’ve been friends are really long time. . . Julio was in <em>my</em> wedding. . .” Each face glows with excitement. Loves and adoration radiates towards this couple. I’m the only girl at this gorgeous table besides his mother and aunts. I’m pregnant and have flow across the world. Everyone seems genuinely curious as to why I am here and wants to learn more, but none of the sentences spouting from my mouth truly captures the entirety of our relationship. Waves of memories flow. Images flash. The officiant sits across the table from me and asks the man sitting next to him if he is going to give his speech tonight. “No no,” he says, “I’m going to give it tomorrow night at the reception.” Apparently, my subconscious takes hold of this idea, and comes to fruition at 5:30 a.m. the next morning.</div>
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I text Julio a few hours before the wedding. “Happy wedding day!!! I woke up this morning and wrote something (a speech? A blog post?) about you. I’m sure you already have everyone all lined up, but I’ll bring it just in case. Love you and best wishes today!!!” Julio writes back and tells me to bring it and that he’s excited I’d speak from his side of the table. I’m excited, too.</div>
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The ceremony takes place at sunset overlooking the valley. Acoustic guitar music twinkles. The two grooms look dashing in their black tuxedos. The officiants’ voice recites the vows with confidence and the grooms repeat. Julio’s emotions shine through and every heart in the audience falls with his. In the end, there wasn’t a dry eye on the patio. Afterwards, we mingle and guests sip from wine glasses as waiters circle the stone patio. Julio laughs with his guests about his tearful breakdown. Mike admits he almost broke down when he saw Julio enter the ceremony. “When I saw him crying though, I knew I had to be strong. That’s pretty-much how our relationship works – if one is wavering, the other stands tall.” I smile with appreciation and at the fact that it was represented during the ceremony. After two glasses of cucumber water, I excuse myself to practice my speech. Minutes later, I find myself in the middle of a gorgeous table that stretches the length of the barrel room. Forty men and women who adore Mike and Julio surround them with their presence and love. Conversations are hushed. “Are you ready?” Julio asks me from across the table. I breathe in and out. “Yes.” I stand up and all eyes are on me. My paper shakes in my hand as I introduce myself. “Hi! I’m Celeste. . .” and I continue to ramble a few more words I don’t remember. Everyone smiles, anxious to hear what I have to say. I conclude with, “I’m more of a writer than a speaker, so you’ll just have to bear with me,” and everyone nods with encouragement. As I conclude, the room erupts with applause and I glance at Julio. We’ve made each other cry tonight. I’m still shaking with nervousness – I mean, I just voluntarily gave a <em>speech</em>! But I’m so proud of everyone in the room that has made this day special for one of the most special people I know.</div>
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<em>Toast to Julio and Mike</em></div>
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<em>Julio and I started our careers on the same day in August 2001. I, running late and flustered, rushed into the lobby of JRBT – a tiny accounting firm in Waco, Texas, apologized to the receptionist and with an air of defeat, plopped breathless into an armchair. A well-dressed and relaxed Hispanic man sat to my left. With gleaming skin and wide, friendly eyes, his warmth and hand extended my direction. “Hi, I’m Julio!” he proclaimed. Time paused. The entire momentum of my first day of work shifted. I reflected the beam of light and shook his hand. “Hi! I’m Celeste!” I smiled. At that moment, I knew we would be friends forever.</em></div>
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<em> Three days later, my original assessment was confirmed at 6:30 a.m. on the side of a darkened highway 84 as we left town for our first training in Dallas. “Bumpity, bumpity bump.” My little blue Toyota Carolla begged for relief. Oblivious, or just in denial, I drove a few yards further until Julio told me to stop. “Uh, Celeste – I think you have a flat.” I pulled over. The tire was shredded. Flashes of being late for my second day of work, waiting for tow trucks while cars flew past on the highway, watching the sun rise as time ticked by scrolled through my head. “No problem. I fix it!” he said. And I wondered where this angel came from. “Puerto Rico!” he said.</em></div>
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<em> We worked side-by-side in tiny banks all over Central Texas for a few years. We drank bad coffee, ate chicken fried steak, and met friendly people that had never been outside of Texas. “Excuse me m’am, but do you have low fat ranch for this salad?” I asked a toothless waitress at a café across from a bank in Valley Mills. “Honey,” she cocked her head, “I ain’t got low-fat nothin’”. And in response to her raised eyebrow, I just ordered the regular ranch. Julio snickered from across the table.</em></div>
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<em>His lease on his expensive apartment in Waco ended and my fiancé moved to Houston. Julio and I decided to save money and move in together. We eventually found a 3-bedroom duplex in Hewitt. Our backyard was enclosed by a chain-link fence and opposite that was a farm that stretched to the horizon. With cows. I bought a dog named Tyler that Julio spoiled and who befriended the livestock. If you had told us then we’d be living in the Netherlands and a high-rise apartment in Dallas later in life – I don’t think either of us would have believed you. </em></div>
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<em>My parents’ marriage and my engagement ended while I was living with Julio, which of course prompted a lot of drama on my part – poor guy! As part of my ‘recovery process’, I wrote a list of twenty qualities I really wanted in my future spouse - funny, smart, loving, thoughtful. I needed a guy who made me feel beautiful and who I loved spending time with. As I reviewed the list, my eyes grew wide with realization – I had described Julio. I ran into his office to explain my experiment. “Ahh – did you come here to confess your love to me?” he smiled. Desperate puppy dog eyes blinked behind mascaraed lashes. He laughed and shook his head. I already knew, but Julio was most definitely gay – with no hopes of conversion. I fell back into a chair, shrugged, and repeated the advice he most commonly chanted during our years at the accounting firm - “So, what can be done, that’s life?” I needed to find another Julio, but straight. This is not an easy order to fill.</em></div>
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<em> We parted ways and left the tiny town of Waco for bigger adventures – him to San Antonio first, and me to Dallas. Luckily, I met Vinny pretty quickly. “Oh, Julio – I don’t know about him,” I’d exclaim. “Celeste, try. He’s good for you,” and he’d mime spoon feeding me. I listened. I fell in love. Julio was officially an usher at our wedding, but in reality, he was more. Vinny and I had planned a gorgeous outdoor wedding on the steps of a plantation home outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. As the rain gushed from the sky twenty minutes before the ceremony was to begin, the guests huddled on the front porch like scared rabbits, my own tears flowed. It was Julio who found my make-up artist and told her to “run!” It was Julio, along with my other bridesmaids, who hugged me tight and made me laugh as loud as the thunder above. The indoor ceremony was beautiful and Julio and I danced to Santana at the reception to the applause of my family. It was the best day of my life – not only because I married Vinny, but also because I was surrounded by the love of my friends and family. A culmination of years of laughter, heartbreak, and excitement for the promise of the continuation of love in the future. </em></div>
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<em> From culinary adventures in Waco, to sightseeing in Brazil, to hosting my daughter’s baby shower – Julio fills my mind and heart with years of laughter and happiness. When it came to the decision to return the favor – to see him at the best day of his life – the decision was easy. A solo trip, five months pregnant, from the Netherlands are just details to help me prove my point. Julio literally means the world to me.</em></div>
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<em>Julio and I both traveled alone and with each other when we worked at American Airlines. We can traverse the world courageously solo, but I also know that life’s journey is a lot more fun when you’ve got someone to carry your luggage, help you navigate, and a relive the adventures. I’m excited that Mike is the man that will make and share in life’s plans with him. But more than that, I’m happy he’s found a love that’s <strong>good for you</strong>, too. </em></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-39829147963450630702014-12-12T12:46:00.000-08:002017-05-11T12:47:26.160-07:00Come Back to Texas<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBWNgg8CClc" target="_blank">Come back to Texas (Bowling for Soup)</a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">I had an epiphany today. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. I officially posted it on Facebook recently after weeks and months of disbelief. I mean, I knew it was coming. It was always part of the gig. My husband and I signed up for a temporary rotation. We applied and we were accepted into the program. I think this simple fact – that we moved to the Netherlands </span><em style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;">voluntarily</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", "Bitstream Charter", Times, serif; font-size: 16px;"> – had a huge impact on our attitude towards the engagement (and our stubborn determination to MAKE IT WORK) when at times, defeat seemed imminent. Normally, the rotation lasts 18 months. Like America’s maternity leave policy of 12 weeks, I think this is strategic. 18 months is short enough to get your feet wet, but not dive head-first and swim to the surface and order a Mai Tai at the swim-up bar. At this shorter time frame, you’re still figuring things out and have your life raft of going back home when things get rocky. Because of our January 2012 start date, we started out at a 2-year rotation (to get in two autumn ‘busy seasons’ for V). We had a groove by the end of 2013. We were happy, and with the kids growing older, we really wanted to stay longer. We extended to October 2014. After finding out we were pregnant, with a due date of early October, everyone agreed to extend an additional 3 months, with a departure date of January 31, 2015. The kids and I arrived at Schiphol on January 21, 2012. Three years and 10 days later, our time in the Netherlands will end.</span><br />
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Three years and 10 days. It seems like a small amount of time, but in reality - it’s more than half of Cosette’s life, the majority of Holden’s life, and all of Brecht’s life. That’s significant.</div>
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An expat friend asked me recently “When did the Netherlands feel like <em>home</em>?” In our cultural training, they had told us to expect a 6-month transition. It took us longer. After arriving in January, I was anxious for spring to arrive. I waited and waited and waited for it to get warm. June 2012 and it was still too cold for my Texas blood and I stared out the window. There were 1,000 other factors that led me to this conclusion, but the cloudy and grey skies were the final straw. “<em>I don’t know if we’re going to make it</em>,” I said out loud to no one. V went on a business trip and my doubts grew more intense. I remember V asking me if I wanted him to call Dallas to send us back home. I didn’t want to give up. But moving to the Netherlands was the hardest thing I’d <em>ever</em> done. We’d been emotionally stretched in ways we didn’t know we could move – individually and as a family. I told V no. Don’t call Dallas. We’re going to keep trying. Moving overseas was our dream. The sun came out and the thermometer rose. The skies resembled something I had seen before. We picked up our pace, smiled. We went outside without our jackets on. In October my <a data-mce-href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2012/10/im-going-to-make-this-place-your-home/" href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2012/10/im-going-to-make-this-place-your-home/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank" title="best friend visited">best friend visited</a> from the States. Having her familiar face in my foreign world lifted my spirits immensely. Then we <a data-mce-href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2012/11/thats-whats-up/" href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2012/11/thats-whats-up/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank" title="went home">went home</a> to visit. We hosted a party and saw everyone we loved in Texas. We had friends from Dallas, Ft. Worth, and Waco attend. We headed to Baton Rouge and we were embraced with more hugs, smiles, and cheered on the LSU Tigers. I stocked up on Bath & Body Works lotions, fajita marinade, and washable markers. There was a shift in my mind. When we landed in Amsterdam, I was ready. I knew we could do it. I knew this was <em>home</em>.</div>
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For the past few years we’ve been through the spectrum of life experiences – weddings, funerals, starting jobs, ending jobs, making new friends, and losing others. We’ve celebrated 1<sup>st</sup>, 2<sup>nd</sup>, 3<sup>rd</sup>, and 4<sup>th</sup> birthdays here. I’ve joined bookclubs, a writing group, run a B&B, hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners, sent my daughter to kindergarten, and then sent her to a better one. Our children have been to 13 countries. They can identify the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and Van Gogh paintings. They speak and understand Dutch. We’ve been on international T.V., I gave birth to our third child, and we have thousands of more memories and experiences. This <strong>is</strong> home.</div>
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We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. How do I feel about this? In reality, I’m heartbroken. Home is where the heart is and I feel that forever, my heart, or at least a small piece, will be left in this country. People often ask – could you stay? Is the option there? I guess it is – V <em>could</em> get a permanent job here. I believe he could. There are a lot of financial implications that would have to shake down and I’m not sure if he’d like to work for the <a data-mce-href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2013/02/man-of-constant-sorrow/" href="http://courageousorcrazy.com/2013/02/man-of-constant-sorrow/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank" title="Tasmanian Devil">Tasmanian Devil</a> forever, but would that be something we’d want? There are days where I say yes! (Mostly when it’s sunny). But there are a lot of things pushing and pulling us back. For every life event we’ve had in the Netherlands, there’s also a birthday, engagement, chemo treatment, hospital stay, and Christmas Day we’ve missed in Texas, too. As much as I adore my daughter’s new Dutch school, they aren’t going to teach her the Pledge of Allegiance, either.</div>
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My brother and his wife visited last August. They live in California and I warned them to bring jeans and shoes ‘they wouldn’t <span style="background-color: white;">mind getting wet’. My warnings proved valid and their visit coincided with the coldest August in the Netherlands since like, 1982 or something, and they took the rainy wind in stride. We stood outside the Van Gogh museum, hovering under umbrellas for two minutes before they decided to skip the art and head to the Heineken experience. They went to the Jumbo Grocery store with me and my brother was verbally abused (in Dutch) by the cashier for not putting his groceries on the conveyer belt correctly. He took the lashing as a badge of honor. But more than that, as we hung out in my living room late in the evening, he turned to me and explained his admiration, “We see these people on TV, moving across the world – but you’ve done this with a </span><em style="background-color: white;">family</em><span style="background-color: white;">. Today, I’m on a canal boat in Amsterdam and I’m awe-struck. Your 4-year-old daughter is coloring besides me. She’s like, ah yeah, I’ve seen this before – this is Amsterdam. She’s seen so many things. She speaks two languages.” I had invited my closest friends over to meet him and his wife for drinks and dessert a few days prior. He continues, “Your expat friends I met the other night – they’re awesome. But I can see. . . how hard it is. People come and people go. One of your friends started tearing up when we started talking about you all’s approaching departure. That’s. . . . intense.” He says this. And I’m so. So. Happy. He’s only been here for a few days, and he’s my </span><em style="background-color: white;">little brother</em><span style="background-color: white;">, but he </span><strong style="background-color: white;">gets it</strong><span style="background-color: white;">. He recognizes that we’ve taken ourselves out of everything familiar – our friends, family, careers, and home – and we’ve succeeded. “Celeste, you never even lived outside of Texas – and suburban Texas at that. . . and you’re living life in a city, a foreign city. . .”</span></div>
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What’s next for us? To be honest, we’d hoped for another adventure. We’d looked into moving somewhere else – London, Austin, Chicago – but nothing panned out. So we’re headed back to where we started – Dallas. And back into our old home at that.</div>
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Will we embrace the familiarity? Or will we feel like it’s the equivalent of going to college and then moving back in with your parents? I’m not sure. I worry that our entire Netherlands experience will feel like a dream, but then again, I’ll have a 4-month old baby at 4:00 a.m. to wake me up from it.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">If anything, I know it took us a while – ten months - to find the balance between our American heritage and our Dutch surroundings, and we found </span><em style="background-color: white;">home </em><span style="background-color: white;">here in Leiden. With a little patience, trial and error, and ingenuity, I think we’ll find a new normal back in Dallas – meshing our European lifestyle with American culture. It won’t be the same as when we left - just as everyone else has changed in the past three years. We’ll find a new dream, and go after it with as much passion as we’ve exerted over the past few years. In the meantime, I’m going to have a kick out of introducing my children to the Texas and Louisiana cultures they’ve missed. After all, New Orleans Café’ Du Monde beignets have a strong resemblance to Dutch Oliebollen.</span></div>
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Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-84433813252652259092014-06-24T14:41:00.000-07:002014-06-25T05:48:00.121-07:00To Be With You<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdOz1EihRV4" target="_blank">To Be With You (Mr. Big)</a> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A childhood
nightmare flashes. Standing alone, but
in a crowded courtyard. Aging brick
walls suffocate, paned glass mocks, trees whisper. Faces stare.
Silence prevails. I’m naked. My eyes plead to the crowd for help. No familiar face will extend a jacket. There are no familiar faces. Mumbles are exchanged between friends – the
words foreign to my ear. I stare at the
ground. Confused. Embarrassed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x7PKSqZZa5w/U6nry5AFDqI/AAAAAAAAAjA/ivK8gMwH1ig/s1600/school+-+courtyard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x7PKSqZZa5w/U6nry5AFDqI/AAAAAAAAAjA/ivK8gMwH1ig/s1600/school+-+courtyard.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtyard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I lift my
head. I awaken from the nightmare and
realize that I am clothed. No one is
staring. No one sees me. I am.
Invisible. Like a ghost, I stare
at my surroundings, unseen, felt, and acknowledged by the human forms around
me. I blink, then grasp my daughter’s
hand and lead her through the crowd towards her first full week of
kindergarten.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the
Netherlands, children start public schooling the day after their fourth
birthday. Once we discovered we would be
extending, we set to work to figure out where to send our daughter. Two year waiting lists are common, and we
were clearly behind. Back in Texas, the
decision is made for you – parents send their children to the elementary school
closest to their home. The curriculum is
standard throughout the district, and in order to choose a different school
than the one assigned is not an easy task.
We had interviewed the international school in Leiden and were very
pleased with what we saw, but they wait until all children turn four years old
and start them together in September (as opposed to the day-after 4<sup>th</sup>-birthday-rule). Considering Baby Girl’s birthday is in April,
and our departure date is October, this was not a feasible option for us. We had even inquired of her Dutch daycare if
they’d be willing to accept her (and our money) after her fourth birthday and
they looked at us quizzically. “Why
would you send her here when you can send her to Dutch school for free? And either way – our waiting list is too
long. We need her spot.” Again, from our understanding, the Dutch
children are not <i>required</i> to go to
school until they turn five, with an optional start date of four. But this option has seemingly never been
exercised. We contacted a few
schools. Most said their waiting lists
were too long, but the school closest to us said they’d have a spot for her. (Schools in your neighborhood give precedent
to the children in the neighborhood.) We
made an appointment for a school tour. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i>November
2013</i></b><i> - </i>The clouds did not
part and rain pours from above. V and I
enter the school and I am instantly reminded of my own elementary school in the
1980s. Red brick walls line the worn
staircase. Echoes and dim lighting
cascade shadows on the dusty formica floors. That unmistakable gym-smell
penetrates everything. This building
hasn’t been renovated in at least 40 years.
We are greeted and seated in the teachers’ lounge. I shift in the hard plastic chair as the introductions
are exchanged with the principal of the school. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
She is an
elderly woman with short hair and a nice smile, and has been a part of the
school for decades. As she speaks, I
begin to relax a bit. “Oh yes – we have
a place here for Cosette,” she speaks in clear English. I nod.
We had not heard these words from anyone else. A guaranteed place. “Oh, and there is another girl, yes – who
speaks English in level zero class. We
can see that we put Cosette in her class. Yes?” Also good news. This lady is on a roll. “A tour now, yes?” I fumble with my purse. My husband grabs my hand to calm my nerves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SlmDpzZFE3M/U6nrmWM7UlI/AAAAAAAAAis/UhmsHZ_vioI/s1600/school+-+class.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SlmDpzZFE3M/U6nrmWM7UlI/AAAAAAAAAis/UhmsHZ_vioI/s1600/school+-+class.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Level Zero Classroom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We enter the
first classroom and to my surprise, it looks much like what I’d picture a
kindergarten (or as they call it, level zero) class to look like - almost. A play house station is in the corner, bins
of legos line the walls, and a circle of small chairs surround a circular table
in the middle. I cock my head to the
side. Not only are there about 28 tiny
chairs (about twice the amount I would perhaps expect in an American <span style="font-family: inherit;">school </span>classroom) but they’re also covered in clothes. Pants, shirts, and shoes litter the backs and seats of each chair. “Oh yes – the children are at gym,” the principal says in way of explanation. When she sees my confusion deepen, she continues “Oh yes, see the children have gym in their underwear.” My eyes grow wide. “Yes, see, it’s much too hot for them to run around in their clothes and it’s too time consuming to change into gym clothes.” Visions of naked children kicking soccer balls does not compute in my American brain. I look to my husband for help. He gives me the look that says:<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><i>Something is being lost in translation – it
will be okay, Honey.</i> I nod and focus
my attention back to the principal. She’s pointing to the clothesline above the
teacher’s chair. Photos of the day’s
activities are pinned to the string. I
nod with appreciation. I like
schedules. The principal is pointing to
the pictures and explaining them to me.
“Yes, so in the morning, after the children hang up their coats, and put
away their bags, they sit in the circle and the teacher first reads them a
bible story.” My eyes grow wide, yet
again. Underwear and bible stories: two
phrases I wouldn’t hear during a tour of an American kindergarten. I look back at the art station. The principal is demonstrating a traffic
light. “There are so many children, you
see – the teacher can’t possibly attend to all of them at the same time, of
course. The children take their names
from the board and place them next to the station they’d like to play in. Each station has a limited number of
spots. The teacher directs the art
station. If the red light is on – it
indicates to the other children to not interrupt. If the green light is on – the children may
approach with questions, yes?” I
nod. I like this idea. “Oh – that’s nice. Where can I get one of those?” I smile.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We complete the
tour and we return to the office to receive the paperwork. “When do we need to return this form?” my
husband asks. “Well. . . as soon as
possible, of course. There are waiting
lists.” We nod. We understand. We have little other choice. The school is fine. The principal is warm. The school is half a mile from our home. Our daughter has been understanding and
speaking Dutch at her preschool for the past two years. The Dutch kindergarten should be good
experience for her. We fill out the
paperwork and return it the next week. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i>March 2014 - </i></b>Because each child
comes into the classroom at different times, the classroom is well
established. Four sessions are scheduled
before her first day of school.
Parent-guided for a couple hours the first time, then she could attend
by herself for half a day. I like the
idea of this – introducing her (and us) into the new routine gradually. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My husband and
I awake on the day of her first ‘visitation’.
We dress both kids, ourselves, and head out the door and a flurry of
anticipation and nervousness. V had
thought we could bring Holden with us and the four of us could observe the
class together. I had my doubts. Upon arriving at the classroom, we are
introduced to the teacher. “Sorry, spreek
je Nederlands?” she asks. My husband
explains that he does, but that I do not.
She explains that she doesn’t speak English. I’m floored.
Besides a few aging repair men, <i>everyone</i>
in the country speaks English. The
teachers at their preschool have always conversed with me in English. <i>I love
them</i>. I’m Facebook friends with one
of them. I stare at this educated woman
in disbelief. Dread seeps through my
veins. She explains that only one parent
can attend the observation session, so clearly, my husband would be the one,
considering the language barrier. My
husband and Cosette enter the class and the door slams behind them. I peer into the window. My daughter, shy and small, blonde and
beautiful, dressed with hope and anticipation, sits in the tiny chair confused
and staring at the other 27 children. My
husband sits behind her in the circle.
My Baby Girl - my daily responsibility for the past two years - looks at
me through the window. I wave and turn
with tears stinging my eyes. The
mama. Shut. Out. I hoist Holden on my hip, hug him tight, and
pedal him over to the local park in the cold.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i>April 2014</i></b> – Cosette turns four on April
2nd, and on Thursday, April 3<sup>rd</sup>, we dress her in a new outfit, snap photos,
and pack her snack. We pedal over to her
school. My husband on his bike, the kids
and I on mine. I’m anxious. It’s a big day. We hang her hoodie, put her bag in the
cupboard, and help her find her seat.
After a flood of hugs and kisses, my husband and I grasp each other’s
hands, and with Holden, exit the <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tc1rsmz3EBQ/U6nrssCxrnI/AAAAAAAAAi0/RXBdhdT_y-E/s1600/School+-+first+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tc1rsmz3EBQ/U6nrssCxrnI/AAAAAAAAAi0/RXBdhdT_y-E/s1600/School+-+first+day.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Official First Day of School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
door. We pedal slowly home. We sip coffee and he works at the dining room
table. I split my time between idling
around the kitchen, playing with Holden, and watching the clock. Most of the school children stay until 3
p.m., but we’ve decided to pick her up at noon every day – at least for the
first few weeks. Vinny had originally
been scheduled for a business trip to the United States during her birthday and
first day of school. We were both relieved
he was able to change it and be here for this big week. Just as any parent would be after dropping
their first-born child off at their first day of school, we’re as nervous as we
are anxious. It’s compounded by the fact
that we’re in a foreign country, but we tell ourselves that she’ll be
fine. She’s been understanding and speaking
Dutch at preschool for the past two years.
She’ll make friends. She’ll learn
how a classroom operates. We are all
waiting outside the door at noon when she completes her first day. She smiles, says it went well, and Vinny and
I smile above her head, relieved. <br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The following
week, Vinny is in the United States. The
loneliness that occurs anytime he’s gone is intense and magnified. The week before, I had not noticed I was not
greeted by the teacher when I dropped Cosette off at school. I had not noticed that no other parent made
eye contact with me. We had reassured
ourselves of Cosette’s comfort level being a part of a Dutch classroom, but I
had not anticipated how I would feel as a parent. My experience with their preschool was very
similar to the one I had in America – I have a <i>relationship </i>with their teachers, and the other parents are
friendly. Their teachers and I discuss
our concerns about the children. They
want to teach and share their culture with my family and are curious about
Texas. Starting my daughter at the new
school makes all the insecurities, nervous-vibes, and invisible-like feelings I
felt our first few months after moving here resurface. I’m surprised at how vulnerable and clueless
I feel. The teachers do little to
provide any reassurance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
During her first
full week, I lock my bike in the courtyard.
I stare at the buildings and people around me. I blink, then grasp my daughter’s hand and
lead her through the crowd. I walk her into
the classroom and encourage her to choose a book from the table before she
finds her seat. Her hand is in her
mouth, she hesitates. She does not
speak, but points to a book similar to the one we have at home. She smiles when she sees it – it is something
familiar, and slowly moves towards it.
Another girl in the class watches our interaction and moves
swiftly. She grabs the book, presses it
to her chest, and rushes to her seat. My
daughter and I stand there, stunned. I’m
new at this. I blink and encourage
Cosette to pick another book. Later, I
ask the teacher about the interaction and explain that I found the girl to be a
bit rude – and if that behavior was appropriate. She shrugs as if to say, of course. I cock my head as if to say, really? “Oh yes, in America I suppose the classrooms
are - how do you say – quite <i>severe</i>?”
she challenges. I raise an eyebrow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Weeks later, my
daughter comes home with bruises on her arms.
“The boys at school grabbed my arms on the playground and would not let
go.” She says. “My arms hurt, Mama.” I ask who the boys were and what the teacher
did. I recognize their names. They are 6-year old boys who tower above her. She explains that the boys were sent to
time-out. I’m upset that 6-year old boys
are beating up 4-year old <i>girls</i> on
the playground, but more than that, I’m upset that the teacher didn’t bother to
tell me. V confronts the teacher the
next day. “Well, of course – I was not
here yesterday,” (the teacher who prefers to not speak English to me works
Mon-Wed, and this is Thursday’s teacher), “but I can tell you that. . . in
America, I hear that you must sign a form for every little scratch,” and
again. A shrug. Dumbfounded, V slinks away with the Paranoid
American hat on that she’s just handed him.
He calls me and explains the interaction. I’m livid – after 2 ½ years of learning,
understanding, and embracing many facets of the Dutch culture, lectures in
cultural shortcomings is not what I was looking for. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PH1cmAQeqqg/U6nrxPF4Y-I/AAAAAAAAAi8/giyMj6TtBjQ/s1600/School+-+Mama+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PH1cmAQeqqg/U6nrxPF4Y-I/AAAAAAAAAi8/giyMj6TtBjQ/s1600/School+-+Mama+bike.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pregnant with 2 kids, pedaling my 'bakfiets' to Dutch school</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i>June 2014</i> </b>– In retrospect, I now realize
the importance of researching the schools far in advance before children turn
four years old. Not all schools are
created equal. My husband and I are currently
researching and weighing options for the fall.
As with many things, the <a href="http://www.homeinleiden.nl/" target="_blank">Home in Leiden</a> website has been an invaluable
resource. I have heard from many Dutch
parents that the school Cosette attends currently has high ratings and a good curriculum. Ultimately, I think our decision comes down
to where we feel most comfortable, and of course, every child is different. After such a positive experience with their
Dutch preschool, I feel strongly that there’s a school out there that suits my
daughter’s needs and makes me feel comfortable.
We just have to cross our fingers that we’ll find it and that the
waiting list isn’t too long. No one
wants to be invisible. <i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">
<i>Hold on little girl<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Show me what he's done to you<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Stand up little girl<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />A broken heart can't be that bad</i></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">
<i>When it's through, it's through<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Fate will twist the both of you<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />So come on baby, come on over<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Let me be the one to show you</i></div>
<div class="verse" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">
<i>I'm the one who wants to be with you<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Deep inside I hope you feel it too<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Waited on a line of greens and blues<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Just to be the next to be with you</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> <o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;">Get the latest updates! I've started my own <a href="https://www.facebook.com/courageousorcrazy?ref=hl" style="color: #33aaff; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Courageous or Crazy Facebook</a> page. Travel information, interviews, and photos about Real Life in the Netherlands. Click and "like" to follow. (and I promise not to spam your FB with too many posts - ain't nobody got time for that.) </i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.559999465942383px;"> </i></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-74162428366351606752014-06-12T12:50:00.002-07:002014-06-12T12:50:49.415-07:00ABC, Easy as One, Two, Three<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ho7796-au8U" target="_blank">ABC - Jackson 5</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>August 2011 </i></b>- The three of us glisten in the late evening
sun. North Texas has cooled to a balmy
88 degrees at 7:30 p.m. “We’re close to
the record – 60 days of over 100-degree heat.
I think we’re at day 56 or so,” V pants for air. I nod.
Brace myself to speak. It takes a
lot of energy these days. Baby Girl is
comatose as we wield her stroller up and down the sidewalks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lNP_4IBatlk/U5n4aa_inhI/AAAAAAAAAiE/LjV4NnmVIto/s1600/babyhot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lNP_4IBatlk/U5n4aa_inhI/AAAAAAAAAiE/LjV4NnmVIto/s1600/babyhot.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tanned and warm in Texas July 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know. The
Netherlands has probably <i>never</i> seen
100-degrees. Ever. In the history of the entire country.” I
shuffle along the side walk. My baby
bump shortens my breath and hinders the spring in my step. “Bump” being a conservative term – more like
a beach ball by late August. Flowers
wilt in our neighbors’ yards as we pass.
Water conservation alerts in Plano mandate sprinkler systems can only be
used once a week. “The girl in Accounts
Receivable asked <i>again</i> today,” I roll
my eyes and attempt to shift the conversation away from the heat – although
towards an equally dismal subject. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She didn’t,” V asks incongruously. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I swear – if she
asks me one more time if I’m having twins, I’m seriously going to report her to
HR. This has been the fourth time! It’s
not a difficult concept – small people give birth to normal sized babies. I’m only 5 feet tall – there’s nowhere for the
baby to go but OUT. Duh!” I’m hot at the
thought. Lately, I’ve made a habit of
waddling onto empty elevators at work and punching the <i>door close</i> button before anyone else can join me. It’s the only opportunity I have for peace,
otherwise I’m bombarded by questions in the claustrophobic space. My cube is on the 9<sup>th</sup> floor –
which proves to be plenty of time for the following seemingly innocent
conversation to ensue: “Oh, when are you due?
Oh wow – October? You look like
you’re about ready to pop!” Which, on my good days, makes me want to want to
ask about the progress of their own diet or fitness routines which have clearly
failed. On my bad days, I want to punch
them in the face. Most of the times I
struggle a sarcastic smile and cock my head, which in the grand game that is
Corporate America, isn’t much better than the former two options. Good thing I’m moving to the Netherlands in
six months. Game Over. “You know what would
be awesome?” I say to V as we turn the corner.
I see the shining promise of pink bricks basking in the sunset. We are steps away from relief - A/C, Texas
Rangers, and my fluffy couch awaits. The
evening exercise in the form of walking around the neighborhood after dinner,
is almost complete. “You know how we’ve
always wanted three kids.” (V nods in agreement. At the time, we are <i>blissfully unaware</i> of the challenges of two children.) “Wouldn’t it be great if we could extend the
rotation another year then have our 3<sup>rd</sup> child in the third
year? Imagine!” The idea formulates in
my head and grows rapidly. “No miserable
Texas heat. No one to bother me about
how big I am. I probably won’t even be
working! We wouldn’t have to tell <i>anyone</i>.
I could possibly, finally enjoy a pregnancy without having to hear all
the ‘oh wow, you’re so big’ nonsense! And then, when we come back, I could get
a job. . . or not. . . but either way, we’ll have it all out of the way! Since you never want to start a job and then
get pregnant six months later or whatever.” (Again, hands-on lesson learned in
Corporate America). “What do you think?”
I say with as much excitement as a 7-month prego Mama can muster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qxkyV_Duc7M/U5n4aXSFyOI/AAAAAAAAAiI/KfND4rLokzs/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qxkyV_Duc7M/U5n4aXSFyOI/AAAAAAAAAiI/KfND4rLokzs/s1600/baby.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Texas Rangers, couch, and A/C in Texas August 2011 </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah! Sounds like a
good idea,” V nods and molds the idea with his own reasoning. “We know the 1<sup>st</sup> year is going to
be tough with this little guy,” he pats my beach ball affectionately. “But the
second year should be awesome. By the
third year, we’d probably be ready to give it a go.” We grin like conspirators. He puts his hand on the front door handle,
gives me a sweaty kiss, and we enter into the cool of our living room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Winter 2013 </i></b>“I always wanted three kids, until I had two,” my
friend Alexandra laughs with me as we enjoy brunch over the holidays. V is shuffling around the table refilling our
coffee cups. “Yeah – we knew the 1<sup>st</sup>
year was going to be tough with Holden, but we didn’t expect the 2<sup>nd</sup>
year to be tough with him, too.” We all laugh.
His curls are bobbing up and down the living room as he runs from one
place to another for no particular reason.
Cosette is sitting quietly at her art table. “He’s put a damper on our
plans.” I smile. I adore my son, but over the past couple of years,
he’s definitely worn me out. He’s
dragging a dining room chair over to the TV.
He’s determined to get the remote controls I have placed out of his
reach. “But should we really let <i>Holden</i> determine our family size? I mean, he’s not going to be this crazy
forever.” (I hope!) “I also don’t have a
whole lot of time, me being in my mid-30s and all.” I reason.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, lots of people have kids in their 40s,” my friend Erin
attempts to reassure a few days previously. Pregnancy, amongst my expat friends, has been
a hot topic. I repeat the observation to
Alexandra but shake my head. “I already
feel like I’m about 100 years old some days after chasing Holden around.” (<i>Holden get down, no. No remote.
Okay. That’s good. Curls race away. Vinny? What’s he doing in the kitchen? I hear him dragging the stool over to the
sink!</i>) “Besides, I don’t want the kids
to be too far apart in age and I’m worried if we don’t at least try, we’ll
always regret it. We’re so stubborn in
our dreams.” I raise my eyebrows at V
and he pauses to smile and nod before returning the coffee pot to the
kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know. . .”
Alexandra says, “Isn’t having a child an <i>ultimate</i>
part of the expat experience, though?” She smiles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“True. I mean – you
only have a limited time to bear children.
We’re only in the Netherlands for a limited time. It’s kind of funny that it corresponds.” I
imagine myself with a cute baby bump in front of the Eiffel Tower, walking over
the canals of Amsterdam with a sense of calm and purpose, and pedaling my bike
around Leiden with 2.5 kids. “It would be
pretty cool.” I agree. “Besides, we’ve
always wanted three kids. And who knows
if it will even work. We’ve had trouble
before. And surely, even if we do get
pregnant, it will be a calm, sweet little girl.
The universe knows loveable, energetic Holden is all the boy I could
handle.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>January 2014</i></b> – I knew as soon as it happened. In previous pregnancies, there’s a sense of
wonder, confusion, and curiosity. It
wasn’t my first rodeo and I <i>knew</i>. I felt horrible from Day 2. Queasy, turned off by even one glass of wine
(now you <i>know</i> something is wrong),
and already tired. By the time I took
the pregnancy test, I was already showing.
V eyed my bump with suspicion.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s not
just. . . “ he trailed off. I waited
until the appropriate amount of days, anyway.
And while the pregnancy test instructions were in Dutch, French, and
German, I didn’t bother translating. The
photos, and the pictures, <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cWbgJ3Fmhc4/U5n6Jx_vxUI/AAAAAAAAAiU/H0cqCSxuKLw/s1600/1+-+Feb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cWbgJ3Fmhc4/U5n6Jx_vxUI/AAAAAAAAAiU/H0cqCSxuKLw/s1600/1+-+Feb.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Bump Feb 2014 - just a few weeks along</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and resulting “zwanger!” line were clear enough. I showed V the test and we both smiled and shook
our heads in belief and disbelief.
Stubborn and successful. He
called and made an appointment with our general practitioner. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So! You come here
because you are pregnant?” our family doctor asks. “Yes,” I smile, a little sheepishly. “This is good news, yes?” she is confused
already. “Oh no. Yes, it is good news.” We say. “You took a test, yes?” Of course.
I nod. “Oh-kay. So. In the Netherlands what we do, is that we
refer you to a midwife. Unless. There is a specific reason for you to see a
gynecologist,” she shrugs and waves her hand.
I’ve heard this before. Midwifes
and home births are very common in the Netherlands. It was the reason that scared me enough into
giving birth to Holden in the United States.
I now know that home births are <b>not</b>
common in the expat community.
“Actually,” I interrupt her dismissive waving hand, “I’ve had two
C-sections.” This grabs her attention.
Natural births are also common in the Netherlands. “Oh okay then. That would be a reason to see a doctor.” She
nods and takes out a pen a paper. Time
to get serious. I’m glad she’s not going
to fight me about this. She interviews
me about the details of my C-sections, my mother’s C-sections, and my sister’s
birth experience. She documents
everything. This is all important to
state my case to see an actual gynecologist.
Whatever it takes. In the end she
says “Oh yes. You have a very special case. You definitely need to see a doctor. Call tomorrow. He should see you in about three weeks.” My brow furrows. <i>Special
case </i>and <i>three weeks</i> do not add
up in my head. That means I won’t see
the doctor until I’m nearly ten weeks along. I feel absolutely horrible, which
of course is a good sign. But I’m
already showing and have questions – is it twins? Is it developing properly? What
about my hCG levels? “Do you want to take my blood or anything?” I ask. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh no!” (Dismissive hand again) “That would be too much trouble to transfer the
results.” The doctor’s office is <i>next door</i> to the hospital which houses
the gyno. “You took a home pregnancy
test, correct?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, of course.” I nod again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Then you’re pregnant.”
She smiles, shakes my hand, and ushers me and my husband to the
door. And with that ‘official’ assessment,
my most courageous or crazy adventure yet, begins. . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Announcement!! I've started my own <a href="https://www.facebook.com/courageousorcrazy?ref=hl" target="_blank">Courageous or Crazy Facebook</a> page. Travel information, interviews, and photos about Real Life in the Netherlands. Click and "like" to follow. </i> <i> <o:p></o:p></i></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-22841011057061818882014-04-08T12:05:00.001-07:002014-04-08T12:10:17.868-07:00Thanksgiving<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 14.979999542236328px;">Note: Yes, I know it's April. . . and it's a post about Thanksgiving. Told you I was behind :) Either way, the next few weeks I'll be posting flashbacks mixed with current events so you'll just have to keep up, Time Travelers Wife style. But isn't it always a good time of year to feel the warm fuzzies of Thanksgiving and Christmas? </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USkmGDURmSU" target="_blank">Thanksgiving (Steven Kellogg)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HU4bzYUw5z8/U0RF3MLflFI/AAAAAAAAAgw/gJgpTWO3xBg/s1600/Thanksgiving+-+Canal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HU4bzYUw5z8/U0RF3MLflFI/AAAAAAAAAgw/gJgpTWO3xBg/s1600/Thanksgiving+-+Canal.JPG" height="428" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monument in Leiden dedicated on the spot where Pilgrims departed for America</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"> “The history of the Netherlands and the USA
come together in Leiden where the Pilgrims lived from 1609 to 1620. Their
marriages, births, and deaths are recorded in the Pieterskerk and their
minister, John Robinson is buried here. The Pilgrims remained in Leiden because
life was free and tolerant. The so
called Separatists who left the England of James I could practice their more
simple faith. They conducted services in the home of Reverend John Robinson,
located opposite the Pieterskerk. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Though life was without objection,
the people began to fear assimilation. For that and other reasons, they
outfitted a 60 ton vessel, The Speedwell, and made plans to depart for “The New
world.” On Friday, July 31<sup>, </sup>1620,
the Pilgrims left from The Vlietburg in Leiden, via the Vliet to Delfshaven
where The Speedwell lay ready. Before embarking, they knelt on the quay and
prayed with their minister who stayed behind. . . Those same people eventually
boarded the Mayflower at Plymouth, England on September 16, 1620. Their arduous
voyage ended at New Plymouth in what is now the state of Massachusetts. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">The following year, to give thanks
for their survival on a wild, endless continent, the Pilgrims, the Separatists from
Leiden, dined with Native Americans at the first Feast of Thanksgiving in a
land that was to become the United States. It is thought that that feast was
inspired by the Thanksgiving Services which took place in the Pieterskerk to
commemorate freedom from Spanish rule in 1574. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">More than three centuries later,
Americans all over the world celebrate Thanksgiving. However, in the City of
Leiden, a very privileged group gives thanks at the site our founders knew so
well. They are welcomed with the same
tolerance bestowed upon The Pilgrims.” – Program, Thanksgiving Day Service, St.
Pieterskerk, Leiden<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I throw open the curtains to find the sun hiding behind low clouds. I open the back door to let the dogs out, and
the rush of cold air awakes my senses.
Although the day is grey, there’s a crispness in the air and I’m feeling
excited and festive (as opposed to gloomy and depressed like I will be in
January). I flip on the lights in the
kitchen and begin my typical morning routine – coffee, kids’ breakfast, and a
mental agenda for the day. I shuffle
groceries to find what I’m looking for and smile with anticipation. The pantry is full, the fridge is stuffed,
and V is home for the holiday. He decided to take both Thanksgiving Thursday
and Black Friday off, even though most of his Dutch co-workers have no clue as
to what either of those events are, and are confused by the prospects. “It’s an
<i>entire</i> holiday to <i>eat</i>?” the pencil-thin men and
skinny-as-a-rail-women ask. “Well yes.
Eat, shop, and watch football,” he replies.
This explanation remains insufficient.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The entire family is dressed, loaded into and onto the
bicycles by 10:00 a.m. The early dress and departure time is a high
irregularity for a Thanksgiving holiday (except for that <i>one </i>time I ran the turkey trot in downtown Dallas.) We pedal down the street. The kids are happy,
I’m happy, and well – if we’re all good, then of course, Daddy is happy,
too. If we can’t be in America for
Thanksgiving, we plan to re-create it as best as we can, expat-style. Taking the best of both worlds - we've got an
entire itinerary, guest list, and menu plan for the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We chain our bikes to each other outside the St. Pieterskerk
in Leiden. I can hear the other Americans yards away, because by now, my ear is
sharply attuned to English-speakers. That, and because they’re <i>very</i> loud. We unload the kids, and no matter how many
times I’ve passed the St. Pieterskerk, I’m still in awe of the size, the
history, and the beauty of the building. Hand-in-hand, we head towards the
castle-like doors and enter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chandeliers glisten, rows fan out from the pulpit, and
ancient columns divide spectator’s views.
I spot the color guard, boy scouts, and Girl Scout troops lined up for a
procession. Everyone is smiling, everyone is in admiration, and everyone is
very, very far away from home. We find
some chairs strategically close to the back and the exit. Our previous
experience with Holden in train stations, museums, or any other number of
beautifully acoustic-enhancing cavernous spaces in Europe has taught us that
our baby boy loves to hear his <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Msjs4zRVvKk/U0RFty1hdEI/AAAAAAAAAgk/2XIzpQ-7r9E/s1600/Pieterskerk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Msjs4zRVvKk/U0RFty1hdEI/AAAAAAAAAgk/2XIzpQ-7r9E/s1600/Pieterskerk.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daddy and Little Man inside St. Pieterskerk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
voice echo, and has a gift for determining an
exact inopportune time to exercise his loud and amazing talent. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The organ begins, the color guard advances, and the entire
audience begins the Pledge of Allegiance. “to the flag, of the United States of
America. . .” My eyes pass quickly to V, the vaulted stone ceilings, the
audience, to my program. “and to the Republic for which it stands. . . “ I feel
like Clark Griswold at his Christmas dining table. I was expecting a blessing, but put my hand
over my heart, and repeat the words I know so well. “With liberty and justice for all!” Amen? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The service continues.
My children grow restless, but I relax into the songs, the speeches, and
find comfort in the service. We sing
“God Bless America”, “America the Beautiful”, and “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” –
the words and music bouncing off the 1,000 year-old stones and raining down on
us, inspiring child-like wonder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Holden lasts eight minutes before V and I start taking turns
chasing him around the back of the church. After forty minutes, we are
accompanied by ten other American parents and about thirteen other children. We
cross-reference our program with the clock, and are disappointed (and shocked)
that the service is only about half-way done after nearly an hour. We eye our two bored and agitated
children. It is a quick decision to
leave and an even quicker execution. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last summer I had stumbled upon a statue around the corner
from the Leiden Archive Center. It’s hidden among shrubs on a tiny, quiet
canal. The plaque commemorates the date and members of the Separatists <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sb2-kBuvs8M/U0RF39MrNiI/AAAAAAAAAg0/scyDGyNSz_Y/s1600/Thanksgiving+Family+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sb2-kBuvs8M/U0RF39MrNiI/AAAAAAAAAg0/scyDGyNSz_Y/s1600/Thanksgiving+Family+%25281%2529.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Americans at the Pilgrim statue on Thanksgiving</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
who left
Leiden on way to America and is erected on the spot in which they stepped
aboard. After the service, we headed
over to snap a few shots. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our way home, we ran into a couple of our friends’. It’s
a funny thing – passing your friends’ while riding bikes. You never see each
other until you’re past, then there’s the inevitable pulling over and backing up,
trying to not block traffic of the other bikes. We’re all sitting on our bikes,
talking to our friend Alexandra, when Erin cycles past. We congregate on a
bridge above a glistening canal. We’re all happy, excited, preparing for the
evening. “What shall I brings?” and “See
you tonights!” are exchanged. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in the kitchen all afternoon – baking, cooking, tasting,
and preparing. The kids watch Charlie
Brown Thanksgiving after nap time. The table is set. The computer is hooked up
to the TV – V’s job is to find a live stream of the Thanksgiving Day
parade. Friends arrive and gather. Wine
is poured, appetizers served, and Baby Girl and I are competing for ‘best
hostess’ award. (She loves parties). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
V is successful and we crowd into the living room to witness
balloons floating above 42<sup>nd</sup> Street in New York City. The timing is
perfect for our Thanksgiving dinner. We eat and eat. (We
don’t have turkey, to the disappointment of our Estonian friends) but we have baked
chicken, sweet potatoes, cranberry salad (that didn’t quite congeal – but Jello
is hard to come by over here), mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, pumpkin bars (mix
imported via Target), muffins, and more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jodi4XQQa4E/U0RGJ6Q1suI/AAAAAAAAAg8/JWg4thZyn6Q/s1600/Thanksgiving+Family+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jodi4XQQa4E/U0RGJ6Q1suI/AAAAAAAAAg8/JWg4thZyn6Q/s1600/Thanksgiving+Family+%25282%2529.JPG" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving dinner in Leiden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We push back our plates, wipe our mouths, and groan with the
happiness. The computer/TV is now streaming the Dallas Cowboys football game
and we’ve moved from the dining table to park ourselves on the couch, sipping
our wine, letting our food settle.
Tradition. Complete. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the evening passes, V and I escort our friends
periodically to the door. We chat as they dress themselves for the cold – hats,
coats, and scarves. We hug each of them goodbye. As the heavy door shuts behind
the last guest, V and I settle onto the couch, in front of the fire, to watch
the 4<sup>th</sup> quarter of the Cowboys Game. We’re in a new place, with new
friends, but celebrated the day with even older traditions. <o:p></o:p></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-91524887076324889772014-04-03T08:19:00.000-07:002014-04-03T08:19:01.924-07:00Stand By Me<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n-_BCGefd3U/Uz12EC-eCbI/AAAAAAAAAcc/-WXID_Yalgw/s1600/NelsonsCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n-_BCGefd3U/Uz12EC-eCbI/AAAAAAAAAcc/-WXID_Yalgw/s1600/NelsonsCopy.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Big Ben from Nelsons Column & National Gallery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vSWHkxZgOI" target="_blank">Stand By Me (John Lennon)</a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
V is hesitant.
“What is it?” I ask. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well. . . I’m supposed to be out of town for work. For three weeks,” he calculates. I gasp. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“But not three weeks straight,” he rushes to reassure.
“Just a few days each week, for three weeks.” He takes a deep breath. Watches
me weigh the news. Waits for the verdict. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0250494/" target="_blank">Elle Woods</a> pep-talk reels through my
head. I’m more than capable of taking care of the kids by myself. I’ve been
doing the full-time Mom gig for quite some time now. I have loads of work to do, friends to call
on, places to go. I’ll still cook,
clean, go to work, bathe the kids, run errands, take them to museums,
pre-school, the farm, etc. I’ll feed the dogs – maybe even take all 5 of us for
a walk to the park. As I remind V when
I’m angry, I don’t <i>need</i> V here to
make things okay. But. In reality.
Everything is just better when he is.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I remember our wedding day. I had dreamed of an outdoor
ceremony on the steps of a gorgeous plantation home outside of Baton Rouge,
Louisiana. As the hour grew nearer – the rain and the tears flowed. We had planned
to take photos together before the ceremony (to expedite our arrival to the
party, naturally). He was dressed in his tux, ready for photos, and arrived at
the bridal suite. A soft knock. In between sobs, I opened the door, and he
stood there – shyly smiling at me. We embraced, I put my weepy head on his
shoulder, and as my mom recalls, “You just calmed down as soon as you saw him.
He just made everything better.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Three weeks.
Alright. I can do this. “Good news is,” V starts. (Ah – he’s learning.
Bad news then give me the carrot to keep me motivated and happy.) “The good
news is that I’m going to London. So I thought it would be nice if we all went
up the weekend before.” (Hum. <i>Nice
carrot</i>.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Sounds good to me! Let’s do it!” I gleam. Three weeks of stress are pushed to
the back of my mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I had bought Baby Girl a London ABC book last spring when
I had visited. It’s the type that says
“C is for Crown Jewels, P is for Piccadilly Circus.” It’s cute. It’s educational. And we’ve been reading it for a year. We’ve watched Disney’s Peter Pan movie and
gleam as Wendy and her brothers fly around Big Ben. I knew she’d get a kick out of going to a
place where everyone “<i>spoke English” – </i>her
first excited observation after landing at <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2014/01/torn-in-two.html" target="_blank">DFW last fall</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PjfFf2urio/Uz12WuDFZGI/AAAAAAAAAc4/DNqYbUUX_Ng/s1600/MeandkidsBB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PjfFf2urio/Uz12WuDFZGI/AAAAAAAAAc4/DNqYbUUX_Ng/s1600/MeandkidsBB.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kids and I by the River Thames</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We book our flights, reserve the apartment using Air
B&B, and start planning our visit. I
knew it was going to be lovely, with one small logistical caveat. Considering the infrastructure of the city and
our plans to see it via undergrounds without lifts, buses, and taxis – the big
double stroller just isn't feasible. Baby Girl would walk while Little Man rode in
the single stroller, but inevitably she’d get tired, and we’d have to switch. Little Man, though – doesn't walk. He either runs (usually in the opposite
direction) or doesn't move. He throws himself on the ground. He refuses to hold your hand. He begs to be carried, then struggles to get down if you do. I see Dutch children half his age walking through shopping streets calmly. All. The. Time. And I just can’t help but glare. We used to carry him on our backs, but between my subsequent chiropractor visits and the promise of having a wriggly, uncooperative child on your <i>back</i>, as
opposed to the ground, we just gave up on that idea, too. Nevertheless, I knew, for the duration of the
trip – we’d be OK. Everything is better
with V there. With a 2-to-2 ratio of
kids to parents, even a tired walking one or a screaming wriggle one – we’d
survive. I was nervous, though. Seeing as V was going for work, I’d be flying
back to the Netherlands by myself with the two kids. Getting to the airport would be okay, the
flight would probably be fine, but it was the train journey from AMS to our
home that worried me. I’d have at least
one suitcase to roll, a stroller to push, a purse and a diaper bag to carry –
and two kids. No hands or arms would be
left for Baby Girl. As we pack the
London ABC book into our carryon for our flight the next morning, I smile at my
nearly 4-year old. Hopefully, we’ll be
able to do it all – the promise of a great weekend is too strong to say no.</div>
<br />
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After a whirl-wind morning, we arrive in London Heathrow
and both kids fall asleep at baggage claim.
Baby Girl in the stroller, and Little Man in my arms. I eye V.
“Well – what do we do now?” he asks. “We wait.” I smile – and settle myself as
comfortably as I can on the bench and watch a carrousel rotate for half an hour. Little Man is the first to wake, and we throw
him on top of the luggage cart to wheel him through immigration. Lunch and a train ride follows. Our first stop on the Heathrow Express –
Paddington Station. The little girl in
me giggles at the thought. “Just like
the book – Paddington Bear!” V stares at me, uncomprehending. “Okay – we’re buying a copy while we’re
here. You’re clearly missing out.” I
reassure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VVUxgDOl66c/Uz12SmxdglI/AAAAAAAAAco/Wm2v-iJ2iAQ/s1600/BforBigBen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VVUxgDOl66c/Uz12SmxdglI/AAAAAAAAAco/Wm2v-iJ2iAQ/s1600/BforBigBen.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">B is for Big Ben</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We discover London is in the middle of a tube strike the
day we arrive. Rain is falling, traffic
is at a gridlock, and we’re in an expensive taxi on our way to a home south of
Cricklewood Station. We arrive at an
adorable house with a lovely hostess – but I’m a little turned-off/freaked out by
the fact that we’re sharing a bathroom with the hostess and her husband. (Thanks for the fine print AirB&B? Or perhaps V just missed the detail – either
way, I think we’ll be sticking to our tried-and-true FlipKey in the future.) The tube strike has motivated us to learn the
bus system; however, as we head south on the double-decker red bus, the traffic
forces us to cut our journey short. We
see “H is for Hyde Park” from the corner and head down Oxford Street - gawking
at the size of the glittering stores, and the fact that they’re <i>open</i> at 7:00 p.m. (Ah, Netherlands – what have you done to
us?) We find the nearest Wagamama – our
out-of-town favorite – and recharge. We
feast on spicy noodles and edamame and the yummy goodness turns the evening
around. Riding the wave of positive
energy, we exit the restaurant happy – ignorant of the puddles and drizzle –
and head straight to the Disney Store. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The next morning, the sun is shining – the tube strike is
over, and we take the Underground to the Westminster Station. Baby Girl and Little Man take turns reading
the ABC book on the tube. When we pop
out of the underground, I recognize the building in front of us. “But where is. . .” I trail off. Then I look up. “Oh! There it is!” I exclaim to Baby
Girl. “Look! There’s Big Ben, right above us!” and she
screams with excitement. “Mama! Mama!
There’s Big Ben!” (and yes, I know Big
Ben is technically the bell inside <o:p></o:p></div>
the tower, etc. but let’s just go with the
ABC book and 3-year-old excitement for a bit).
We snap photos<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_dAYE1p6bdk/Uz12dIyO4NI/AAAAAAAAAdI/Uvm0gOCi3Nw/s1600/TrainDowntonAbbey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_dAYE1p6bdk/Uz12dIyO4NI/AAAAAAAAAdI/Uvm0gOCi3Nw/s1600/TrainDowntonAbbey.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Transportation Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and continue our quest
for more sights – the London Eye, the Tower of London, and Nelson’s column. We tour the <a href="http://www.ltmuseum.co.uk/" target="_blank">London Transport Museum</a>, which is
the biggest hit of the trip being both interactive for the kids and educational
for V and me. I imagine we’re characters
in Downton Abbey as we duck in and out of the antique train cars. We climb to the top of wobbly double-decker
buses. The kids pretend to drive V and I
through the streets of London in taxis and trams equipped with moving
television screens and steering wheels.
We exit the museum, pleased with the investment of time and money, and
then cash in all our American chips and eat dinner at TGIFridays.<br />
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bB1jfEhNHZs/Uz12YGv-i8I/AAAAAAAAAdA/2i-HefQY8dE/s1600/TforTowerBridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bB1jfEhNHZs/Uz12YGv-i8I/AAAAAAAAAdA/2i-HefQY8dE/s1600/TforTowerBridge.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T is for Tower Bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The rest of the weekend we spend visiting friends <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/04/big-parade.html" target="_blank">visiting friends</a> and
shopping at <a href="http://www.marksandspencer.com/" target="_blank">Marks and Spencer</a>. The shop attendant is unable to provide me the
pair of shoes I’d like in my size. “Oh my, I’m so terribly sorry. So sorry. Perhaps we can order them and ship
them to you. Again, I’m very terribly sorry.”
I am awe-filled at the apparition of the polite British stereotype
before my eyes. I am surprised that I
have become accustomed to Dutch-grunt-of-service-stereotype. “It’s fine! It’s fine! No need to apologize!
I live out of town – it won’t be necessary, thank you for trying!” I panic to soothe <i>her</i> nerves in response. I want to pat her shoulder. Tell her to chin
up. I haven’t felt such compassion for a
stranger in years. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sunday. Departure
day. We awake. Take turns with the
hostess and husband for shower time. We
pack. Eat breakfast in their kitchen. We retrace our steps: taxi, Paddington
Station, Heathrow Airport. I sit across
from V sipping a cup of Costa coffee. The
kids are relatively calm, but I make anxious glances at the security line. “You’ll be fine, right?” He reflects my
nervousness. “I’ll miss you all.” I nod.
I’m sad. The time
approaches. “Baby Girl, will you hold on
the stroller while I push Little Man?” I
ask. “Yes, Mama.” She says and grabs
hold. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We weave through the ropes. I hand the security agent our
boarding passes. V watches everything. “Look!
Look! There’s my Daddy!” Baby Girl commands the agent’s attention. The aging large woman smiles and all four of
us wave to V.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We approach the gate – Baby Girl shuffling alongside the
stroller clutching her stuffed rabbit.
Boarding passes. Down the ramp
please. Leave the pram at the curve in
the jet bridge. I unload Little
Man. They run the length of the ramp
while I fold the stroller and juggle purse, diaper bag, and boarding
passes. They walk themselves down the
aisle. We find our seats. They climb up. “<i>This</i>
is how you do it!” Baby Girl instructs her brother how to buckle an airplane
seat belt. I thank her and assist him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Little Man will need more time before he
understands “all electronic devices must be stowed” rule ten minutes before
landing. (Cue massive melt-down when
LeapPad was turned off) but other than that – the kids were quiet and
entertained themselves for the length of the flight. Landed. Parked. I wait until all other
passengers are past our seats before I attempt to move. “Do you need help?” a woman passenger asks, “I know
what it’s like to travel with two kids by myself,” she says in way of an
explanation. “No, no – I’m fine.” I
say. Go girl-power. We waddle down the aisle, passing empty
chairs as we go. “Do you need help?” the
KLM stewardess asks. “No, no – I’m fine.”
I repeat. I round the corner and meet a
blast of cold air and a metal staircase cascading to the tarmac. “Oh!
That’s a surprise!” I had
expected the comfort of a jet bridge – silly me. With Little Man on my hip, bags dangling from
my shoulders, I grasp Baby Girl’s hand and we tromp down the stairs. A shuttle waits – curiosity outweighing
impatience as it eyes its last passengers.
The collapsed stroller lays at the bottom of the stairs. A dutiful baggage attendant stands guarding
my lonely buggy. Cement stretches.
Planes roar. My eyes dart from shuttle to stroller to children. Quick decision is required - I need help. “Hi – would you mind holding her hand?” The bored
baggage attendant snaps to attention, eager for this temporary promotion. “Of course, ma’am.” And with a seamless grace, I balance Little
Man, bags, scoop to the ground, and open the stroller with one hand. We roll behind Baggage Man and Baby Girl
towards the staring shuttle bus. He cradles
her hand as she accomplishes the final step and we follow. “She’s very good,” the man says and I
breathe. Nod a thank you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Immigration, baggage claim, customs – Baby Girl holds the
stroller as I roll our suitcase, push the stroller, and carry bags. Little Man falls asleep. Elevator down to train platform. Up, onto the train – Baby Girl, stroller, bags
and me – three swift movements. Sit on
the train. Watch the Dutch landscape
pass by the windows. Read Paddington
Bear twice before arriving at Leiden Centraal Station. Doors whisk open – Baby Girl (stay here
sweetie!), stroller, bags. Stares from
towering Dutch people waiting to board.
Down the elevator, out of the train station. Crosswalk. Sidewalk. Cross walk. Sidewalk. Our street. Relief.
I look down at the tiny girl who has traveled countries with me - Planes,
shuttles, trains, sidewalks – in the span of an hour. I’m overwhelmed with our success. “Honey, I’m so proud of you!” I say to her –
tears in my eyes. “I’m proud of you too,
Mama” she says – and one spills over. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SIfe1KfId_o/Uz12V0MyZWI/AAAAAAAAAcw/zUO9GLi8o-8/s1600/EisforEye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SIfe1KfId_o/Uz12V0MyZWI/AAAAAAAAAcw/zUO9GLi8o-8/s1600/EisforEye.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E is for London Eye</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-13097997405056026432014-01-28T14:26:00.003-08:002014-01-28T14:33:50.189-08:00A Little Party Never Killed Nobody<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXLAHlgdYco" target="_blank">A Little Party Never Killed Nobody (Fergie)</a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>“Well I don’t care, he gives large parties and I like
large parties, they’re so intimate. Small parties there isn’t any privacy.”
Jordan Baker, The Great Gatsby.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> </i><i>“Alone. . . and a little embarrassed. . . I decided to
get roaring drunk,” Nick Carraway, The Great Gatsby.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It had been a stressful few weeks. A stressful few months, actually. We had squeezed a month’s worth of work into
two weeks before our departure to the states. The trip was hectic, the return
was worse. Our daughter refused to go to bed before 2:00 a.m. for a week and a
half. Our son was up at 6:00 a.m. Their
bodies were hungry at abnormal times.
Jet-lag as an adult is harsh. Jet-lag as an adult with two kids is just.
. . well, there are few words. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At the time, we’re still getting adjusted back to life in
the Netherlands – piles of laundry are slowly getting washed. The empty
cupboard is becoming filled with non-perishables. The mountain of mail that greeted us on the floor
of our foyer when we arrived is becoming more of a pile. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
V comes home and tells me his work is hosting a party. “Yeah, apparently, every employee of my company is
invited. All the branches in <i>the Netherlands</i>. My co-workers at lunch said there’s only
three places in <i>the country</i> that
could hold that many people,” he’s leaning against the hutch in the kitchen, staring
at the mess our backyard had become during our absence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m at the stove cooking dinner. The kids are running around screaming. I’m listening with half an ear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“What? What does
that even mean? What kind of party is
this?” I strain over the screeches. Drain the pasta. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“I don’t know.
They’re being pretty secretive about it. They said the dress code is
‘colorful – it’s your party’.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his wine. I’m becoming increasingly irritated. My To Do list is long enough. A party?
This does not fit into my agenda.
Plus, I hate walking into a social event not knowing what to expect. I
like to know what I’m supposed to wear. I hate surprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“So, is this when I finally meet the <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/02/man-of-constant-sorrow.html" target="_blank">Tasmanian Devil</a>?” I
ask, pretending to look at the bright side. V
doesn’t catch the sarcasm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Yes, he’ll be there, I’m sure. He has to be.
It’s all. . . part of it, you know?” he shrugs. I spent 4 ½ years in public
accounting. I know the requirements of
playing the game. At least, in
retrospect I do, after failing to learn them in the beginning. "You must attend
all firm-sponsored social functions" is one of the more enjoyable rules. I nod and start creating costume options in
my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Weeks later, we say goodbye to our sitter and apologize
for our daughter’s increasingly ornery, uh, mischievous behavior. “It’s just a work party. We may not even find
anyone we know.” V shrugs. I eye him suspiciously. I hate surprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Yeah, we’ve been so tired. We’ll probably be back before
midnight,” I chime in. Puzzle pieces are all over the floor. My daughter, in footed pajamas refuses to
give us a hug and kiss goodbye. Until we
pretend to leave. Then she stops us and
demands multiple hugs and kisses. And
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m wearing shoes not made for walking. I have flats-to-go in my purse purchased at a
convenience store in New York City when I was pregnant with Little Man. We board the train headed north to Schiphol
airport. We switch at AMS and take
another train to our destination – Heineken Music Hall. We exit the train and station, a little
disillusioned, but follow another couple smartly dressed with expensive heels. They know the way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Back in Dallas, V and I had attended a Christmas party
hosted by his work at the American Airlines Center in December 2011, right
before our move to the Netherlands. It
was a pleasant affair. Cocktails and
appetizers were served in a large, carpeted lobby under sparkling fixture
lights. Music softly twinkled from the
speakers overhead. There were a few tuxedoed
waiters circling. We had a couple glasses of wine, chatted with many people
about our upcoming move, and left with the other guests at a respectable hour
of 10:00 p.m. V and I closed the evening
by sipping an overpriced cocktail at the quiet W Hotel Ghost Bar overlooking
downtown Dallas as a farewell to our Dallas life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fx7W3SIdnzU/UugsyyVFSII/AAAAAAAAAb8/gLeupzOGx20/s1600/Heineken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fx7W3SIdnzU/UugsyyVFSII/AAAAAAAAAb8/gLeupzOGx20/s1600/Heineken.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heineken Music Hall - Amsterdam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We exit the drizzle into the Heineken Music Hall in
Amsterdam, blinded by fluorescent lighting bouncing off tiled floors. Large, silent bouncers nod at the tickets and
jerk their heads towards the stairs. The
walls pulsate with rhythmic activity. My
eyes are wide. I hate surprises. I grasp Vinny’s hand and we weave ourselves
through the throngs of people on the concrete steps in search of the coat
check. We climb to the top of the venue
and deposit our coats. I take a deep
breath and we edge towards the doors leading into the concert hall. Vinny reaches for the handle, pauses, and
shoots me a quizzical eyebrow. The heavy
metal doors unleash the madness within. The rush of sound came at us like a train. We gingerly step up to landing and survey the
scene racing before us. From our birds
eye perspective the rows of seats cascade to the floor. Hoards of people mingle and gyrate between
tall table tops which are illuminated by single jarred candles and the flashing
lights of the stage. My eyes shoot to
the stage itself, which holds enough lights to host a U2 concert. A musical
artist screams into the microphone while employees are whipped above the stage
- a blinking, wild carnival ride is erected behind the band. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3150793468826864481" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y4UCLlC2GcA/UugsDjylZnI/AAAAAAAAAbs/X7j3aNdbRxM/s1600/EYParty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y4UCLlC2GcA/UugsDjylZnI/AAAAAAAAAbs/X7j3aNdbRxM/s1600/EYParty.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Work Party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“It’s like an amusement park!” I whispered to Vinny. My eyes are wide. My chin is on the floor. He tentatively reaches for my elbow. “Are you okay?” he asks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Um. Yes. I doubt we’ll find the Tasmanian Devil, huh?”
I pause, blinking at the “office party” we are attending. “I doubt we’ll find <i>anyone</i> you know, huh?” I whisper with
awe. I pull my attention from the
flashing lights and stare at him. The
last time we’d been to a party this big was the Bacchus Mardi Gras Ball in
2005. “I think. I think I’m going to just sit here for a
second.” And I ease myself into a plastic seat in the nose-bleed section of the
concert hall. “Can you get us a drink?” I ask.
“Of course!” and like an eager puppy (or an LSU alumni), he hot-foots it
to the nearest concession stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
With a little liquid courage we venture back out into the
grand hall. There is a lounge quartet
singing. The tamer crowd with luxurious
smiles are mingling amongst the brush strokes of the jazz drummer. V spotted a few men he recognizes and we
meander over. “Engles spreken! Engles
spreken!” they announce playfully. And thus,
the conversation continues in a language we understand. We talk about how much we’ve enjoyed the
experience in the Netherlands and other general small talk. The white-haired man on our right rolls his
eyes and mumbles about the cost of the party.
The dark-haired man on our left starts asking about my career. I explained that I had experience in public
accounting, but am now I am a full-time mother (with a part-time job). “Oh, yes. Yes. My wife is also a full-time mother. On some days, she calls me about 6:00,
yes? And she says ‘You need to be home <i>now</i> or else I am going to kill one of
our two children!’” he laughs. “Yes?” he
says, asking for my approval. “Yes,
that’s very true. Very funny.” (My
English becomes worse as I speak – like my Texas accent coming out when talking
to my Dad, but at the same time, I’m happy motherhood is a cross-cultural
experience.) We all smile, laugh and we
say goodbye. As we near the floor-level entrance
of the concert hall Vinny explains, “Yes, those two men were Partners.” (In
other words, the highest of the food chain.)
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Partners? Wait! What? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, smoothing my dress and reiterating
our entire conversation at lightning speed through my head. What did I say? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Nah, I didn’t want you to know. I’d rather you just be you - your sparkling
self.” And he kisses me on the cheek.
“Oh whatever,” I roll my eyes, but smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
With fresh plastic wine glasses, we head towards the back
of the venue. The invitation announced
‘snacks would be provided’ but as we traverse through the concession area, we
encounter twenty food trucks parked at the back of the venue. The wares they are peddling range from French
delicacies, to sushi, to sliders. We already had dinner. The queues weave
between each other like a loosely knit sweater.
The sight of them was enough. We
venture into the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We spot the couple we followed from the train. I
compliment her on her shoes. We walk further to the depths, towards the lights,
and into the claustrophobic mania. We
see <b>no one</b> V recognizes and come out
the other side. We’ve been to Dutch
events before – Queen’s Day, Christmas Eve service at St. Pieterskerk, among
others – but for the first time, we were actually invited to one! THIS is my husband’s work party. I relish a bit in the thought of being
somewhere we’re supposed to be - amongst a crowd of Dutchies. And for a few seconds, I realize – that we
are somewhere – 5,000 miles away from Texas, that we <i>belong</i>. I get really excited
at this fact. We re-group (grab another
drink) and dive in again. Second time
around, we find them – his co-workers! We scream greetings above the music. I meet.
Finally. The Tasmanian Devil and
wife. He’s wearing a frown and a plaid
collared button-down shirt. And
everything else about him is just as unassuming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UQhQWngsZf8/UugsudHX19I/AAAAAAAAAb4/huf22We29ew/s1600/Humberto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UQhQWngsZf8/UugsudHX19I/AAAAAAAAAb4/huf22We29ew/s1600/Humberto.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Humberto Tan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The music is loud, the crowd is wild, and we’re screaming
above it all, trying to make conversation at the <i>only</i> chance I’ll ever have to meet some of these co-workers. There’s the Dutch-equivalent of Sheryl Crow
on stage singing along with the Dutch-equivalent of Jay-Z. “Ja! So!
Let’s go!” one of the 7-foot tall co-workers grabs my arm and is
ushering us towards the stage. “What?!”
I shout, confused. “Ja! So! We must have
a photo with Humberto Tan.” (Dutch-equivalent of David Letterman). <i> Hotsy-Totsy Paparazzi, Hold on while I take
this pic</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We dance more. V tells me we need to go, but I’m having
the <i>time of my life</i>. He easily acquiesces. He loves parties. We dance. We sing. Everyone around us is carrying trays of
Heineken to their parties. Full glasses
are left on the tall tables. The floor
is slick with beer. As the musicians
begin their encore, V and I head to the exit.
Between my heels-not-made-for-walking and dangerously slick floor, I
slip, or rather – I drop. I cover my
lovely dress in beer funkiness. I pop
back up like a firecracker. A little
party never killed nobody.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We grab out coats and exit into the mist. We race to the train platform with the
others. At this late hour, the regular
trains have been cancelled and we take an annoying scenic tour through
Amsterdam Centraal. We try to brag to our train mates about meeting Humberto
Tan. “Do you know this guy?! Isn’t he famous?!” we challenge as we wave
V’s iPhone in front of them. “Uh. Yeah.”
They shrug. This country is so
small. I guess meeting the Dutch
David-Letterman equivalent is like meeting a high school class president. They <i>do</i>
admire my American-imported flats-to-go, though. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We enter our home and I spout apologies to our
sitter. “Don’t worry honey.” V
interludes. “I already texted her and
she said it was fine. I’m glad you had a
good time.” He ushers her out the door,
and he kisses me again. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Photo Credit: Heineken Music Hall, Sigur Ros</i></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-67910609980773901172014-01-26T14:53:00.000-08:002014-01-26T14:53:36.083-08:00Torn in Two<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<a href="http://val.fm/torn-in-two-ray-wylie-hubbard-mp3/" target="_blank">Torn in Two (Ray Wylie Hubbard)</a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Alright, alright.
So. Truth confession-time. I’m behind on my blog. Yup. I
said it. I am. Looking back on 2013 ‘aspirations’ my goals
were to post at least three times per month, and you, dear readers, can see I
fell short. Accept the excuse or not. .
. but my little job with Expatica takes precedent in the timeslot in which I
cram my entire adult life into the hours
post-kids-going-to-bed-pre-my-bedtime. Even though,
we stay up late<span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-size: 8.0pt;"> </span></span>. I’m behind on my TV watching as well, if that
makes you feel better. (And for those of
you who’d like a little courageous or crazy daily, please like <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ExpaticaInternational" target="_blank">Expatica</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ExpaticaNetherlands" target="_blank">ExpaticaNL</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ExpaticaBelgium" target="_blank">ExpaticaBE</a>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ExpaticaFrance" target="_blank">ExpaticaFR</a>, etc. etc. on your FB page or
follow Expatica, ExpaticaCH, ExpaticaDE, ExpaticaES on Twitter – add wink,
smile and a little nudge in the ribs. I am. The guy, behind the guy, behind the
guy.) Just kidding. Enough of all that
corporate promoting. Back to real
life. Me. Family. And my continued
journey in the Netherlands and all the fumbling and excitement that ensues.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
January 1,
2014. The original contract my husband
signed with his job expired December 31, 2013.
SO. That means, we’ve been given the gift of time here in the
Netherlands. Whoo hoo! We’ll see. I know I’ll instinctively let my
mind wander and wonder to what I would have been back in Texas. . . sun.
Warmth. Friends. Family. Or continue on accessorizing my wardrobe with scarves
and funky hats with “new” friends that are edging their way towards junior
year-status. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But
anyway. Looking back, we survived our
trip back to the States in November and endured the suffering aftermath. Sounds dramatic. It was.
Nah, but until you’ve done it. . . I can’t expect anyone to understand
what traveling through time-zones with two toddlers does to them and you as a
parent. I’d love to go into it, but I’ll
spare you the gory details. Either
you’ve done it and you know, or you haven’t and you don’t care. Please suffice to say, if you were up for 10
days straight until 2 or 3:00 a.m. (ahem, with one child) and up again at 6:00
a.m. (with the other) you’d probably be a little insane and vow to never put
yourself or your children through the agony again. Just kidding. Not really.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
During my <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012_11_01_archive.html" target="_blank">family's first trip back</a> to the States in 2012, ten months after our move, we were crazy with
happiness. My husband, children, and I
immersed ourselves in the American culture like a warm bath after trekking
through a freezing winter rainstorm. We indulged ourselves on fast food,
shopped as if we were out of style, and glued ourselves to the TV, connecting
with our old pals – Kirk Herbstreit, Robin Roberts, and David Letterman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Our second trip
back, almost two years after we made the Netherlands our home, was quite
different. With the confidence I gained
throughout the additional year – making friends, finding a job, establishing
myself in the community, and finding my identity as an expat – I felt a little
uneasy in America. I looked at old things with a curious perspective. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a8izLo-VP8g/UuWMm0FrG5I/AAAAAAAAAa8/I7ts88pOhns/s1600/Nicholas+Eckhart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a8izLo-VP8g/UuWMm0FrG5I/AAAAAAAAAa8/I7ts88pOhns/s1600/Nicholas+Eckhart.jpg" height="145" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grocery Stores - in America</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fT1XbGH2SRE/UuWNTVZ9sZI/AAAAAAAAAbE/8Ng_XbCyCIo/s1600/manwithface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fT1XbGH2SRE/UuWNTVZ9sZI/AAAAAAAAAbE/8Ng_XbCyCIo/s1600/manwithface.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange Juice - in America</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Nikki and I park the car and are in the middle of a grocery store in America. My <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012_10_01_archive.html" target="_blank">college roommate and best friend</a> squints
her eyes and leans towards the refrigerated rows of plastic, cardboard, and
glass containers. Happy oranges, green
fonts, and sunshiny citrus groves smile and wave back to her – begging for
attention. I cock my head, observing this carefully calculated marketing
exchange with amusement. She stands
upright and faces me with disbelief marked on her face. “They are out of the Minute Maid medium pulp
orange juice with the plastic handle in family size!” The thousands of orange
juice jugs sigh with disappointment behind her.
I raise an eyebrow. She turns and grabs a jug off the middle shelf and
throws it into the pick-up truck sized grocery cart. She steers the 4-wheeled monster towards the
impossibly long canned goods aisle. I
suppress a giggle. But not well enough.
With a friendship of fifteen years between us, nothing slips past. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“What? What are you laughing at?” she pointedly asks
me, a tug of a smile on her lips. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Do you <i>know</i> what kind of orange juice I’ve been
drinking for two years?” I reflect her stance, hands on hips, as a playful
challenge is dancing a jig on the shiny tiled floor between us. Pop music is bouncing off the walls of this
arena-sized store. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Orange
juice. Just orange juice,” I say with a
smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
She shakes her
head and returns to the task at hand. “There they are. We have <i>dark red</i> kidney beans at home. I needed <i>light
red</i> ones. This will be
perfect.” She nods with
satisfaction. I roll my eyes. We both
laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After our
journey, I created a list to compare the conflicted feelings I had upon our
second return home. The familiar had
become unfamiliar. Was I losing my American identity? Was I out of touch with
my roots? Did I prefer Europe to the good ol’ USA? Perhaps. But then, after dipping a toe in the
water, I’d find my subconscious take over.
I’d fall in and redeem myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Top 10 Signs You’ve Embraced Your European Life (and 10
ways you know you’re still American!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->All five of your senses are violently assaulted
the moment you enter a Bath and Body Works.
Your eyes are blinded by sparkle and color. Your ears aren’t tuned to
receive cheerful Christmas music. In November.
Like a mouse, you hide from the chipper store attendant who tactically
approaches you with three different hand lotion samples. And a bag. (Redemption:
After a deep breath and shooing the shop attendant away, you fall victim
to the buy two get one free sale. You return back to Europe with enough body
lotion, shower gel, and aromatherapy bubble bath to last a year.)</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j4_nbwmBOvs/UuWPDNXAe9I/AAAAAAAAAbU/aKtDzSgY9Tc/s1600/bargainmoose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j4_nbwmBOvs/UuWPDNXAe9I/AAAAAAAAAbU/aKtDzSgY9Tc/s1600/bargainmoose.jpg" height="268" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sensory Explosion!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You marvel at the size of American cars, the
roads, the parking lots. You are amazed
parking lots <i>even</i> <i>exist</i> for <i>free</i>. (Redemption: You fly down the highway, at 80 MPH belting out
the lyrics to Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” because you’re in your private
bubble of transport instead of sitting in the silent car on the NS train.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You absent-mindedly chirp a happy “Dank u wel!”
to the Chick-Fil-A teenage employee as he hands you your number 1 combo
meal. His eyebrows furrow, you catch
your mistake, but not before he’s already helping the next customer with
conveyer-belt efficiency. (Redemption: You eat your Chick-Fil-A sandwich (with
pickles!), fries and coke at a dawdling consumption rate, matching the
painstakingly slow pace set by most Dutch restaurant employees.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You double-check with your hostess to ensure you
can both shower <i>at the same time</i> in
two <i>separate</i> bathrooms without the
hot water running out. (Redemption: You
take the longest, hottest, most exquisitely fabulous shower of your adult
life. Complete with shower gel from Bath
and Body Works.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You become increasingly confused by new kids’
culture icons: Elf on the Shelf, Doc McStuffins, or Wreck-It Ralph? (Redemption: You get <i>excited</i> when your three-year-old daughter finds and watches
Aristocats, one of your childhood favorites, on the transatlantic flight. You get <i>really
excited</i> when she watches three times in a row so you can watch The Great
Gatsby uninterrupted). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Your brain becomes confused at the bacon options
at Kroger. You have trouble finding a loaf of bread that challenges the
freshness you’re used to. Your jaw drops at the price of a golf-ball sized
piece of Gouda cheese. (Redemption: You kiss the ground upon entering Target.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You step off the plane after your transatlantic
flight sporting a jacket, boots, and jeans.
Everyone else around you is wearing shorts and sandals. You sweat as you enter the rental car bus and
make friends with the Hungarian driver.
(Redemption: You run to Old Navy, buy a cheap pair of flip flops, and
head to the local (clean, licensed!) salon to get a mani-pedi.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Your primary news sources for your college
football team are Facebook posts from your friends and e-mails from your Dad.
(Redemption: You dress your kids in American-imported college t-shirts and stay
up until the wee hours of the morning cheering your Alma mater to its first
conference championship). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You find yourself subconsciously listening to <i>every strangers’</i> conversation around you
because it’s in English. (Redemption: You drive to Half Price Books and stock
up on children’s stories in English, and a few for yourself.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d1_gt2POFa0/UuWQWbPWiAI/AAAAAAAAAbc/qEaQQqeva7g/s1600/Texas+Truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d1_gt2POFa0/UuWQWbPWiAI/AAAAAAAAAbc/qEaQQqeva7g/s1600/Texas+Truck.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Real Texas Truck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You determinedly walk across the parking lot because
you think it’s ridiculous to drive to a store you can <i>see</i>. No matter if the
parking is free. (Redemption: You nearly
get run over by an unsuspecting Ford F150 truck, sweat through your jeans in
the Texas October heat, but you’ve got the bath and body works sweet pea splash
to refresh yourself after your trip to Half Price Books.) </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
Photo Credits (Kroger, Nicholas Eckhart, Flickr. Orange Juice, Manwithface, Flickr, Bath&Body Works, www.bargainmoose.ca<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
</div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-22378497683613887432014-01-11T12:36:00.000-08:002014-01-11T15:08:42.876-08:00In My Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zicw_dVwhfM" target="_blank">In My Life (The Beatles)</a></div>
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My husband and I strategically
set the alarm for 6:15 a.m. The
computer has been quietly humming throughout the evening, unaccustomed to its
place of honor by our bedside. We awake
with unusual gusto. Like small children
on Christmas morning, Vinny and I are alight with excitement. Before the sleep is rubbed out of our eyes,
the computer is on the bed, glowing in the European morning darkness, and we
await our debut. Children still nestled
snug in their beds, we are hoping our early morning efforts will result in an
uninterrupted viewing we’ve been waiting months to see. Our breath catches as we see the De Valk
Windmill spinning, images of ourselves hand-in-hand walking on our street, and
then. . . as the narrator starts to flash images of Vinny’s baby photos on the
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fVL3iQ2yuY/UtGi8cCTz9I/AAAAAAAAAaU/ZJoOtC2y_Yg/s1600/Vinny+-+baby+photo+DSC_1252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8fVL3iQ2yuY/UtGi8cCTz9I/AAAAAAAAAaU/ZJoOtC2y_Yg/s1600/Vinny+-+baby+photo+DSC_1252.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vinny as a baby in the Netherlands</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
screen, we hear him. Holden. Screaming.
Our breath exhales. Shoulders
deflate. Weary eyes meet each other’s, then pass to the clock. 6:18 a.m.
With a sigh and a shrug, Vinny flips his feet over the bed and pads to
Holden’s tiny room. The stomach-bug circulating through the Netherlands has not
escaped our household. Holden’s crib, sheets, pajamas, and teddy bear are covered
in vomit. Cosette, upon hearing the commotion in her brother’s room, begins crying
from the next room. Vinny and I divide and conquer. He attends to Holden and I
enter Cosette’s pink-curtained room to comfort her. <br />
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I imagined my friends in Dallas,
quietly putting their children to bed. Opening a chilled bottle of wine, and
nestling with their spouses on their deep slip-covered sofas to watch our
episode at 9:30 p.m. CST. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At 6:25 a.m., a bath is given. The
washing machine is loaded. The six of us
(dogs included) pile into our bedroom.
The show begins again. “Mama!
Mama! Mama!” Cosette shouts as she sees me on the screen. “DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY” Holden chirps. The dogs jump and place their front paws on
the bed to compete for attention. Our
bedroom is pitch-black, the sun won’t rise for another two hours. Vinny and I gaze at each other above the
heads of our children as the unheard commentary and unseen images stream on the
computer before us. With a sigh and a
shrug, we catch interrupted glimpses of ourselves on the internationally
acclaimed television show House Hunters International. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our
incredibly journey lead to this. How did
I find myself, a native Texan, in a bedroom in Leiden, the Netherlands? How were my small children, both born at
Medical City at Forrest and 75, watching themselves on international
television? Credit must be given to an
accounting degree (from Baylor University), our dogs (Tyler & Dash), and my
husband (not a native Texan). <o:p></o:p></div>
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I graduated from Baylor University
in 2001, a simple two-hour drive down I-35 from my hometown of Plano,
Texas. At the time, it was ‘far enough
and close enough’ to home. I brought my
freshman welcome group home for a slumber party my first month. I attended my
Mom’s Pampered Chef parties mid-week, and drove back to Waco as the sun rose. After five years, I graduated with a handful
of friends I’d keep a lifetime, memories of cheering for really bad football,
and a Masters of Accountancy. After four
and a half years in public accounting, I landed my dream job as an internal
audit position for American <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JXStlV19ruY/UtGkjN74FVI/AAAAAAAAAao/fHtTSm7-08I/s1600/Brasil+434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JXStlV19ruY/UtGkjN74FVI/AAAAAAAAAao/fHtTSm7-08I/s1600/Brasil+434.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AA Audit team in Rio de Janiero, Brazil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Airlines. I
basically flew around the world auditing the different locations the airline
flew to. It was a fun, eye-opening, and
addictive job. <br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
At the time, I lived in Addison Circle
with my dog, Tyler. I loved it –
Addison, the community feel, the fact that there was a restaurant and bar
downstairs from my apartment. I was
enjoying the single life, just me and my dog – then I saw them: Vinny and
Dash. Dash was just a puppy and I
totally fell for the old trick. Buying a
puppy to meet girls? Yup, I’m that
girl. Vinny and I dated for three years
before we were engaged. Tyler and Dash
walked down the aisle at our wedding. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Vinny grew up outside of New
Orleans and graduated from LSU in Baton Rouge.
You’d think that was enough culture-clash, but there was more. My husband was born in the Netherlands and
his parents immigrated to the United States when he was two years old. He can trace his Dutch family history back
300 years. Although he bleeds purple and
gold and makes a mean crawfish etouffee, he had always wondered what his life
would be like if his parents had stayed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We traveled to the Netherlands
together before we were engaged. Vinny was on a short assignment for work, and
I traveled along. It was summer 2006 and
he introduced me to his distant family. I
met his aunt, uncle, and three cousins at a birthday party. We met his grandmother for breakfast and she
showed us childhood photos of his mother. We toured around the Netherlands – exploring Amsterdam,
Rotterdam, and The Hague. One day, when
he was at the office, I traveled to Delft and Leiden alone. I fell in love with the city of Leiden. It was small and adorable. It boasted a huge windmill just a few blocks
from the central train station. The water shimmered in the canals, reflecting the
gorgeous summer sun. I strolled through the
University of Leiden botanical garden and a mental seed was planted. I hoped one day, we would live in the
Netherlands – and Leiden was my ideal city.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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My husband applied for an
international rotation with his work in 2008, but the U.S. economy fell apart
and the program was cancelled. We returned to the Netherlands during the summer
of 2009 after we were married. I wanted
to see Leiden, again. I wanted to show
Vinny the town I had explored on my own years <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-go21miDHcgA/UtGkkMkWudI/AAAAAAAAAaw/m8NBnRP_Lrw/s1600/DSC02100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-go21miDHcgA/UtGkkMkWudI/AAAAAAAAAaw/m8NBnRP_Lrw/s1600/DSC02100.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vinny outside the DeValk windmill<br />
in Leiden 2009 (our 'reunion' is filmed<br />
outside it & we tour it during<br />
the HHI episode)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
ago. He fell in love as well and unwilling to let
go of our dream, he applied again in 2011 when our daughter, Cosette, was 9 months
old. As we waited for an answer, we
discovered we were expecting again. Just
a few months before Holden was born, we found out that we were accepted into
the program. Our dream of living in the
Netherlands was about to come true. <br />
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Before we left, I was a full-time
accountant for a well-known cosmetics company in Dallas. I dropped my daughter and son off at day-care
every morning. My cube over-looked the Dallas
North Tollway, I ran errands on my lunch break, and counted the hours until I
could see my children again. I wore
suits, fishnet tights when it got ‘cold’ outside, and coordinated my eye shadow
color with my blouse. I drove fast,
shopped for groceries once a week, and gardened. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon moving to the Netherlands, I knew things would be different, but I
didn’t realize <i>how</i> much different
they would be. Sure – I was leaving my
family, my career, my daycare, my friends, my house, and my language – but I
was excited for the adventure. In
retrospect, my previous experience traveling for work and vacation had given me
an inflated sense of confidence. I
quickly learned that <i>traveling</i> or
even <i>working </i>in a foreign country was
completely different than living. Few people cook or clean when on holiday,
much less order internet, visit doctors, or register for residence permits. My previous knowledge<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HvpsX49vnmg/UtGkkAOc6LI/AAAAAAAAAas/T64wT0MBaKE/s1600/DSC02118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HvpsX49vnmg/UtGkkAOc6LI/AAAAAAAAAas/T64wT0MBaKE/s1600/DSC02118.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vacation 2009 - casually drinking a beer<br />
on the Leiden canal where the market<br />
vendors set up on Saturdays<br />
(cheese vendor scene filmed in spot over my<br />
right shoulder)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
as an adult/employee/mom
in America was seemingly inadequate. Day one, with shaking fingers and visions
of singed eyebrows, I lit my gas stove with a match to cook my family’s dinner. Day two, after finding our laundry room a
humid mess, I stuck the dryer hose out the window, and embraced the new normal
dry time of two hours. Day three, I struggled
to push the kids in the double stroller while dangling bags of groceries
slipped from my shoulders. For weeks, my
mind involuntarily drifted over the ocean to parking lots, cars, and people to
bag your groceries for you. Daily, I
climbed the steep stairs of our gorgeous home up and down, up and down. All. Day.
Long. I cycled my children to the library, to preschool, to the
playground. I fell into bed exhausted
every night. But with time, I learned
how to do these things. I became
stronger – physically and mentally. I
was no longer a tourist – although we frequent the museums and explore the
cities and countries around us – I became an expat, and an expat Mom at that. <br />
<br />
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Our House Hunters International
episode aired on December 3<sup>rd</sup> and will re-air on January 11<sup>th </sup>at
10:30 p.m. Back in the U.S., Vinny and I
spent many Saturday mornings addicted to the show. One of the first questions everyone asked
upon learning we were moving was, “So, are you going to be on House Hunters
International?” and we just smiled. It
was a long process to filming - we first interviewed via Skype and then submitted
multiple casting videos to audition for the show. We waited months, but when I received the email
announcing we had been selected for the show, I’ll admit, I was as excited as a
West Texas Homecoming Queen. The film
crew came a few weeks later and we spent four long days filming and were up with
Holden in the middle of every night. We’re
proud of the show – it’s a great documentation of our family, our home, and our
journey. It’s been a long road to get
where we are today, but it has been a scenic one as well. <o:p></o:p></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-48954235752950063532013-11-27T12:28:00.000-08:002013-11-27T12:59:34.214-08:00Open the Door<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aH9XrgNnbh4" target="_blank">A New Life - Jim James</a></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_AqtgQ_v3p0/UpZUOTBsn0I/AAAAAAAAAZs/bz_n4hXfud0/s1600/Open+the+door+-+cheese+tasting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_AqtgQ_v3p0/UpZUOTBsn0I/AAAAAAAAAZs/bz_n4hXfud0/s640/Open+the+door+-+cheese+tasting.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheese tasting/filming in the Leiden market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> After months of agonizing anticipation (kinda-sort
of, but let’s just go with the dramatic flair – it suits this post), we finally
have our House Hunters International episode air date! Set your DVRs America, for Tuesday, December
3<sup>rd</sup> at 9:30 p.m. CST (or for any of those night-owls out there, it
also repeats later the same evening at 12:30 a.m.) <a href="http://www.hgtv.com/house-hunters-international/a-lengthy-list-of-demands-in-leiden-the-netherlands/index.html" target="_blank">A Lengthy List of Demands in Leiden</a> is the
title of our episode (Seriously, we wanted 4-bedrooms with a pee-space for the
dogs. If you call that lengthy, fine. There <i>are
</i>worse titles out there. I checked.) Consistent
with most big events in my life, I haven’t actually absorbed the fact of what
is going to happen. Maybe it will hit me
the day-of/night before. Am I seriously
going to be on international television?
Nah, that it just <b>too crazy</b>
to comprehend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Considering the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Netherlands</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> does not have HGTV, we originally were
going to have to wait until the network will sent us a copy of the DVD 3-4
weeks after the original airdate. V is
much more motivated than I am, and recently posted a S.O.S. to our friends in
America for streaming options. I think
we’ve got a solution. Considering he
(we) stayed up until 2:00 a.m. last weekend to watch the LSU-Texas A&M
game, we’ll probably be able to manage a 4:30 a.m. wake up call to check out
our debut. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> I have no idea what to expect. The film crew was here for four very long
days the weekend before Memorial Day. It seems like forever ago. (Cue icy strong wind, dreary rain-soundtrack,
and blurry picture – prompting flashback).
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> May
2013. We received our very intensive schedule a few weeks before the film crew arrived. (Wardrobe 1, 2, 3, 4. Switch back to wardrobe
2. Wardrobe 4. Introduction scene. House tour 2. Meet & Greet. With kids.
Without kids. House tour 3. Switch to wardrobe 4. Etc., etc. etc.) After my
initial I excitement, I realized that I was in serious trouble. I had been
“making do” with my American-imported wardrobe for a year for a few reasons: A.
Business for profit, considering the customer, and other fun commerce-driven
habits are seriously lacking in the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Netherlands</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">, thus shopping an absolute <i>chore</i>.
B. the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Netherlands</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> has a target-market of 6-foot tall women.
C. Confusing European sizes. D. A double-stroller in tiny European stores. E.
Two kids in the double-stroller. I
realized I was in trouble. I needed
clothes. My daily wardrobe of an
Abominable Snowman t-shirt I stole from my sister 8 years ago was not going to
cut it. Neither was my dusty Corporate
America suits and heels. My husband gave
me a handful of cash with a promise to keep the kids entertained, and I set off
for Den Haag/The Hague. Thank goodness
for Lady Sting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> Next, we <i>all</i>
had to get our haircuts. Again, I had
been avoiding the issue with my children.
After failed attempts at cutting her bangs, Baby Girl’s bangs were grown
out. Little Man’s hair was a disaster,
and although it suited him, record goes to show that his first haircut was
prompted by a film crew. My Mom was
visiting us and witnessed the occasion.
His beautiful blonde curls didn’t fall to the ground as the Dutch woman
snipped. His curls became tighter and
more pronounced. The first haircut photos
showed a happy (and confused) Mama.
Perhaps the curls are a tribute to his Dutch genes. </span></div>
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SqxeNwPA97Q/UpZUVgP-0PI/AAAAAAAAAaE/w5t4afK1mSU/s1600/Open+the+door+-+flowers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SqxeNwPA97Q/UpZUVgP-0PI/AAAAAAAAAaE/w5t4afK1mSU/s400/Open+the+door+-+flowers.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flower purchasing/filming</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">The morning of
the first day of filming, V and I dropped the kids off at daycare at the end of
our block. (For all those parents out
who beg the question – where are the kids during all these house tours? They’re with the daycare/sitter, for four
days straight.) We headed to the hotel
to meet the film crew. It was a freezing
cold, blustery day. We saw a friend
struggling, leaning as close to his handle bars as possible and squinting
against the wind as he pedaled by on his bike. “Hi, Vincenzo!” we waved. He was on his way to work and waved
back. That’s one thing I love about
Leiden. I only know about 20 people, but
it’s small enough to run into my friends on a daily basis. Our waving hands clasped each other’s and V
and I headed into the hotel to meet “the crew”.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">They were scoping
out locations for the ‘interviews’. The
interview is part of the show where they ask you about how you met, why you’ve
moved, etc. I liked the entire team,
instantly. The cast consisted of (In my accountant-lingo): a sound guy, a video guy, and the
on-scene-director-lady. There was also a
local-liaison guy. He was responsible
for talking Dutch to everyone we had to deal with, scoping out restaurants for
lunch and/or filming, and buying snacks to keep our energy level up. They were all friendly, personable, and
relaxed. More importantly than all of
this though, was that most of them were parents of small children. They understood naptimes, bedtimes, dinner
times, etc. – which, as silly as it sounds, helped immensely. I<i> had</i>
to pick my kids up by 6. I <i>couldn’t</i>
be filming around town at 8:00 p.m.
While the people in London proposing and changing the schedule may not
have understood these little fun facts, the people I was working with did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NMXeSKdNnRw/UpZURWgJcGI/AAAAAAAAAaA/zPIxkFro7O0/s1600/Open+the+door+-+car+camera.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NMXeSKdNnRw/UpZURWgJcGI/AAAAAAAAAaA/zPIxkFro7O0/s320/Open+the+door+-+car+camera.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">V with the Go-Pro camera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">After scoping out ‘the specs’ we moved our entourage from the
IBIS to the Golden Tulip in Leiden. It’s
an old-school-looking location. The
management had promised cooperation. (Fun fact: when filming, you have to have <b>total and complete</b> silence – if you’re
outside and a <i>plane</i> is flying overhead,
you have to stop filming) In the middle
of our “interviews” in the restaurant, background music suddenly starts playing
overhead Another Fun Fact: in the </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Netherlands</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> background music in any store is nearly <i>non-existent</i>. I’m sure we’re known
around </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Leiden</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> as the woman with the lion-imitating
children. Everyone has heard them with piercing clarity. (Overhead music is yet
another marketing tactic stores haven’t embraced.) But nevertheless, we’re in the middle of
filming, and the background music for lunch starts playing over the speaker
system. The director’s jaw drops in
disbelief. She signals liaison-guy to go
have a chat. Liaison guy, who is Dutch,
comes back with no solution. There are
rules. The rules are, the music starts
at 11:00 a.m. in preparation for lunch.
Everyone shrugs (including me and V – we’ve been here long enough to
understand the stubbornness). The British
director-lady is irate. We go to a very
long lunch, complete with happy dance to get the waiter’s attention to take our
order. After lunch the liaison-guy is
run down and ticketed by a bike-riding policeman. Liason-guy had walked through the crosswalk
when the light said ‘do not walk’. There
are rules. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">For the next few days, we walk all over the Netherlands. We
view multiple houses. We film in lots of locations. We learn how to get
‘miked-up’, the inside secrets like – how they actually get those scenes when
people are driving their cars, and lots of other fun truths about the
show. We act naturally the first time, but
then they say, in their lovely British accents “Alright – that was <b><i>brilliant</i></b>
but now can we get it again so we can get the opposite camera angle.” And then
it’s questionable acting (I mean, come on, we’re two business majors). They took about 10 hours of film and condensed
it down into 22 minutes – we’ll see how it goes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I3SUPweu_aw/UpZUPaaYz1I/AAAAAAAAAZ4/-tqtiyYuA50/s1600/Open+the+door+-+final+photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-I3SUPweu_aw/UpZUPaaYz1I/AAAAAAAAAZ4/-tqtiyYuA50/s400/Open+the+door+-+final+photo.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">V and I with the crew outside our house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">After the final edits, we received an e-mail. <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/05/all-star.html" target="_blank">Our casting director</a> in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">London</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> called our episode “a cracker”. My American response was “tee-hee-tee-hee-OMG-what-does-that-even-mean?!?!?
“ Nervous, I looked up the term on-line.
Cracker: “insane, bonkers, and unhinged”. Huh. At least my ‘authentic self’ has been
documented appropriately for all of the world to see. Enjoy, America and I hope our sling-box
option works okay. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-86446313724718016882013-11-14T14:30:00.000-08:002013-11-15T00:14:46.204-08:00Diamonds and Dust<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEBuTMXcd0w" target="_blank">Moonshine Road - Kix Brooks</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fvhP3CXIYZY/UoVL7CT-qNI/AAAAAAAAAZc/X1Re6t5cbHk/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust+TheSeafarer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fvhP3CXIYZY/UoVL7CT-qNI/AAAAAAAAAZc/X1Re6t5cbHk/s640/Diamonds+and+Dust+TheSeafarer.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Texas (TheSeafarer, Flickr)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I landed in <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city>
greeted by a warm, bright <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
sun after being in transit for over twelve hours. My body felt like it was <st1:time hour="2" minute="0">2:00 a.m.</st1:time> and the happy energy radiating from the balmy globe
in the sky was not returned. The jet-lag
headache felt like a hang-over but I hadn’t even had a drop of alcohol. (<st1:country-region>U.S.</st1:country-region>
carriers, unlike their European counterparts, do not have free drinks on
international flights.) I eyed the other
passengers at Dallas Love field waiting at the shuttle stop. It was October,
but most everyone else was dressed appropriately – in shorts. My boots, jeans,
and jacket were overkill. I made friends with the Hungarian rental car shuttle
driver.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ik8cy0NhQfE/UoVKxwJW0dI/AAAAAAAAAZI/wDZWTDzUbHQ/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+old.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a> I entered into the
Avis rental car place and was heartily greeted by a large woman with a strong <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
accent. I reached into my purse to get my wallet and pulled out souvenirs and
placed them on the tall countertop. “Oh mah’ goodness! Are those pe-caaan praaa-lines!?”
she hyperventilated, her pudgy hands waving.
“Uh. No.” I said slowly. “They’re stroopwafels. I live in the <st1:country-region>Netherlands</st1:country-region>.
They’re for my friends.” Between the sun and this lady, I was having trouble
shielding myself from the balls of energy being thrown at my head. Her eyes grew wide. “The <st1:country-region>Netherlands</st1:country-region>?
That’s where you live? But you don’t have an accent?” she scratched her head. I
sighed. “No. No. I <i>used</i> to live in <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city>,
but now I live there, but I’m back for a visit. Here. Here’s my husband’s
credit card.” Throughout the next ten minutes the overly friendly conversation
flipped as she explained the rules about matching names on credit cards,
drivers’ licenses, and reservations. A Dave Ramsey graduate – I have no credit
card in my name, my Dutch bank card was unacceptable, cash out of the question,
and so I blew dust off my ancient and nearly empty American debit card. The final blow was a lecture on how my maiden
name lingered passively on the card, although my married name is
hyphenated. The correspondence left us
both sour. Keys were exchanged, a credit check scar on my otherwise pristine
credit record, and I huffed out of the car rental place with my head throbbing
even more. Welcome to <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>.
Geez. (Yes, I realize now that credit cards to rent a car is standard policy
around the world. . . but it did make me miss my bike and public
transportation.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I exited the Avis rental car parking lot, the man in the
booth asked if I wanted a map. “Oh no.”
I scoffed. “I used to live here!” I headed west in search of 114. I missed it by a block. Zooming up I-35 I
marveled in the wide lanes, the excellence of my stereo system, and was
thankful the sun was finally starting to set. My mind a jumble of confusion, I
became repeatedly lost. Exits have changed, lanes widened, and my mental map of
DFW in my head was rusty like a bike chain in need of WD-40. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-214_CIEwzCg/UoVKnc6t2gI/AAAAAAAAAZE/Bu_Q6I8YL-o/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-214_CIEwzCg/UoVKnc6t2gI/AAAAAAAAAZE/Bu_Q6I8YL-o/s400/Diamonds+and+Dust.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Groom's Dad & Brother (not) calming Nikki's nerves before the ceremony</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, I arrived at Nikki’s. We smiled, dined on pizza delivery and wine.
She took photos of me, covered in plane-funk and all, and posted them on
Facebook. I quizzed her on all her family members who I would see that weekend
at Cody’s wedding. She was determined to make me stay up until at least <st1:time hour="22" minute="0">10:00 p.m.</st1:time> in efforts to get over the jet-lag.
“How are the wedding plans going?” I asked and she groaned. “What. What’s going
on? Is there some drama or something?” I pried.
“No, no. It’s just – I’m so <i>nervous</i>.
If I mess up you <b>know</b> my family is <b>never</b> going to let me live it down.
They’ll tease me about it <b>forever</b>.”
She shook her head and sighed. Nikki, a
licensed attorney in the State of <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>,
was going to officiate Cody’s wedding. I
wish I could offer her condolences, but I knew she was right. She has a large,
rambunctious, playful Hispanic family.
If she tripped over her words during the ceremony, they would tell
stories about it at her funeral. I
smiled sympathetically and shrugged.
“You’ll do great. I know you
will.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first met Nikki’s family in our apartment in <st1:city>Waco</st1:city>
in 1997. She and I were roommates at <st1:place><st1:placename>Baylor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>University</st1:placetype></st1:place> and in the marching band
together. Eleven of them had come into
town for a football game and as we were wrapping up things at the stadium –
packing up water coolers and other band equipment - she informed me that they
were already at our house, hanging out.
“Oh, okay! They didn’t want to wait for us?” I asked. The mysterious
Rubio clan had arrived into town during the game. I hadn’t actually seen any of
them yet. “Nah, I just gave them a key and they let themselves in.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I parked in our broken parking lot in front of our apartment
with blue carpet, wood paneling, and bars on the windows. Two large Hispanic
men were squeezed on to the cozy white swing outside (Management’s attempt at
making the ghetto cozy, I guess.) They both held bottles of Coors light in
their hands. I uneasily stepped out of
my car and started walking towards my own apartment. They smiled and introduced
themselves. After a little more small
talk they asked me, “So. Is <st1:city>Waco</st1:city>
dry?” It caught me off-guard. “Well, it rains here quite a bit.” I answered,
confused. They exchanged glances. Later, Nikki explained that they were asking
about alcohol. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where are they all going to sleep?” I asked her. Eleven
people were snuggled into our tiny two-bedroom apartment. “Oh you know, here,
there, wherever.” My junior year in college, I learned the carpet is a suitable
place for sleeping when hosting a large family get-together. I slept at my
boyfriend’s house that weekend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that initial awkward meeting and my first trip home
with her, I realized what I had inadvertently stumbled upon – a new culture.
Growing up in a suburb of <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city>, I
was immune to a truly <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
lifestyle much less a Hispanic one. I
took off my white-girl suburban glasses and observed, learned, and started to
embrace. Her family is so big. So close.
So welcoming! They have their quirks and squabbles like any other family, but
they also joke, tease, drink, and dance. Over the years, I became a regular
attendee at her family’s functions and her family would often come and visit us
in <st1:city>Waco</st1:city>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her cousin Cody is about my brother’s age, four years
younger than me. He spent a high school
spring break with us in our apartment in <st1:city>Waco</st1:city>. Nikki worked at Red Lobster and had scheduled
“babysitters” for him each night when she had to be away. Each of us had our own itinerary and I
decided to play off <st1:city>Waco</st1:city>’s and my
own strengths: a trip to the Waco Zoo and a home-cooked meal! It was the first time I’d really spent any
time with him. We laughed a lot and he appreciated my cooking (and he at least <i>pretended </i>to like the Zoo.) He was artistic and creative – something an
accounting major found fascinating. He played football and had plans to go to
Texas Tech. I spent years on in the stands watching football games. My Grandmother lived in <st1:city>Lubbock</st1:city>. He is easy going, has a quirky sense of
humor, and a genuine interest in the people around him. Over a dinner of fried
chicken and mashed potatoes, it was apparent that he and Nikki were very
close. Cody quickly became one of my
favorite people in her family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ik8cy0NhQfE/UoVKxwJW0dI/AAAAAAAAAZI/wDZWTDzUbHQ/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+old.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ik8cy0NhQfE/UoVKxwJW0dI/AAAAAAAAAZI/wDZWTDzUbHQ/s320/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+old.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cody and I, 2008</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I attended his high school graduation ceremony in <st1:place>West
Texas</st1:place>. He went off to Texas Tech, graduated, and I danced to rap,
Mexican, and pop music with his family at the celebration party in <st1:city>Big
Spring</st1:city>. He moved to <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city>
and we spent more time together, especially after Nikki moved back to <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
after graduating from law school in <st1:state>Kansas</st1:state>. The best times we had together though, were
in <st1:city>Big Spring</st1:city>, that magical place
away from everything and everyone. It’s a tiny town, run-down and seemingly
lonely. But I found it to be the exact
opposite. His Dad turned 55 and everyone
came into town for the party – more dancing, more laughter, more stories
told. Thirty people crowded into Nikki’s
house after the party and lay sprawled and sleeping wherever they could find a
spot – bedrooms, living room, even the dining room. It was fall, football season. When <st1:place>West Texas</st1:place> sports
is at it’s finest – homecoming mums, football helmets, and school colors. “Celeste! Celeste! Wake up!” Cody was shaking
me awake – whispering as to not alert any of the other sleeping family members around
me on the dining room floor. He puts his
finger to his lips as my eyes pop open. He then points to the window. I raise myself up on my elbows for a better
view. A fireball, as large as the sun,
is alight across the road. I jolt upright
and we head out past the screen door and onto the porch. The crackle is loud and the heat can be felt
from where we stand. The wind whips
across the plains, rearranging dust. It
rustles the trees in front of the tiny house, which sits on an acre of
land. The sky looms above us and is speckled
with thousands of stars. My mind races –
I see headlines “Fireball Smokes Out Thirty Sleeping Hispanics!” (and one white girl). I grab Cody’s arm for reassurance. “What is
that?” I whisper. “It must be Cahoma,
the rival high school.” he calculates. “Forsan High, where Nikki went, built
that bonfire a few days ago for the homecoming game this weekend. Cahoma
students must have found it and decided to burn it before the festivities.”
Amazed, I stare at the profile of Cody’s face as he spoke. The light from the fire glows on his cheeks
and I smile. I know there is nothing to
be scared of, now. The fire will burn
itself out. Together we watch the
glowing orb. My cultural education
continues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tstcvn2T5-0/UoVKk_B7qlI/AAAAAAAAAY8/Clza_RIuelM/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+me+and+Cody.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tstcvn2T5-0/UoVKk_B7qlI/AAAAAAAAAY8/Clza_RIuelM/s400/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+me+and+Cody.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cody and I on his wedding day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fifteen years after our trip to the Waco Zoo, I enter into
the sweeping grandiose of the Magnolia Hotel in Downtown Dallas. Energetic smiles are exchanged with Nikki’s
aunts. Hugs are given to her siblings. My beloved Uncle Oscar helps me with my
hair. Everyone thanks me for coming. I’ve been excitedly greeted by Nikki’s entire
family at the hotel, all except one. My
palms are sweaty when the hotel shuttle drops us off at the wedding and
reception venue. I take a deep breath of
the warm air and walk down the worn brick stairs to the old speakeasy in
Downtown Dallas. I’m excited and nervous, and the fact that I’m even there
seems like a dream. As I’m distractedly
observing the family photos on display, I see Cody enter the hallway out of the
corner of m eye. The fabulous cake display is between us. I stand upright and
smooth my dress. He sees me and I smile the smile of a girl who’s just traveled
five thousand miles to see her long-time friend get married. He looks great, relaxed as always. We embrace
and then he holds me back at arms length. “Thanks for coming,” he smiles and
pats my shoulder. “No problem. I
wouldn’t have missed it for anything.” I shrug as if it was nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ceremony is beautiful, heart-felt and warming. Nikki’s delivery of every line is perfect,
erupting in congratulations and tears from everyone. The bride, Kristy, a
native of New Orleans, is smashingly beautiful. The reception, like all of
their parties, is an outrageous success – complete with cocktails, music, and
laughter. I took tons of photos, danced,
and met significant others and children previously known only via Facebook. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fWml9arf1do/UoVKWl9PZJI/AAAAAAAAAYw/MCG1TiDq0sY/s1600/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+Cody+&+Kristy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fWml9arf1do/UoVKWl9PZJI/AAAAAAAAAYw/MCG1TiDq0sY/s400/Diamonds+and+Dust+-+Cody+&+Kristy.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cody and Kristy dancing a New Orleans tradition - The Second Line</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>In the dim lighting of the speakeasy, I reflect on the
glowing faces around me. It’s a strange half-life I lead – embracing culture
while holding on to your own. I have to thank Nikki and her entire family for
embracing me and my naiveté. Reason stands to chance that if my eyes hadn’t
been opened at such a young age, I might never have braved a leap to the <st1:country-region>Netherlands</st1:country-region>. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in the middle of answering questions about House Hunters
when the jazzy sounds of Second Line stop my conversation with Nikki’s aunt
mid-sentence. My eyes alight with
recognition and I grab the closest napkin and join the parade. I giggle as
Cody, the groom from <st1:place>West Texas</st1:place>, waves his umbrella
awkwardly next to his <st1:city>New Orleans</st1:city>
bride. I smiled with appreciation. <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
and <st1:state>Louisiana</st1:state> – just like me and
V, is a cultural fusion that makes for some good times ahead. We’re all still
learning, adapting, and embracing. </div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-48725836598719312072013-10-23T15:49:00.000-07:002013-11-14T12:34:52.725-08:00Some Things Can't Be Written On a Page<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_QKrWvXcCQ" target="_blank">Thinkin' - Back City Woods</a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
December 2011. Plano, TX. Days before our departure my
family, friends, and I lounge in the dim of the fireplace and Christmas
tree. Leftovers are in the fridge. Twelve stockings hang limply from the
hearth. Painstakingly sought for Christmas presents have migrated from shimmer-status
beneath the tree and are now clumped in small piles around the room – naked and
awkward after the festivities of the morning.
My 20-month old daughter and 2-month old son are sleeping upstairs, for
now. I take a sip of wine and nervously
smile at everyone around me. My brother,
Jonathan and his girlfriend will fly back to their home in Los Angeles in the
morning. My sister, Ginger and nephew back to Colorado the following day. We all live separate lives, getting together
briefly a couple times a year. We grew
up in Plano. I went to college 2 hours away. I returned a few years after
graduation. My husband and I had settled happily in an affordable home with a
huge yard and live across the street from the community clubhouse where my
sister had her 12<sup>th</sup> birthday party. V and I weren’t <i>opposed</i> to going somewhere else it was
just that no place ever seemed worth the hassle of uprooting and leaving. “If
we’re going to move, we’re going to move big!”
I always said, “Or to Austin. I really like Austin.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
V and I have hosted Christmas in our hometown for the past
few years and as I eyed my family, the reality that I too, would join the ranks
of my siblings and move from home, was still intangible. The movers were coming in less than four days,
but even knowing that, the thought has still not cemented itself in my
mind. We were <i>moving</i>. To <i>the</i> <i>Netherlands</i>. I felt like that awkward
glasses-kid with in the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkQR19WlqQE" target="_blank">Ally Bank commercial</a> – “What does that even <i>mean</i>?”
I eyed the glittering Christmas tree and started slipping. The lack of
sleep from the newborn baby, the excitement of being surrounded by my family,
the utter panic of knowing I was leaving everything, everyone, every holiday
for the next two years behind made my mind race. I was starting to mentally
drown as my innocent by-standing siblings chatted about bowl games or concerts
they wanted to attend. My breathing
shortened as fleeting thoughts scrolled. What? What could I <i>possibly</i> expect in the next couple
years? What could connect me back to this life I was leaving behind? Grasping
wildly, I looked at my brother and his beautiful, smiling girlfriend and like a
branch reaching across rapid waters, I grabbed it. “If you guys get engaged
while I’m overseas, I <i>promise</i> I’ll
come back for the wedding!” Record. Scratch. The room went silent and stared.
“Oh honey,” V said. My brother hung his head and quietly excused himself from
the room. His girlfriend started patting me on the knee like the mental
basket-case I was. “What? I mean, oh geez – I didn’t mean anything, I’m just
saying. . . you guys have been dating for like. . . years. . . I mean. . . I
just really. . . <i>like</i> her, Jon!” Deflated, I was finally ready to pack up my
bags. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned my lesson. I really did. But it didn’t prevent me
from spouting off the <i>same exact phrase </i>to
my best friend, Nikki’s cousin, Cody on New Year’s Eve. Fortunately, he rolled his eyes, shook his
head, and took a sip of his beer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward to less than a year later: October 2012. I’m at
my Mom’s house in Texas for our annual visit. My sister, Ginger had come down
as well and we’ve just had a lovely lasagna dinner with my cousins. My mom’s
phone rings. “It’s Jonathan!” she exclaims. I grab the phone before she can
open it. “Oh! Hi Celeste. . .” and he tells me his news. I start screaming and
hand the phone immediately over to my mom.
She starts screaming and asking questions. Ginger sits dismissed, in a
rocking chair, “Hello?!? Can someone hand the phone to me? I’m right here!” Days
later a date is determined. November 2, 2013 Jonathan and his beautiful,
smiling girlfriend, are getting married. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward six months later to April 2013. Cody and <i>his</i> girlfriend head for a beach vacation
in Puerto Rico. Facebook photos reveal a promotion and an engagement ring in
the same week. I like, comment, then try to call him on Skype. Days later a
date is determined. October 4, 2013 Cody and his New Orleans girlfriend are
getting married.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Huh. Two promises. Two weddings. A month apart. What to
do? Unlike a lot of my expat friends,
staying a month in America just wasn’t feasible by myself with my two small
kids. Taking V (as he’s still on the American vacation policy) wasn’t really an
option, either. Even if we could, the price (financial and emotional) of leaving
the dogs for a month would be too much, anyway.
So, after V was in America for two weeks straight in July – the decision
was made – our family would head to Jonathan’s wedding, but I would go to
Cody’s wedding as our family representative.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the time neared, the reality that a solo trip home to
Dallas for a week could possibly be the <i>best
vacation</i> in the <i>entire world</i> was
solidified. I knew where to go. I knew what to do. I had the currency I needed.
I knew the language. Not to mention. . . I was going to be able to sit, see,
and <i>talk</i> to my friends and family
that I hadn’t seen in a year! No chasing children, no naptimes – grown-up meals
with grown-up conversation. Even the 12-hour plane ride in which I had nothing
to do but read, write, or watch movies sounded like heaven. It sounds like a simple fun-filled get-away, but this trip held more importance. It represented a life vest to me, my decision to move away from Dallas, and a chance to firmly (without other agenda or distraction) grab on to the life, friends, and family I had left behind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was time. As I sat on the plane and poured words
old-school-style onto a piece of paper, I felt relieved. With Schiphol becoming a speck below me, so
did the weight of a year of facebook likes, emails, or the occasional Skype phone
calls. My multiple but nevertheless,
electronic efforts of connecting with people I loved had piled onto a scale
which resulted in occasional feelings of total inadequacy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hardest part about being an expat is not leaving home.
The hardest part is that you can’t be in two places at one time. As I sat in my
living room that Christmas night in 2011, I was overwhelmed with the unknown.
Grasping on to the few happy moments I could anticipate, the thoughts of the
unhappy ones didn’t have time to surface.
During my absence from Texas I’ve missed surgeries, chemo treatments,
hospital visits, funerals, chemical plant explosions, and divorces. I’ve also missed 1<sup>st</sup> birthday
parties, new houses, promotions, new girlfriends, engagements, and new
boyfriends. <br />
<br />
Besides the wedding, I had lunch, dinner, and afternoon tea plans with various friends and family over the next few days. Still questionably insignificant, but on the grand scale of things, an hour or two gift of time was all I had. Armed with a rental car and
a flexible schedule I fully anticipated not letting any more sands of time slip
through my fingers. I'd be there. Hugs would be given. Tears would be shed. Smiles would be
exchanged. After all, there’re just some things that can’t be written on a
page.</div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-81209458982730911322013-09-15T13:44:00.001-07:002013-09-15T13:57:38.073-07:00You Won Me Over, You Did<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNCQp9oLc4s" target="_blank">Ode - Room Eleven</a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Success is the other side of frustration.” I read that
somewhere, you know – one of those motivational quotes that pops up on your Facebook feed with a romanticized photo of a sunset, beach, or mountain. Cheesy, but sometimes, it hits you at the
right moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t think we were going to make it. I don’t know if
that came across in my blog, but last summer, after it rained for <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012/07/somewhere-over-rainbow.html" target="_blank">thirteen days straight</a> in July, I was about to lose my mind and give it all up. All the Expat
blogs I had read, the people I had talked to, all pieces of advice were
consistent – “it takes about six months to adjust” - and I just wasn’t feeling
it at all. “It’s supposed to be better by now, I thought to myself,” as I
looked in the mirror and I knew we weren’t even close. I started to panic, my
confidence wavering. V’s work was hectic, too hectic. I looked out the bathroom
window at the endless drizzle flooding my Texas-bred sunshine soul. At the
library, in between chasing my kids around, I spouted off to a fellow Expat Mom
that I wasn’t lonely – that we were always so busy back in the States – that it
was nice to focus on my nuclear family for a while, do the things I always
wanted to – go to museums & the park with the kids, cook, clean, read,
write, while still being able to travel.
I told her that I didn’t mind the isolation, or at least I didn’t <i>think</i>
I did. I was never alone and I was
constantly busy with the tasks of taking care of Cosette, Holden, and our dogs
Tyler & Dash. In reality though, I was still getting the hang of becoming a
full-time Mom, and Vinny and I were on edge. Holden was a horrible sleeper –
some nights up at <st1:time hour="22" minute="0">10 p.m.</st1:time>, <st1:time hour="23" minute="0">11p.m.</st1:time>, <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">12p.m.</st1:time>,
2a.m, <st1:time hour="4" minute="0">4a.m.</st1:time>, & <st1:time hour="6" minute="0">6 a.m.</st1:time>, so the 24-hour care was intense and took a toll on
our sleep, our time together, and our sanity. I was tired. Tired from the lack
of sleep, but also from biking the kids around, pushing the double stroller
everywhere we went, etc. We had a car, but I was <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012/09/i-will-wait.html" target="_blank">afraid to drive it</a>, not that
it mattered – very few places in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>
even had parking available. Vinny would come home spent – mentally <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/02/man-of-constant-sorrow.html" target="_blank">exhausted from his job</a> and I’d be at the end of my rope with the kids screaming, trying
to get dinner ready, the dogs barking to be fed as well. Both of us were individually facing the
hardest jobs we had ever had. We were both drained and needed each other’s
support, but neither of us had a lot of energy left to give. There were a few
occasions where we threatened to throw in the towel and just move back to <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012/11/thats-whats-up.html" target="_blank">Then we visited Texas.</a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We drove. We ate Chick-Fil-A three times within two days. We
shopped at Target, spent $75 in 20 minutes and found everything I had been
searching fruitlessly for in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>
over the past nine months. We saw everyone we ever knew in ten days. Our house
was still there. Our friends and family were still there. Five Guys Burgers still
there. Holden was still up at night. V and I were
still stressed. I realized that it
didn’t matter. It didn’t matter where in
the world we were, there would always be happiness and stress as a family. We
had been given an amazing gift of time and it was up to us to make the most of
it. As I said a tearful goodbye to my best friend at DFW, I knew, in my heart
that I was ready to go to my ‘other home’ in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>.
There was work to be done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my visit to <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>,
my thinking shifted – continents, time zones, and perspective. I didn’t reflect
as much about what was happening in America or even compare this to that – I
was beginning to find my way, as an Expat – a strange identity that’s neither
here nor there, which can be really, kind of fun. Like Dutch pannenkoeken with Duncan Hines chocolate frosting, I started incorporating the best of both
cultures. I felt like I was able to appreciate both, have frustrations with
both, but ultimately mesh the two into something new, something mine. I hosted a Christmas Party for my Book Club,
and for any reader that’s ever met me – you know that hosting parties is one of
my most favorite things to do. In my attempts to isolate myself and focus more
on my family, I started to fill my calendar – book club, writing group, birthday
parties, trips out of town, dinner guests, date night, friends visiting, etc.
And as I started to run (or rather bike) from here to there, to meet this
person, or coordinate that girls night out, (and recently) working evenings and
weekends. . . I realized, that I had come full circle, reflective of the ridiculously
busy life I thought I wanted to escape in <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>.
. . and I couldn’t be happier. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We decided to try and extend our rotation. Before we moved,
my dream was to stay three years. I knew
the first two years were going to be tough with Holden, since he was only three
months old when we arrived and the thought of moving when he
just turned two (supposedly, when things got a little better) made me sad. It wasn’t until Vinny had his review with his
manager a few months ago, that he learned that they actually kind of liked him, appreciated him,
and <i>wanted </i>him to stay past December 2013, our original departure date. We took
this information and ran with it. Conference calls, approvals from <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city>,
correspondence with rotation coordinators in <st1:state>New Jersey</st1:state>,
all of <st1:place>Europe</st1:place> being on holiday in August – and we
finally found the answer a week ago – we’ve been approved to stay until October
2014. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s more work to be done. The inevitable task of
renewing residence permits, leases, and creating Target list for our next trip
to <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>, but we’re excited. I’m
proud that we’ve made it thus far – when I didn’t think I could make it one
more day, I’m now excited about another year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I was never too hysterical<br />
I thought myself too smart<br />
But I loved your music<br />
Words right from the heart<br />
<br />
Well, sometimes I changed them<br />
Into what I want them to be<br />
But you changed something<br />
You changed me<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">- Room Eleven, Ode. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-7081660181253877112013-08-19T15:06:00.000-07:002013-08-19T15:06:34.242-07:00Sweet Child of Mine<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1w7OgIMMRc4" target="_blank">Sweet Child of Mine - Guns N' Roses</a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HeW2DTgbGJQ/UhKUoPqfIvI/AAAAAAAAAYI/_6MV_RxPkOg/s1600/DSC_1650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HeW2DTgbGJQ/UhKUoPqfIvI/AAAAAAAAAYI/_6MV_RxPkOg/s400/DSC_1650.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holden - At Keukenhof, one of the most beautiful<br /> botanical gardens in the world.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Weeeell, Cee-laa-ste. Yeew knooow.
Howlden ez jus ful o’ life,” my Dad, in his distinguished
West-Texas-slow-as-molasses-slang speaks through the waves of invisible
technology across the <st1:place>Atlantic Ocean</st1:place> into my
headphones. A tiny fuzzy microphone hovers
inches from my smiling mouth. Guglielmo
Marconi is rolling in his grave at the ease of communication in the 21st
century – thank heavens for Skype. My
Dad and I have been talking about my absolute exhaustion of chasing after my
little baby boy. For months. “Yew knoow?” my Dad said, after his visit in
March, “Ah D-cided that whut Howlen needs is a backyaaarwd.” Thank you for the keen assessment, Daddy. I’ll just order one of those off of Amazon –
the <st1:country-region>UK</st1:country-region> site is
in English, thus more user-friendly, but Amazon.de has free shipping? Ah, I wish the solution was so simple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Mom visited a few
months later. My entire life I’ve heard
about what an exhausting child my brother, Jonathan, was, at least, his first
4-years of life. “I walked out of every
restaurant in <st1:city>Plano</st1:city> with that boy.
. .” she always said, with a tension in her shoulders apparent years later – her vivid recollection of her screaming 3<sup>rd</sup>
born child were never shaken. In the
days of pre-child-proof vehicle door locks, it was my job, as passenger in the
front seat of our conversion van at the ripe age of six, to hold down the lock
to make sure my screaming toddler brother, who had wriggled his way out of his
car seat and was now throwing a tantrum on the floorboard, wouldn’t open the
door as we barreled down Parker Road in Plano towards home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In April, exhausted
from her long flight, I was just as excited about my Mom’s first visit to The
Netherlands! – A family reunited, we attempted to <b>sit</b> in the airport lounge and drink a cup of coffee. It didn’t work. I held Holden. I put him on my lap while sitting
uncomfortably on the plastic seat of the Burger King. I let him walk. I watched him run out of the low barrier of
the fast-food seating and into the large pedestrian area. I chased after him. Passengers sporting countless nationalities
smiled. Some stared. Luckily, all dodged him as he blindly
barreled his tiny body willingly and recklessly towards their rolling luggage. I held my miniature kamikaze pilot and
flashed universally-accepted apologetic smiles.
He fiercely wriggled out of my arms and I involuntarily let him
down. I chased him again. He runs.
I chase. He runs. I chase. He
runs. He’s so fast. He’s. So. Fast. I. Keep. Chasing and chasing
and chasing. Fifteen minutes after arriving in the country to visit the
grandchildren she hadn’t seen in six months (and thus prior to Holden’s
mobility) she says to me, with a knowing smile and at least <i>a little </i>sympathy – “You’ve got a <i>Jonathan</i> on your hands.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I agree. But my mom got through it – as strong and as
determined as she is. My brother (ahem, after
age 4) was awesome, and still is. My mom
and brother are close and he was always the kid who most easily made her smile
and laugh throughout our childhood. They
are a good match. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few weekends ago,
my family took a day-trip to <st1:country-region>Belgium</st1:country-region>. We near <st1:place>Gent</st1:place> and
Holden starts to wriggle and scream.
Within seconds, his Houdini-like maneuvers have him free of the shackles
of his car seat and he pulls on my husband’s driver-side headrest, attempting
to free the lower-half of his body. In
our tiny European car, I’m easily able to reach into the backseat, and visions
of my mother driving our van involuntarily enter my head. The flashing images trip through my mind, while
a chanting mantra of “ignore negative behavior” mesmerizes and desensitizes
me. It’s a strange playback of jumbling
and uncomfortable thoughts - like that horrible boat ride in the Willy Wonka
movie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrive in <st1:place>Gent</st1:place>
safely. The kids are in awe of the <i>parking garage</i> we’ve entered. I sigh.
I’m worlds from where I was, but at the same time, find myself
reconnected to my past, as always, in really funny, unexpected ways. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We load the kids
into the double stroller and go into town.
We find a nice sidewalk café to have lunch. Within two minutes of ordering, Holden
screams to be let out of the stroller, and for the next 30 minutes V </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zXkPNcLhKww/UhKVE2fJdxI/AAAAAAAAAYU/k7WS4U2GuU8/s1600/DSC_2055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zXkPNcLhKww/UhKVE2fJdxI/AAAAAAAAAYU/k7WS4U2GuU8/s400/DSC_2055.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cosette - before being served her Jack Daniel's apple juice</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
and I take
turns eating and chasing Holden around the adjoining castle/square/fish market
because there’s just no way we’ll subject the other diners to the screaming he
amazingly exerts from his tiny body. In
the meantime, Cosette asks what’s floating in her drink. I gaze out at my husband, who is chasing our
son around the ancient stone fountain. I
admire the buildings around us, with labels such as 1640. . . this place is so.
. . amazingly historic. . . and I turn to her, wondering how we’ve gotten
here – “They’re ice cubes, honey! There are ice cubes in your glass.” My American baby doesn’t know what ice cubes
are. Her apple juice has been served to
her in a tall glass with a Jack Daniels slogan on it. I’ve been here long enough to shrug at the
glass, but not-long-enough to just take a sip to make sure it’s really apple
juice. Vinny continues to chase Holden
through the cobblestoned-square and I find myself thinking of my mother
managing my little brother. At least a
square in <st1:place>Gent</st1:place> is more scenic than the parking lot of the Black-Eyed Pea. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Holden is now the
age Cosette was when we moved here. He’s
crazy, unruly, and more often than not, refuses to sit still more than a
handful of minutes no matter if it’s in a high chair, stroller, car seat, or
willingly to read a book. At this age,
she knew and spoke many words, whereas he’s not quite as advanced. There’s the fall-back excuse of ‘well, he’s a
boy!’ but I can’t help but also wonder if there’s something more ominous at
work here. Cosette was enrolled in
daycare full time her first 21-months of life.
At her American daycare they sat.
They ate together. They sang
songs. They had story-time. She had the full-time attention of many women
– split between other classmates, but still - no one was trying to clean house
or cook meals (or ahem, check Facebook or e-mail, hopefully) while she was
their responsibility. I don’t worry too
much about Holden’s socialization - he has Cosette to play and eat meals with. As far as education and activities - we spend
countless hours at museums, the library, playgrounds, and playing at home –
it’s not the same as the highly regulated curriculum and tightly-focused
similarly-aged classmates Cosette conversed with everyday back in Texas. Even now that Holden is enrolled in Dutch
daycare once a week and I’ve seen a few samples of artwork, I get the feeling
they primarily focus on letting “kids be kids.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, with that – I
cannot say with certainty what the American daycare did for my daughter as a
jump-start to life vs. my son’s upbringing with a full-time Mom in The
Netherlands. Girl vs. boy. Work vs.
stay-at-home. American vs. Dutch. Or
perhaps it’s genetic – Holden is a spitting image of my brother? There are just too many variables, but in the
end, I guess it doesn’t really matter.
Holden is Holden, my rambunctious baby boy, with a smile and laugh that
attracts an international crowd. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CYbkqEdst3c/UhKVGRilO2I/AAAAAAAAAYc/avSvks4JOyQ/s1600/DSC_2059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CYbkqEdst3c/UhKVGRilO2I/AAAAAAAAAYc/avSvks4JOyQ/s640/DSC_2059.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">V and Holden standing next to our lunch locale in Gent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-13294017301947441692013-08-02T13:50:00.000-07:002013-08-02T13:50:35.267-07:00Hang on Little Tomato<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bX2Hg4ldMws" target="_blank">Hang on Little Tomato (Pink Martini) </a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had a month of
shocking Wednesdays. We enrolled both
kids into all-day daycare on Wednesdays a couple of months ago. A whole day all to myself usually resulted in
a 5-hour dusting, mopping, vacuuming, laundry, bathroom-scrubbing,
glass-cleaning, yard mowing, porch sweeping, and sheet-changing spree. . . to
be followed by a couple hours of grocery shopping, errand-running,
dinner-preparing, and if I was really efficient, maybe. . . I’d do something
crazy, like. . . sit down. Once V returned
back <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/07/rise-to-sun.html" target="_blank">from his trip to America</a>,
we decided he’d take every Wednesday in July off, so that we’d have the
date-days we hadn’t had in. . . well. . . years! I was excited. I wasn’t sure when a week of chores was going
to be completed, but I knew that we’d squeeze them in here or there. . . like I
did before my sweet baby tornado was enrolled in school one-day a week. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first Wednesday,
after a morning of brunch and coffee, we received the mail. That horrible letter sealing our fate shook
in my husbands’ sweat-drenched fingertips.
“Celeste,” he said, and I knew something was wrong. This was not a ‘honey’ conversation. “What?
What is it?” he was pale and clearly upset. This was bad, bad news. I knew from the look on his face, our first
‘date day’ was ruined, with no hope of redemption.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The doomed letter in
his hands was correspondence from Eneco, our electric and gas provider. I
learned something very important that day - The Netherlands utility companies bill
customers using an <i>estimated</i> monthly
rate, which is calculated by reviewing the prior 12-months usage. At the end of the yearly cycle, the actual and
billed usage is compared and the customer either owes money or gets a
refund. Because our rental house was empty<i> </i>for years before moving in, the monthly
rate we had been paying was a little over half the appropriate amount. We had
no idea our monthly rate was under-budget - compared to our Texas utility bill,
the figures were <i>already</i> the rate of
an electric bill in the heart of summer with 100+ degree heat beating on your
roof. The reconciling bill and it’s despairingly
large lump-sum total made me cry for an entire day. I contacted the landlord, and apparently, he
completely agreed with the rates – I guess he just shrugs at his ridiculously inefficient
home. I was shocked, heartbroken, and
despondent. I also
matter-of-factly-concluded that if utility rates and corresponding taxes were
as high in the U.S. as they are in The Netherlands – Americans would be a hell of
a lot more energy efficient. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t
necessarily about the money – it was the <b>principal</b>
of the bill. I felt like I had traversed
strides above the nuisances of living in a foreign country. It had been months since the Dutch-ways had
really rocked my boat. Over the past
18-months, I had charted the waters, I was rolling the waves, I was sailing
with the wind in my hair and this letter blindly sunk my battleship. I was beyond upset. I felt helpless. I felt out of control. I felt out of tune with my own destiny. I felt victimized and unappreciated. I felt like a fool. And what do I do when I feel all these
things? I apply for jobs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve actually
applied for quite a few jobs since I’ve been here – with fruitless results. I usually just do it to amuse myself – to
confirm that the universe has sent me here to be a full-time Mom. . . and to
prove that accounting just really isn’t my thing. I had applied for numerous accounting jobs
and after sending my resume (in English), all applications were met with the
same response – “We serve our clients in our local language, you need not
apply.” The day after we received the
electric bill – I felt a determination like I hadn’t before. This wasn’t about the fact that 90% of my
mind-numbing daily conversations with my son can be summarized in two phrases:
“Sit Down! And Don’t Touch That!” This wasn’t about my complete feeling of
inadequacy as a mother to convince my daughter to put her ‘dirties in the toilet,’
after months of trying. Oh no. This wasn’t about a need to escape my daily
routine, this was something <i>more</i>. With diligence and purpose, I perused the Expat
websites for jobs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I applied for a few
accounting positions like usual and without gusto, but then. . . something
caught my eye. It was a part-time job –
mostly work-from-home, with a requirement to visit the office in <st1:city>Haarlem</st1:city>
once per week. They wanted a writer,
preferably a communications or journalism major, someone who could edit photos
& videos, among other requirements.
There was no mention of needing to know Dutch - Their main purpose was to provide
information, in English, to Expats, something to which I could definitely
relate. Throwing caution to the wind, I
sent an email. I explained that while my
resume has 10 years of auditing & accounting experience, for the past
18-months, I’ve been putting all my auditing documentation skills to good use
by writing stories of our adventures here in The Netherlands. I added a link to our <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaybXYtLqAo" target="_blank">House Hunters International casting video</a>, and of course, the link to my blog. I didn’t even tell V I had applied for it,
because I was so sure that I would never hear anything back from them about
it. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vd-j8VvF9ts/UfwGuXzUz9I/AAAAAAAAAX4/D-N9HBDy_iU/s1600/DSC_2501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Vd-j8VvF9ts/UfwGuXzUz9I/AAAAAAAAAX4/D-N9HBDy_iU/s400/DSC_2501.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last July - at the Hortus Botanicus in Leiden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week later V and I
pretended to be <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city> tourists for
our 2<sup>nd</sup> Wednesday date-day.
We took a canal cruise through town, complete with headset explaining
the history and the sites. We ate lunch
at the botanical garden and strolled among the blooming plants afterwards. <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2012/04/bc-otherwise-known-as-time-before.html" target="_blank"> This botanical garden is a little special to me</a> – as strange as it sounds, it has provided me guidance in the past. As I held V’s hand, admiring the blooming
roses, the burden from the week before still bruised us. We passed ancient trees and inside my head, I
asked, please, what are we doing here, what direction is next? But the
botanical garden gave me no answers. Not
until the phone rang when we got home. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
V is at his computer
(even on vacation days he still must at least send a few emails). It’s about 3 in the afternoon and I’m sitting
on the couch, reading a book. The phone
rings, which is unusual. Our phone
rarely rings. He gets up to answer it
and with a confused look, he hands it to me.
“Hello?” – I’m just as puzzled as he is.
There is a man on the phone. It’s
a Dutch man on the phone. As silly as it
sounds, I’ve never talked to a Dutch man on the phone – well, except for my
father-in-law. Then. I realize WHO it is. “Ah, yes – see. . . you are quite an unusual
applicant. . .” and he illustrates the requirements of the job in detail. He asks if I’m still interested, and if so,
if I could come in for an interview.
Next Wednesday would be fine. I
place the phone carefully back on the charger and stare at it with disbelief. “Who was that?” V asks. His voice breaks me out of my trance. I turn to him and smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Third Wednesday
date-day. . . after dropping off the kids, V and I spend the morning sipping
coffee, researching the company, and talking about the job. I climb to the top of my closet where my
high-heeled shoes have been collecting dust for the past 18-months. I dress in one of my Limited suit skirts and
blouse. The outfit is a stark contrast
to my typical house-shoes and jeans wardrobe.
Unaccustomed to the heels/skirt combo – I practically fall down our
steep Dutch stairs on the way out the door.
Click, click, click, my heels hobble on the well-worn sidewalk and I see
my daughter’s teacher having a lunch break in the grassy field next to the
train station. I wave and she smiles
back. I can practically read it on her
face, “What is that crazy American woman up to <i>now</i>?” V and I hop on the
train to <st1:city>Haarlem</st1:city> and traverse
through the town towards the office. He
kisses me good-luck, I ring the bell, and he scurries around the corner. I have a Cookie Monster figurine in my
purse. I’m greeted and led to a large
table which is apparently used for lunch, meetings, and interviews. I’m alone in the room for a few minutes and I
notice bread crumbs on the table. I nervously
brush them off the table with my red file folder. I eye the roll of paper towels, but
calculating the distance to the closest trash can – I resist the temptation to
use one to clean the table properly. I’m
playing Teri Garr’s character from Mr. Mom
- the Mom who goes back to work, who is embarrassingly scolded for
cutting her boss’ meat into bite-sized pieces and for cleaning-up her
co-workers lunch. . . I laugh at myself.
As I reach for my pen out of my purse, Cookie wishes me luck. Minutes later, I’m in the midst of an
interview. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An hour later, I
call Vinny, who has been wandering around the Haarlem Grote Markt. “Well?” he says. . . “I have a job!!! Where are you? I’ll meet you there!” We sit in the afternoon
sun and have a glass of wine in celebration.
“When do you start?” he asks.
“Next Wednesday!” I am glowing. Then
I remember, “Oh. We were supposed to
have date-day in <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city> next
Wednesday. . .” I trail off. The
impossible has happened – I have somewhere to be. He waves the comment it away, he’s so proud
of me. Date day week three turns out to
be more successful than either of us could have imagined. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RgCiFBsceZk/UfwE7YBYuwI/AAAAAAAAAXo/4JvDJjmUaio/s1600/Little+Tomato+-+Haarlem.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RgCiFBsceZk/UfwE7YBYuwI/AAAAAAAAAXo/4JvDJjmUaio/s400/Little+Tomato+-+Haarlem.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grote Kerk van St Bavo in Haarlem's Grote Markt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The following
Wednesday, I drop off the kids at daycare, board the train, and head for my 1<sup>st</sup>
day of work. It feels like such a long
time since I’ve done this, but yet, it feels (almost) natural once I’m there. I talk a little too excitedly and nervously to
my new co-workers, but I guess that’s expected for your first day of work, no
matter where you are or what you’re doing.
The fourth Wednesday of July, after one full day of work, I traverse the
cobblestone streets of <st1:city>Haarlem</st1:city>. On my way back to the station, I pause to
admire the Grote Markt church, bikes flying by me, hundreds of people enjoying
a cocktail or dinner in the warm late-afternoon sun. The amazement of it all –
a job, in social media, in The Netherlands, that allows me to still spend time
with my kids – each item individually would have surprised me, much less all of
them combined and I take the moment to appreciate everything. I feel proud of what I had accomplished thus
far, and I know this is just the beginning of another journey.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
July: A month of stress and action, wonder and
hope, acceptance and excitement. I’m
ready for August and everything it will bring.
When a door closes, a window opens. . . Hang on, Little Tomato, things
will be alright . . . and happily, all that other stuff. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**In celebration of my new adventures as social media coordinator, you can now follow my blog on Twitter (@CourageCrazy)!</div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-65829549257755281412013-07-18T14:35:00.000-07:002013-07-18T14:35:32.936-07:00California Stars<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="4" month="7" year="2013"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQwlAjiSzQc" target="_blank">California Stars (Wilco)</a></st1:date></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fbfk31q41qU/UehaHC22DvI/AAAAAAAAAXE/G_nPSJ7XQGE/s1600/California+Stars+-+street+scene.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fbfk31q41qU/UehaHC22DvI/AAAAAAAAAXE/G_nPSJ7XQGE/s640/California+Stars+-+street+scene.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">USA Day in Voorburg, The Netherlands</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<st1:date day="4" month="7" year="2013">July 4, 2013</st1:date>. Back in <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>,
Independence Day festivities are kicking off under a canopy of fireworks,
fireflies, and fire-like temperatures. In
The Netherlands, I sit in my kitchen wearing the same full-time Mom uniform
I’ve been wearing for ten months: jeans, an aging long-sleeved shirt, and an
Old Navy hoodie. The noisy space-heater is running at my feet and clouds hang
dismissively outside my gritty window.
Grey: the color of too many days
in The Netherlands. I search weather.com
for hope. The information is usually
inaccurate. (I imagine an eager, but
incompetent 22-year-old-meterology intern updating <st1:place>Europe</st1:place>’s
forecasts daily). I also turn to the
Dutch weather website, buienradar.nl and cross-reference. Both 5-day forecasts promise glowing orbs of
yellow and numbers creeping up the scales in both Fahrenheit and Celsius. My mood correspondingly brightens. Besides festive Facebook posts and the <st1:city>New
Orleans</st1:city> calendar hanging by my fridge (which, I
happily found at the <st1:place><st1:placename>American</st1:placename> <st1:placename>Book</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Center</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city>The
Hague</st1:city>) – there’s no real indication that I should be
celebrating my home country’s most important historical holiday. Like most of the holidays we’ve celebrated
since we’ve been in The Netherlands, I feel like a solo cheerleader trying to
arouse an audience of a few, but there is a certain freedom in our
isolation. I ignore the actual July 4<sup>th</sup>
date and plan to celebrate when the weather was more conducive to a
commemoration remotely similar to one I’d attend at home. I matter-of-factly decide that my family is
going to celebrate July 4<sup>th</sup>, on Saturday, July 6<sup>th</sup>. To
further my quest for recreation of all things authentically American - I peruse
the American Women’s Club newsletter and find, to my confusion and excitement,
that a USA Day is being hosted by Voorburg, a small town on the outskirts of <st1:city>The
Hague</st1:city>, on Saturday.
I’m not entirely sure what that means. . . but it’s perfect timing for
my delayed Independence Day plans! (It
must be a <i>sign!</i>) I am in an over-committal mood fueled by the
promise of a kiss of sunshine, and also decide to invite a few American
friends over on Saturday night. Although V
has grilled multiple times in the rain, I was looking forward to a drizzle-less
BBQ complete with burgers, watermelon mojitos, and tiny plastic American flags
I spotted at the junk store in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
E-mails sent to
friends, visions of my sunny Americanized Saturday dancing through my head, I
decided to further research the USA Day on-line. I soon discovered that Voorburg was
celebrating a 20-year sister-city celebration with <st1:place><st1:city>Temecula</st1:city>,
<st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place>.
“Temecula!!” I say outloud to myself.
(Or to the dog - the kids are having naptime). I practically hyperventilated under the
cloudy pillow that was incessantly smothering my excitement. My dog, <st1:city>Tyler</st1:city>
looks at me quizzically. Temecula is
home to Ponte Winery. It’s a beautiful
place (which I’ve visited before) but more than that - Ponte Winery is where my
brother is getting married in just a few months! <st1:place><st1:city>Temecula</st1:city>, <st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place>
(when you’re living half-way across the world) is like. . . referencing your family’s
backyard or something. . . What the. . . how. . . what??? I can’t wait to see what this USA Day has to
offer. I start finalizing details such
as attire and train schedules. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="6" month="7" year="2013">July 6, 2013</st1:date>. The weather.com intern may be receiving a
full-time job offer. The weather, as
predicted, is gorgeous on Saturday morning.
My family arrives in Voorburg dressed in red, white, and blue attire
(well, Baby Girl <i>insisted</i> on wearing
her pink tropical flower dress V recently purchased in the States. I shrug, and figure she could represent the <st1:place>Hawaiian
Islands</st1:place>). We meander through
the early-morning mingling and I instantly feel at home in the little
town. Maybe it was because of the red,
white, and blue bunting hanging across the pedestrian road (it certainly wasn’t
the mechanical bull on the sidewalk) but it feels like a small-. </div>
town American
downtown. Store-front windows dressed to
attract, brick streets, and a cozy garden in front of the government buildings
all made me think I had stepped back in time to <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>: 1950<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9a6YOgRagF0/UehcjQVptZI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mq9N12xNVGI/s1600/California+Stars+-+Cotton+Candy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9a6YOgRagF0/UehcjQVptZI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mq9N12xNVGI/s320/California+Stars+-+Cotton+Candy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dutch girls attempting to spin cotton candy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stroll down the
road eyeing the vendors popping popcorn and attempting to spin cotton candy
onto a stick (and later laugh at discarded fluffy cloud sticking to and out of
a sidewalk trash bin. . . I guess the Dutch, for all their love of candy, are
not fans of the disintegrating pink sugary mess . . . ) The town baker sells doughnuts and apple
pies. We clap along with the marching
band, and then, to my utter excitement – a colorguard team, languidly waving
their flags, lead the band through the streets (Look, Baby Girl! Mama used to do that in high school and at
Baylor!) The marching band is followed
by a parade of antique American cars including a Cadillac Sedan de Ville
1956. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A small stage is
set-up in front of the church and Voorburg government buildings. We listen attentively to speeches from representatives
of Temecula as well as the Ambassador of the <st1:country-region>U.S.</st1:country-region>
located in <st1:city>The Hague</st1:city>. We snap photos of V and Baby Girl along side
the antique army jeep (driven by a nice young Dutch man wearing a <st1:country-region>U.S.A.</st1:country-region>
army uniform). </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JJWGY4Oy_4Y/UehZ5nSLC3I/AAAAAAAAAWk/VPLPx6R2UC8/s1600/California+Stars+-+Ambassador.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JJWGY4Oy_4Y/UehZ5nSLC3I/AAAAAAAAAWk/VPLPx6R2UC8/s400/California+Stars+-+Ambassador.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">U.S. Ambassador & Voorburg Mayor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun is
reaching a quite-warm stage of the day.
My entire family is starting to sweat and I relish the unfamiliar beads
of moisture appearing on my arms as if they were photographs of my
childhood. To further my quest of a
synchronized, long nap time (we’ve got to prepare for the BBQ!) I spot an array
of small American children’s games nestled inside a hedged courtyard. Plastic horseshoes fly through the air while
bean bags are hurled toward small plastic cans set up on t.v. tray. With this blog post in mind, I put on an
imaginary reporter’s hat and start to chat to a couple of the teenagers
entertaining the children. I quickly
discover that a large part of the sister-city relationship is a student
exchange between Temecula and Voorburg every two years. 50 students from Voorburg (and surrounding
areas) submitted a motivation letter and were interviewed. The beaming girls I was speaking to were two
of the 24 students who were selected for the program, which meant they would be
visiting Temecula in June 2014. She excitedly
continued to explain that 24 students from Temecula would be visiting and
staying in their homes during next March. (My first thought – oh my goodness,
those poor <st1:state>California</st1:state> kids are
going to <i>freeze</i>. But second thought – well, their adrenaline
and excitement of a once-in-a-lifetime-trip might keep </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wDjyRQsvFWQ/UehZ7pYM5gI/AAAAAAAAAW0/BVsOyoxquPA/s1600/California+Stars+-+car+parade.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wDjyRQsvFWQ/UehZ7pYM5gI/AAAAAAAAAW0/BVsOyoxquPA/s320/California+Stars+-+car+parade.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic Car Parade at USA Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
them warm, too.) Their enthusiasm for the program was
contagious. I couldn’t help but gush to
them about how beautiful Temecula is and to share my personal story of my
brother’s upcoming nuptials to this audience who (at least pretended) to
care. I congratulated them both on their
acceptance into the program and again, expressed my appreciation for this fantastic
travel and cultural experience hosted by the two cities. Little Man is knocking down all the red,
white and blue plastic cans out of the corner of my eye. He’s not using the bean bags though – he’s
bulldozing the TV tray. Another privileged
Dutch student is trying to corral the disaster while V helps her. They seem to have everything (relatively?)
under control. I’m hyper with excitement
as I shout over to V – “I’m going to try and catch one of the representatives
from Temecula!” and he raises a hand and nods distractedly. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find an
approachable red-headed woman smiling and standing off to the side as the
Ambassador and Voorburg Mayor chat to each other. I feel a bit like a goofball, but I also know
what it’s like to stand in a sea of Dutch-speaking people. I introduce myself and like I thought she
might, she lit up with happiness at </div>
meeting another American in a foreign
country. She told me that she wasn’t
with the government stuff, but rather, she was in charge of the exchange
program. We swapped a few stories and
she invited me to call her next time I was in Temecula, which I thought was
really sweet. My kids’ (and husband’s)
energy levels fading, I wished her good-luck with thanks for the conversation
and my family departed <st1:country-region>USA</st1:country-region> Day complete with an (American) patriotic feeling.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once settled back
at home, between putting the kids to nap time, prepping the mojitos, and
starting the grill, I quickly researched Voorburg day in Temecula: <st1:date day="26" month="10" year="2013">October
26, 2013</st1:date> (the weekend before my brother’s wedding). We will probably just miss the festivities,
but I hope that there’s at least one Dutch person who has been to Voorburg
wandering amongst the crowd. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FkDj__Ybpv8/UehZ6-ueteI/AAAAAAAAAWs/FnA4IoWWwBg/s1600/California+Stars+-+Stroller+with+Daddy+and+kids.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FkDj__Ybpv8/UehZ6-ueteI/AAAAAAAAAWs/FnA4IoWWwBg/s400/California+Stars+-+Stroller+with+Daddy+and+kids.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Girl, V, and Little Man in Voorburg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although the
fireworks didn’t blast, the entire day was one of the most memorable Independence
Day celebrations I’ve experienced. I’ve
put the American flags away until next year, but I am happy to report that the
sun is still shining. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For more information about the Voorburg-Temecula Sister city
associations and how to support education and cultural awareness – please see
the following:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.temeculasistercityassociation.org/">http://www.temeculasistercityassociation.org/</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.temecula.nl/">http://www.temecula.nl/</a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-230097250689245402013-07-08T13:32:00.001-07:002013-07-08T13:32:39.617-07:00Rise To The Sun<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNxWyVAtBiU" target="_blank">Rise To The Sun (Alabama Shakes)</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The consequence of a
month’s non-stop carousel of activity was apparent. My head unfocused, my body sore from miles of
walking with children strapped to my back, and the dirt on my un-mopped floors
created a film on my needed-to-be-laundered-slipper-socks. I shuffled around my kitchen in a daze,
sipping coffee, opening the fridge, eyeing the dishes in the sink, asking the
contents of the pantry for advice as to where to begin to start my regular
routine, but half-heartedly listening to the answer. Like a sleepy child who had over-exerted
herself at a State fair – I was still soaring with the memories created over
the past month. On the flip side, I was
also like the parent, facing the mounting tasks of housework and administration
neglect. It was Sunday morning. The house, in direct contrast of the recent
weeks, was quiet. Although the kids were
eating breakfast in the next room, I felt alone. V was gone.
The heavy front door sighed after V shut it. He solemnly rolled his suitcase down the
sidewalk, leaving his family behind, en route to <st1:place><st1:placename>Amsterdam</st1:placename>
<st1:placename>Schipol</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Destination: <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had recently
hosted three rounds of visitors: A two-week visit from my Mom, four days of film
crew, and then 12-hours after the House Hunters film crew said goodbye, two
long-time friends from Waco met V at the airport – extremely excited about
their first (ever!) visit to Europe for two weeks. I matched each visitor’s giddiness armed with
train tickets, guidebooks, self-created walking tours, insights into ‘life in <st1:city>Holland</st1:city>’,
and a menu plan of home-cooked meals. I could
not believe my luck and good fortune to have a month full of festive daily
events and friends from home living and experiencing the day-to-day and with
me. Between my Mom and my friends from
Waco, we did it all – the Eiffel tower, tulip gardens, Bruges, the Jumbo
grocery store, canal cruises, Amsterdam, Anne Frank House, Delft, the beach,
train rides, brunch, canal rides, the library, the Paris Metro, The Dutch
Resistance Museum, Baby Girl’s preschool, souvenir shopping, stairs, laundry, the
Rijksmuseum tunnel, naps, squeezed into Paris apartment elevators, Amsterdam
Centraal Station, home-cooked, delivery, more stairs, De Burcht, dishes, and
much, much more. V’s business trip
resulted in him leaving 24-hours after mania-month ended. I was exhausted, a little sad, and more than
a little weary of my 2-week stint in single-motherhood looming before me. I had no doubts about my ability to get
through it alone. It was the little
things he does for me everyday to just make life better that I’d miss the most
- like how he makes coffee for me every morning. With a deep breath, I turned back to the
contents of the pantry: the peanut butter in the cupboard told me I was nuts,
but things would smooth out in the end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Night 1: I decided to start things out on a good
note: Go to bed early. Little Man had other ideas for my strategic
planning. Up at <st1:time hour="23" minute="0">11 p.m.</st1:time>, <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">12 p.m.</st1:time>, <st1:time hour="2" minute="0">2 a.m.</st1:time>,
<st1:time hour="3" minute="0">3 a.m.</st1:time> and then the dogs were up with
the sun. Being mid-June in The
Netherlands, that would be <st1:time hour="5" minute="0">5:00 a.m.</st1:time> Side-note: There are two things that people
just can’t understand unless you’ve been through them: 1. The mental and physical anguish that comes
with hearing your baby scream through the middle of the night due to <i>teething</i> (and in turn, not only does
your heart just reach out to your pained sweetie - your sleep is limited to
2-hour increments if you’re lucky, which kind of jacks with your mental
well-being as well). 2. The exhaustion
that comes with a sun that sets at <st1:time hour="23" minute="30">11:30 p.m.</st1:time>
and rises at <st1:time hour="17" minute="0">5:00</st1:time>. I get it.
I do. On paper, it’s like, what’s
the big deal? But really, it’s weird. The yin-yang, the rest-energy cycle, or
whatever it is, is All. Out. Of. Whack. Too much light is too much
energy which means not enough rest.
Animals feel this energy imbalance, so while the clock may say one
thing, reasoning with dogs is about as effective as reasoning with a
20-month-old. Yeeeeeaaaahhh. The next morning at playgroup, I was about as
social as a floor lamp. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Meanwhile</i>. . . . (Side pan to V arriving in <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>
with two Dutch co-workers). Dutchmen: “Oh
no! Our luggage has been lost! What’s
this? A voucher to go <b>buy</b> clothes?! But it’s Sunday night at <st1:time hour="20" minute="0">8:00 p.m</st1:time>? Oh, you
mean stores are OPEN at <st1:time hour="20" minute="0">8 p.m.</st1:time>?!? Even on a SUNDAY?!?! What is this wonderful place you speak of
where you can get anything you need including business attire? Kohl’s?!?
Whoo-hoo! We LOVE <st1:country-region>AMERICA</st1:country-region>!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan back. . . the rest of the week was fine. Quiet.
I replaced our usual background noise of ESPN America with a host of my
favorite feel-good movies – You’ve Got Mail, Can’t Hardly Wait, Sabrina (the
original – with Audrey Hepburn), and threw in Swingers for good measure. I took care of the kids. I took care of the house. I made dinner. I took the kids to the park, the library, the
museum. I invited girlfriends over for
dinner. I even booked a sitter and went
to Book Club. . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Meanwhile. . . </i>(Side
pan to V eating a<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Celeste%20Beran" datetime="2013-07-05T17:26">t</ins></span> Friday’s with two Dutch co-workers) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dutchmen: “What is this?
Spinach-Artichoke dip?!? This is
AMAZING. . . Yum, yum, yum. . . What do you mean ‘you’re sorry it took a while
to bring us the appetizer?’ yes, perhaps it took more than 5 minutes. . . this
is ‘a while’? Oh okay. . . what is this
FREE word you speak of? FREE SPINACH
ARTICHOKE DIP?!?!? Whoo-hooo! We LOVE <st1:country-region>AMERICA</st1:country-region>!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan back. . . I decide to get brave. Or desperate.
After going to the market by ourselves on Saturday, I just felt a little
sad. It may sound silly, but buying
cheese with Daddy is a Baby Girl and Daddy tradition, not a Mama and Baby Girl
thing. After a week of broken sleep and
trying to make the best of things in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>
and after being a bit jealous that V was hanging out with <i>my Dad</i> in <st1:city>Dallas</st1:city> on
Father’s Day, I reminded myself to make the most of it. On Sunday, I finally gained enough courage,
after a year-and-a-half decided to put the double stroller (and two kids) on
the train by myself, and we headed to <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city>.
. . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Meanwhile. . . </i>(Side
pan to two Dutch co-workers hanging out a hotel pool with <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>
girl they met at bar during previous night.
V, is off-stage, hanging out with my family) Dutchman: “Hallo my Texas
Angel – you’re quite sociable! You actually talk to me and make
eye-contact. What is this,
go-to-bar-and-meet-girls-thing I’ve fallen into? In The Netherlands we just go-to-bars-to-drink-and-talk-to-guy-friends.
. . this is so EASY and you are SO tan and SO friendly!!! Whoo-hooo!
I LOVE <st1:country-region>AMERICA</st1:country-region>!!!!”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan back. . . <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city>
was cool. . . let’s keep on this get-out-of-town-thing. . . let’s go to <st1:city>Utrecht</st1:city>
kids! Let’s check out the Music Box museum and have a picnic in the park. . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BI-28FU5egA/UdsetJyq-3I/AAAAAAAAAV4/9Ks9vujG9jQ/s1600/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Before+Hot+Dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BI-28FU5egA/UdsetJyq-3I/AAAAAAAAAV4/9Ks9vujG9jQ/s320/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Before+Hot+Dog.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dutchman Pre-Boomstick consumption</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Meanwhile. . . </i>(Side
pan to V with two Dutch co-workers at a Texas Ranger’s baseball game with my
best friend, Nikki and her cousin, Cody)
Dutchman: “What is this? A Boomstick? This is a 2-foot long hotdog covered in chili
and cheese? What do you mean you will
buy me a beer if I eat this whole thing, Cody?!
Oh okay – I am up to your challenge (munch, munch, munch) Ugh. . . I ate this whole
2-foot-chili-cheese-dog-that-was-so-lekker-but-now-I-feel-like-crap-where’s-my-beer?”<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oHZSxFfpU8M/Udseuxm7r3I/AAAAAAAAAWA/j-c7qnJQonU/s1600/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Hot+Dog+After.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oHZSxFfpU8M/Udseuxm7r3I/AAAAAAAAAWA/j-c7qnJQonU/s320/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Hot+Dog+After.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Boomstick consumption</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan back. . . I’m losing grip on my momentum. The floors I have not mopped in six weeks are
screaming for a clean. I don’t have any
swiffer refills (it’s different here, yes, they have Swiffer, but no
bottles. You buy pre-wet pads and stick
them on your mop.) I decide to
old-school it with a pad and a bucket.
Things I learn. . . when it’s 93% humidity and you mop your floors in an
environment without central A/C (a.k.a. without any air circulation. . . ) it
will take HOURS for the floors to dry. I
feel like Meg Ryan in French Kiss (which of course, I’ve recently viewed in V’s
absence) who cleans out her computer keys with a Q-tip while her fiancé is
overseas. . . totally. . . lame. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyJIt2qh6g4/UdshM11PN8I/AAAAAAAAAWQ/tWkJzjCeufM/s1600/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Bull+Riding.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZyJIt2qh6g4/UdshM11PN8I/AAAAAAAAAWQ/tWkJzjCeufM/s320/Rise+To+The+Sun+-+Bull+Riding.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dutchman Bull Riding in Uptown Dallas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Meanwhile. . . </i>(Side
pan to V living it up in Dallas Uptown Bars with <b>more</b> of our mutual friends. . . without kids. . . ) Actually, I
don’t even know or want to know what happened. . . I’m happy he got to hang out
and see everyone. . . he was glowing sunshine every time I talked to him on the
phone. . . it’s good for him. It really was. Yeah.
I’ll keep telling myself that. . . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pan back. . . It’s Saturday morning. Months ago V signed Baby Girl up for dance class,
with the intention of taking her every week.
He wanted it to be their bonding-time together, while I stayed at home
with Little Man, which is endearing and cute.
Unfortunately, if he’s out of town, that means I’m rushing around before
9:00 a.m. on a <i>Saturday</i>, trying to
get three of us out the door so she’s there in time before the class starts
because girls running around speaking Dutch kind of freaks her out if we’re not
there on time. . . “We’ve got to move it move it!” I chant as the front door closes
with a sigh. . . and I hear the sound of a suitcase being rolled down the
sidewalk. V appears a second later, in
front of our house. I smile, relieved. “Hi. I
missed you. I’m so glad you’re
here. Drop your bags and jump in the car
– it’s time to go to dance class.” I fire rapid instructions to him. “The coffee I made this morning was horrible
- it’s the color of iced tea. I was
doing ok, making it for myself, but I added more water because I knew you’d be
here soon, but not enough grounds.” I
throw Baby Girl’s ballet slippers into the car and snap Little Man into his car
seat. I’m a machine of efficiency at
this point. “No problem,” he shrugs,
“Let’s take her to dance class and go to Starbucks,” he shakes his head with an
undertone of arrogance in his voice. “What?
Starbucks? You know how
overpriced that is? Oh wait. . . where
have you been for the past two weeks?”
He smiled. We dropped Baby Girl
off at dance class and indulged in the Starbucks coffee at the train
station. A nod to the present and past –
time to get back to routine in our Alternate-Reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-85285843392724947852013-07-02T13:31:00.000-07:002013-07-02T13:31:25.846-07:00I Could Be A King<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyLX9S1vVO0" target="_blank">I Could Be A King (The Dunwells)</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-72YwBGXKHZg/UdMzLYYmBDI/AAAAAAAAAVY/ytPwXUwDqI4/s1600/King+-+feather+boa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-72YwBGXKHZg/UdMzLYYmBDI/AAAAAAAAAVY/ytPwXUwDqI4/s640/King+-+feather+boa.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen's Day in Leiden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Orange Feather Boa –
check! Homemade orange crown –
check! Orange baby overalls –
check! Orange button-down shirt –
check! Orange balloons attached to
double-stroller – check! At <st1:time hour="9" minute="30">9:30 a.m.</st1:time> on <st1:date day="30" month="4" year="2013">April 30, 2013</st1:date> – we rolled out into the sunny morning, every
cast member fully-costumed and anxious to play his or her part in our family’s second,
and, incidentally, The Netherland’s last - Queen’s Day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On <st1:date day="28" month="1" year="2013">January 28, 2013</st1:date>, Queen Beatrix
announced her abdication of the throne, after a reign of 33 years – and her
son, His Royal Highness Price of <st1:city>Orange</st1:city>,
Prince Willem-Alexander would be her successor.
The grand handing-over-the-torch-ceremony,
was scheduled at <st1:time hour="10" minute="30">10:30 a.m.</st1:time> a few
months later, on Queen’s Day. At 46
years old, King Willem-Alexander became the world’s youngest king, and The
Netherlands first male monarch since 1890.
More fun facts for you folks reading at home – the King will rule over
an actual <i>kingdom</i>, the most magical
of geographical terms, including: The Netherlands, <st1:place>Curacao</st1:place>,
Sint Maarten, & <st1:place>Aruba</st1:place>. (As I type this in <b>late June</b> with my <b><i>fireplace</i> <i>roaring</i></b>. . . . just dreaming about fairytale real estate on a
tropical <st1:place>Caribbean</st1:place> island sounds like a pretty awesome
job perk). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After last’s year’s
experience, we decided an early start would be key to ensure a perfect Queen’s
Day in our family’s book: shopping success, crowd avoidance, and a “family
naptime” by <st1:time hour="14" minute="0">2:00 p.m.</st1:time> We entered into town around <st1:time hour="9" minute="45">9:45 a.m.</st1:time> and easily soared into the
marketplace, scooping down and resurfacing with some prime junk from the
peddling children who had set their worldly wares on blankets along the sides
of the canals. Among our plunder: a
Dutch Elmo Christmas DVD, a children’s xylophone, & a plexi-glass
candelabra – for a Euro each. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xoo9qlvzxNE/UdMz7-h8asI/AAAAAAAAAVo/s8DiU7zLDAg/s1600/King+-+Orange+merchandise.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xoo9qlvzxNE/UdMz7-h8asI/AAAAAAAAAVo/s8DiU7zLDAg/s320/King+-+Orange+merchandise.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Souvenir shop in Amsterdam<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a relaxed
excitement as the sun cast morning shadows and the fresh breeze tickled
everyone awake. As we mingled casually among
the smiling faces, the relaxed interactions felt like an early-morning tailgate
prior to a college football game slotted for the <st1:time hour="19" minute="0">7
p.m.</st1:time> TV timeslot. The crowds
of drunken revelers who would flood the cobbles later were still to awake and
migrate into town. The canal in front of
the town hall was covered with a large platform and tables and chairs covered
the surface like confetti. People talked
quietly to one another, sipping tiny cups of coffee between closing their eyes
and smiling up towards the sun (a seemingly required Dutch custom to partake in
<i>when</i> the sun shines). All chairs were turned towards the <st1:place><st1:placename>Corn</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The bridge was built in 1642 and for hundreds
of years vendors sold corn underneath its one-of-a-kind roof, thus sheltering
the precious commodity from the rain.
Today, the roof protected hoards of lighting, sound, and musical
equipment for the entertainment line-up as well as a huge flat-screen TV
showing the Royal Proceedings going on at the <st1:place><st1:placename>Royal</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city>. V and I had visited <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city>
earlier in the week, and enjoyed seeing the <st1:street>Dam Square</st1:street>
decorated for the festivities. Souvenir
shops stocked orange <i>everything</i> in
anticipation of the event, large crowns sat atop the fancy department store, De<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Celeste%20Beran" datetime="2013-07-02T14:52"> </ins></span>Bijenkorf,
and stages were already erected in the center of town. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WTiQgweBrDw/UdMzehmDUUI/AAAAAAAAAVg/Z2x5QaxGOn0/s1600/King+-+TV.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WTiQgweBrDw/UdMzehmDUUI/AAAAAAAAAVg/Z2x5QaxGOn0/s400/King+-+TV.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corn Bridge with TV coverage - Leiden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our family grabbed a
table and chairs at Einstein’s on the canal, ordered a few coffees, juice, and
a typical Dutch snack of sausages and cheeses.
V and I smiled at each other, across the heads of our children. We have photos of the two of us, taken years
ago during our visit to <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>,
drinking beer on the canal boat outside the same bar – the Town Hall in the
background. We placed ourselves back
into the present moment, taking in the anxious faces surrounding us as the
abdication of Queen Beatrix commenced at <st1:time hour="10" minute="0">10:00
a.m.</st1:time> that morning. We sipped
coffee – “I can’t believe we’re really here, in this place, at this moment,” I
said to him. At <st1:time hour="10" minute="30">10:30 a.m.</st1:time>, the royal family made their first official
appearance on the <st1:place><st1:placename>Royal</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Palace</st1:placetype></st1:place>
balcony. Everyone in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>
turned toward the TV, watched, waved, and cheered. My entire family clapped and “whoo-hooed” - Little
Man probably the loudest. The Town Hall
bells rang for an eternity in celebration.
For a culture that seems to be pretty stoic most days, the emotion of
pride radiating from the country at that moment in time was incredible. As I took in the scene before me, it was
impossible not to feel a few tears come to my own eyes. “Are you okay?” my husband asked, smiling and
a bit confused. . . “Yeah, it’s just that. . . well, the whole thing is just
pretty awesome. It’s a huge moment in
history for them. . . and really, for us, too.”
He nodded slowly and reflectively.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the inauguration of the King – the big
question was how it would affect future parties. Queen Beatrix’s birthday is actually January
31<sup>st</sup>, but no one really likes to party outside when there is a
guarantee of total crap weather, so she decided to keep the Queen’s Day party
on the less-risky birthday of her mother, Juliana. Lucky for The Netherlands (and perhaps, a nod
to even more planning on her part) Beatrix’s son, Willem, was born in April –
just three days before his Grandmother’s birthday. So, for the foreseeable future, King’s Day
will be celebrated on April 27<sup>th</sup>.
(Unless of course, April 27<sup>th</sup> falls on a Sunday – which,
actually 2014 is one of the exceptions) SO King’s Day will be celebrated on
Saturday, April 26<sup>th</sup>. (Which, is actually kind of cool – since
that’s me and V’s 6<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary). The party will go on, without a hitch! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that evening,
we celebrated the Queen in our own way – with some American Expat friends at a
house-party BBQ complete with hamburgers & potato salad. I don’t know if we’ll be here for 2014’s
King’s Day celebration, but no matter where I am, I might just have to bust out
my orange feather boa in honor of King Willem.
</div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3O5cEhqxPsY/UdMy1fsWRyI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/SzT9DLUwQYs/s1600/King+-+DeBijenkorf.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="427" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3O5cEhqxPsY/UdMy1fsWRyI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/SzT9DLUwQYs/s640/King+-+DeBijenkorf.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">De Bijenkorf for Queen's Day - Amsterdam<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-17660256387883878172013-05-20T12:55:00.000-07:002013-05-20T12:55:27.080-07:00All-Star<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_jWHffIx5E" target="_blank">All-Star (Smash Mouth)</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
V had decided that a telephone call with detailed
explanation was necessary – a text or e-mail, our usual method of
correspondence, just wasn’t going to get the point across. Our landlord only had one question after V
had called and calmly explained what we needed from him. “So.
You mean, you want to be American t.v. stars?” I pictured the tall Dutch
man leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, his ear pressed to the telephone,
his face a void of expression except for a small hint of puzzlement on his
eyebrows. “Um, yes,” my husband replies,
as humbly as he can, he breathes in and out – waiting for the response. “Oh-kay.
I sign the form and send it to you.” With that, we received permission
for House Hunters International to film at his home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because of this lovely blog – a casting producer for House
Hunters International found our story and emailed me wondering if I, or someone
I knew, would be interested in auditioning for the show. We had just finished dinner – Baby Girl and
Little Man were at the height of their crazy-evening-time. My computer is setup in the kitchen and I had
clicked on the ‘refresh’ button between carrying dirty plates to the sink,
desperate for a brief distraction - trying to tune-out the shouting and whining
of my children. The swift maneuver is
like a nervous habit and usually, the ‘refresh’ results in nothing note-worthy. But this time - my jaw dropped as I read the
email, and then a wave of denial rushed over me. “There’s no way this is even
true!” I shouted to V. My husband is
struggling to get my squirmy son out of his high chair safely. My daughter is chanting “I’m finished! I’m finished!” incessantly. My husband, a mere three feet away from me,
squints as if trying to focus on something upon the horizon – the distractions
are thick. “What?
What is it?” he calls out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After putting the kids to bed, we google the email address
and discover – Leopard Films DOES produce HGTV’s International House
Hunters. As the reality seeps in. . .that
a <i>real-life casting producer</i> has
emailed me. . . that they found me <i>because
of my blog</i>. . . I become really, really excited. You could pretty much say that I started
jumping up and down (literally) with the enthusiasm of a homecoming queen from
a <st1:place>West Texas</st1:place> high school. I was SO excited. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
House Hunters International was one of the two shows I
watched religiously before moving to The Netherlands (Good Morning America
being the other one. . . I miss seeing Robin Roberts in the morning about as
much as I miss my college roommate). The
most popular question amongst co-workers and friends upon announcing I was
moving overseas was, “So. . . are you going to be on International House
Hunters?” – which was followed by a chuckle, and an elbow to my ribs, everyone
proud of their ‘little joke.” I just
smiled, and tick-marked the umpteenth time I’ve heard the spiel. I loved HHI though. . . and secretly was
confused how to even get on the show. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arranged a Skype video-interview with the casting
producer at <st1:time hour="17" minute="0">5:00 p.m.</st1:time> We strategically setup the computer to
accommodate the best view of the house, we changed our clothes, allowed Baby
Girl some ‘relax time’ in her crib and gave her a few books to read. (Sounds harsh, but she really was being a bit
crazy and likes her alone time). Little
Man was awake and in his high chair – at 17 months, I’m at a loss as to what I
should do with him. There is no ‘relax
time’ for him. During the ‘interview’
the lady explained she had a 7-month old at home. A wave of relief came over me. At least she had a clue about how hard doing <i>anything</i> with a baby is. We talked.
We smiled. We listened. Little Man screamed to be let out of his high
chair. More talking. . .Little Man is
now running around our living room screaming (and due to our ‘strategic planning
– it’s all in full view). We answer her
questions. Little Man is now rocking the
screen in front of the lit fireplace back and forth. I have to run and get him and put him on my
lap. She’s asking more questions. Little Man wriggles out of my grip in his
usual 2-second-sit-still-style. I smile
apologetically and he’s on the floor like sand falling between my hands. She’s still asking questions and we’re trying
to answer her as best as we can. It’s
V’s turn to prevent Little Man from climbing onto the coffee table (a stunt,
amazingly, he only pulls when he knows tensions in the household are at a
climax) – of course, all within. . . full view of the camera. In conclusion, she smiles and tells us to
produce a casting video. V and I both
smile in return, thank her for the phone call, and we sign off. I shut the computer and look at my husband,
not able to decide whether to cry or scream.
If I’m a homecoming queen, I’ve just tripped and fallen face first in
the mud on the 50-yard line on my way to accept the crown. Embarrassment and frustration starts flooding
out of my mouth, “You know. . . I <b>used</b>
to be able to <b>have a conversation</b>
with an <b>adult</b>!” I shout to my
husband. I <i>do like</i> being a stay-at-home-mom, but I’m also a CPA. Sometimes. . . like that moment right there.
. . I feel about a thousand-times-removed from my former self that I left a
mere, 14-months ago. “That was one of
the most important conversations in <b>my
life</b> and I couldn’t even <b>talk</b>!” The tide has shifted - I’m on the brink of
tears now. “Honey,” V tries to console
me, “You may not have seen it, but every-time Little Man was on the camera, she
stopped listening to us, anyway. She
couldn’t take her eyes off of him. She <b>loved</b> him!” I pause for a minute to consider. I must admit, Little Man <i>is</i> pretty cute. His little
blond curls dancing in and out of the screen were comical, if you’re in that
sort of mood. . . “Really?” I sniffed.
“Yes. Trust me. It was okay.
And she told us to make the video – she would have told us another line
if she didn’t think we had potential,” he looked me square in the face and held
my hand, as Little Man threw all the pots and pans from his play kitchen across
the family room. I smiled. Okay.
We’ll give it a shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went on-line. We
found other casting videos. We found a
really <a href="http://ivorypomegranate.com/category/house-hunters-international/" target="_blank">good one from a couple in <st1:country-region>Kyrgyzstan</st1:country-region></a>
and who were picked for the show. So we
modeled ours after theirs, more or less.
The casting producer said she loved our ‘story’ about how V’s parents
immigrated to the <st1:country-region>U.S.</st1:country-region>
when he was 2, about how he has family still here, etc. So again, we tried to incorporate that into
the video as well. I wanted to show the
differences between <st1:country-region>America</st1:country-region>
and The Netherlands. I had started
collecting video footage whenever we moved here, with hopes of creating a video
to my most favorite song of all time – Home, by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic
Zeros. . . and now was our chance. I was
so proud of the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaybXYtLqAo" target="_blank">final product</a> – even if we didn’t get picked for the show. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The producers may have liked it, but they wanted more. They wanted more of us talking directly to
the camera, unscripted. This assignment
was seemingly impossible to accomplish for an ex-accountant and an IT
consultant. We’re planners! So we had to produce two more videos, thus
dragging out the anticipation and acceptance for months. My nervous-refresh-email-habit-neared obscene
levels as I waited for a final yea-or-nay confirmation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, as I was enjoying a day to myself in <st1:city>London</st1:city>
before my friend’s wedding, I received a phone call. I was shopping for souvenirs at Harrods. V was calling me. With international roaming charges, I knew he
wasn’t just calling to say hi. “Hello?”
I turned away from the Harrod’s chocolates I had been eyeing. “We got it!” he shouted into the phone. He’s the Quarterback of the high school who
just won the State title. I can feel the
radiation from his gleaming smile through the phone. “What?!?!
Do you really mean….” I say, unbelieving the news and dodging
customers. “Yes! We’re going to be on International House
Hunters!” he repeats. I’m overjoyed and
relieved. It was an exciting but tedious
process to get accepted and many friends in Leiden helped watch the kids, film,
walk the dogs, and just give general support for us to even get this far. I’m so glad that all the hard work had paid
off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We found out a little over a month ago. The film crew will be here in two days and
will be filming for four days here in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>. The final filming schedule was sent to us tonight
and everything is a go. As I perused
through the schedule and read words like “Line Producer, Supervising Field
Producer, & Production Coordinator” I found myself slightly
hyperventilating. I’m really going to be
on TV! It’s a little nerve-wrecking, but
exciting. On our end, we’ve had 6
haircuts (the dogs included), organized outfits, and booked babysitters. On their end, they’ve received permission to
film at the DeValk windmill in town with an amusing request that each film crew
member pay the 4 Euro entrance fee (can we say ‘<i>thank you</i> for the <b>international
publicity</b>?”), at the Leiden Market, at the kids’ daycare, and at a local
hotel. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So with that, my cover is blown. All my attempts to maintain the privacy of my
husband and children are gone. My
husband’s name in Vinny, my daughter is Cosette, and son is Holden. Luckily, after showing the video to a regular
reader (whom I haven’t met in real life, yet) she told me that I was how she
pictured me – which makes me happy. So
here we are, probably even more authentic than what you’re going to see on
House Hunters (at least, from what I’ve read).
And if anyone out there has connections to Good Morning America and
could forward it on to Robin Roberts – that would be awesome. </div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3150793468826864481.post-39890590155213064162013-05-13T15:54:00.000-07:002013-05-14T03:39:00.361-07:00I Paid My Income Tax Today<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cc36f25DilM" target="_blank">I Paid My Income Tax Today (Irving Berlin)</a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
“The only things
certain in life are death and taxes” – Benjamin Franklin</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What Ben didn’t
mention was that the dead still need to complete their taxes. Even in The <st1:country-region>Netherlands</st1:country-region>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband was born
in The Netherlands. He can trace his
Dutch family history back 300 years on both sides. His Grandmother, on his mother’s side, lived
and died in <st1:city>Gouda</st1:city> – a small town
about 30 minutes from where we live in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>. The story of <a href="http://www.courageousorcrazy.blogspot.nl/2013/01/one-red-thread.html" target="_blank">her death and burial</a> was a
dramatic process and being the only living relatives she has in The
Netherlands, my husband has been granted the prestigious title of Executor of
The Estate – and for months, has been working through all the tedious
challenges of the job description. The
Dutch, and their love of paperwork and challenging efficiency, have been doing
their best in dragging out and complicating the process as much as
possible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband received
a 30-page document (in Dutch, obviously) from the government explaining how to
complete his Grandmother’s tax return.
He flipped through it, amazed at the heft of the package. He lugged it up to his father’s relatives,
pleading for assistance, and discovered the taxes were due April 1 as opposed
to August 1 as he had mistakenly skimming-translated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first step was
to contact the tax office to make an appointment to visit with someone in order
to complete the tax form. “Ja. Okay.
So. Are you free, Wednesday
between the hours of <st1:time hour="11" minute="0">11:00 a.m.</st1:time> and <st1:time hour="13" minute="0">1:00 p.m.</st1:time>?” the pleasant-sounding Dutch woman
asked V. V leaned his phone on his
shoulder, and checked his calendar, “Um, yes.
I can be. Where do I need to go?”
he responded. “Oh, no, no, no. Someone will be <i>calling</i> you on Wednesday between <st1:time hour="11" minute="0">11:00</st1:time>
and <st1:time hour="13" minute="0">1:00</st1:time> in order to make an
appointment for your taxes,” she explained with an air of factuality and
finality in her voice. V’s eyes lit up
and he made an imaginary fist pump in the air.
All the Expat websites and cultural guidebooks had warned us about the appointment-for-an-appointment
quirky Dutch custom, and after a year, he finally could say he too, had been indoctrinated
into the club. It tipped the scales from
long-term tourist, to local - like getting your bike stolen in <st1:city>Amsterdam</st1:city>.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days later, the
phone rang at the appointed time and a man’s voice confirmed the date for the
filing of the taxes. “You free in two
weeks, yes?” he said roughly. “Yes, of
course – but isn’t that date after the April 1<sup>st</sup> deadline to file?”
V responded, quite confused. . . his mind reminiscing of Americans driving all
over town to find the one post office open late on April 15<sup>th</sup>, then
shoving their stamped envelopes desperately into the mail slots like breathless
marathon runners crossing the finish line.
“No. No. It is okay. As long as you <i>have an appointment</i> to file your taxes, then it will be just
fine.” Of course. This <i>appointment</i>
business again. He instructed V to go
to the Hogeschool in <st1:city>Leiden</st1:city>. <i>Hogeschool,
isn’t that a college?</i> V thought to himself.
Confused, but humbled by the whole
filing-taxes-in-The-Netherlands-process thus far, V left the unspoken question
linger in the air. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Hogeschool was
within walking distance of our home.
Rain fell softly as he entered the glass revolving door. The tile floor stretched before him and the
odor of cheap cleaning products similar to high schools all over the world
(apparently) assaulted his nose. He
followed the low buzz echoing throughout the hall and came upon the
gymnasium. Folding card tables were set
outside the gym and he checked in, and then sat in a row of chairs, waiting for
his name to be called, as if at the DMV in <st1:state>Texas</st1:state>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shifted
uncomfortably in the plastic chair until his name was called and a plain, young
girl escorted him into the gymnasium. The room was crowded with tables, ‘tax
advisors’, and customers. A hum
resonated throughout the room as she led V to her own spot among the rows of
folding tables and plastic chairs. “Ga
zitten” she instructed, and V sat. She
shuffled some papers, shifted in her chair, subconsciously wiped her hands on
her jeans, and consciously relaxed her shoulders. She asked how she could help him – in
Dutch. “Um, spreek ja Engles?” V
responded. He’s been taking Dutch
classes. He can read children’s books
and have a decent conversation with people in shops, restaurants, at the train
station, etc., but he’d prefer to speak English when dealing with The
Netherlands Government - can’t be too cautious.
The girl frowns at him, but responds that she would give it a try. V continues to explain his position. Her eyes widen as his story continues. As he concludes, the look of horrified
bewilderment upon her face is solidified.
Her hand shoots up into the air. Apparently,
the chapter that explains: How to file taxes for a Dead Dutch Grandmother of an
English-speaking-Expat-grandson had not been covered in
her Introduction to Individual Taxation course.
At least, not yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her professor comes
to her aid. In rapid Dutch, the
flustered student enlightens the woman of the unique case my husband has
presented her. The lecturer pats her
lightly on the shoulder and ushers my husband away from the scene like a woman
shielding someone from an accident, and towards an older gentleman. As V handed him a pile of statements, papers,
and notes, the elderly man nodded with the calm wisdom of an unfazed tax advisor who had
seen it all. A few flips through the
documents, a few keystrokes into his computer, and a couple of penciled digits
onto a receipt slip – and Oma’s taxes were filed. The bill would come later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
V shook the man’s
hand and passed the rows of students on his way out. With an enlightened sense of self, V danced
out of the gym, proud of his accomplishment.
Filing my Grandmother’s taxes in an hour - in The Netherlands –
check! But before he left, V asked the
all-knowing tax advisor about how to handle the subsequent inheritance tax. His response, as if you had not guessed it
already – “Oh yes. Just call the tax
office. And make <i>an appointment</i>!” </div>
Celestehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04679198379075660218noreply@blogger.com1