Tighten Up

Tighten Up (The Black Keys)

Splash, splash.  My booted feet are briskly tromping along the rainy streets of Leiden at 10:30 p.m.  A black umbrella is in my right hand.  As I look right and left at the pedestrian cross walk, I’m glaring through the street-lights and raindrops.  I cross the quiet street, turn left, and as I work my way towards the center of town, I reflect on the scene I left just minutes before in my home.  “Fine!  I will go,” I shout above the baby’s cries.  My husband is attempting to console the bright red-faced baby by rocking him back and forth, loudly shushing him.  The room is dark except for the light coming from our closet, but despite the attempt of creating a soothing environment, there is no stopping the baby’s madness at this moment in time.  I’ve opened every cupboard in our bathroom and kitchen searching for it, but it was a pointless search.  I already knew we did not have it.      

“They’re not going to have it either,” V had told me, “there’s nothing we can do.”  But I am crazed with determination.  I have my American Thinking Hat on.  This is the hat I wear when I say, “Okay, if I had this problem at home.  What would I do?” and then I attempt to solve the problem using the same solution I came up with, but with the Dutch resources available to me.  This methodology is rarely successful.   Splash, splash.  The sounds of my boots on the wet sidewalk are muffled.  There are few people out.  I find a small refuge from the dark, rain, and loneliness as I pass quickly through one side of the train station and out the other.  I continue my march.  Little Man is having stomach problems of considerable pain.   If I were in Texas, at 10:30 p.m. on a Thursday evening, I would get in my car, drive the 100 yards to the 24-hour CVS pharmacy around the corner (okay, Dutch readers, go ahead and snicker, but yes, I would have driven around the corner because it was dark, rainy, and CVS has a parking lot.  In my defense, there isn’t a sidewalk linking my neighborhood street to the store.)  Either way, I would have driven, made a bee-line to the baby products at the back of the store, picked up the infant gas medicine (Mylicon), paid the cashier, and raced home.  A few drops of the liquid relief, and done.  My baby boy would be happy and asleep before 10:45.  Problem solved, efficiently and effectively.  As I sat on our bed wringing my hands and watching my husband rock the baby, the options ran through my head.  Pharmacy where I can purchase Dutch-version on infant medicine (Infacol):  Closed at 5:00 p.m.  Can I get Infacol at the grocery store:  No.  And even if I could, grocery stores closed at 9:00 p.m.  What about the train station drug store?  Doesn’t the train station drug store stay open later that 5?  Yes.  It stays open until 6:00.  No. No. No.  I need to tighten up on my emotional reigns, but I no longer even have them in my hands.  They are flapping around me uncontrollably, whipping myself and everyone else around me.  I refuse to give up.  I am an American!  I am a survivor!  I am a think-outside-the-box-Mother!  So what do I do?  I had already communicated The Solution to V, and while he did not say no, I could tell he was wearier in his eagerness to participate in The Plan.  Not able to take the baby’s crying for a minute longer, I jump off the bed, grab my boots in frenzy, and shout ridiculous nonsense to my husband, “I don’t care if the Nightmarkt doesn’t have it.  I’m going to be the parent at least finds out!  There has GOT to be something we can do!  He is a tension increaser!  Even AskMoxie describes it!  He will NOT cry himself to sleep.” and I rush out of the house with my dog Tyler looking at me pitifully from behind the foyer glass door.  I’ve never been to the Nightmarkt before, but I knew of its existence.  Questionable characters were lurking in darkness of neighboring store doorways, but I wasn’t scared.  My eyes focused on the ground and I gritted my teeth.  I may be only 5 feet tall, but I imagined myself walking with the fierceness of Rocky.  Just go ahead and say something to me, I baited, in my head.  You with have the Wrath of Mama reigning down upon you like a hurricane you’ve never seen on this continent.  I passed the youths without attracting any attention and I switched my focus back to the task.  I knew the shop wasn’t going to have the Infacol.  But that didn’t stop me.  I had to KNOW.  I walk in.  It’s like a 7-11 with nearly as many goods in a space a tenth of the size.  After a brief visit to the baby section:  Diapers, wipes, formula (not the kind we use of course, but good to know, anyway).  I don’t see it and I ask the guy behind the counter.  I’m not sure if he speaks English.  I’m not even sure if he speaks Dutch.  He kind of looks and me quizzically, then bends down behind the counter.  Yes.  All the medicine is hidden from view.  “Infacol – baby medicine.  Gas.” I say slowly. . . he rummages around for what seems like half-an-hour, and he pops back up with a “No.”  My shoulders drop and the breath I didn’t realize I was holding escaped from my lips.  Still not willing to admit defeat, I run back over to the baby section and pick up two bottles with Dutch labels reminiscent of old-fashioned whiskey bottles.  I bring them to him.  “Are these herbal remedies for gas?” hopeful and doubtful, I ask him.  He pretends to read the labels then just shakes his head in confusion.  I put the mystery bottles back on the shelf, notice but ignore the large end-cap wine display out of the corner of my eye, duck my head, and wander back out into the rain.  I’m not even past the large window of the Nightmarkt before I stop in my tracks, pop my head up, and place an imaginary slap on my forehead.  “Chamomile” I whisper to myself.  I have an entire box of chamomile tea in my pantry on the suggestion from my nurse friend here in The Netherlands last time Little Man had a stomach ache.  Like the people who turn down the car radio when they’re trying to find a house number, in the midst of the howling child, I just hadn’t been able to think of the solution before.  The baby was still crying in my husband’s arms when I returned twenty-five minutes later.  Frustrated, I enlightened him on the simple solution neither one of us had thought of before, and brewed the tea.  I put a few ounces in his bottle and within minutes, Little Man’s stomach had calmed and he was fast asleep in my arms, to the wide-eyed amazement of my husband.  I placed the baby in his crib and quietly closed the door, but the next battle was brewing.  I faced my husband. . .

   How many times have I talked with my new friends here in The Netherlands and I’ve heard, “He just doesn’t get it,” and well, to be honest, how many times have I said that exact same phrase to V, to his face?  Ugh.  I don’t even want to admit it.  Through all my (limited, I’ll admit, I’m a mom of two, when do I have a lot of time to) research. . . I have found a lot of information, pats-on-the-back, giiirl-it’s-going-to-be-okay-just-hang-in-there support for the stay-at-home-mom (and really, ALL moms) and the stress it takes on your self-esteem, identity, and relationship with the kids.  But I can’t find a lot about the relationship with your husband.  This is a huge piece of being a Mom, right? 

  Back up a minute.  One of the things I loved most about V when I met him was his transparency to love – his friends, his dog, and me.  We communicated everything from the very beginning.  He always encouraged me to tell him what was on my mind, and he listened in a way that solved problems and made me confident in our love and respect for each other.  Before and after we got married, V and I always did everything together.  There were no - your chores, my chores, back in the States, especially pre-children.  We rebuilt a fence together: slugging that sledgehammer was exhilarating for me.  We’ve painted three different houses together.  We both mow laws.  We both do dishes.  We both take out trash.  Even during our wedding-planning days, he would call and make the appointments with the florists.  I was traveling a lot with my job and didn’t have a very private cube at my office, complete with a few eavesdropping co-workers.  The conservative Baton Rouge florists would actually smirk and ask him, “Why are you making the appointment?” He would simply respond, “It’s just easier this way,” then make an asterisk by their name. 

  So with all that information, the two-income family back in the States suited that part of our relationship quite well.  I was responsible for dropping our daughter off at school and picking her up, but that was a job I enjoyed quite a lot.  It was more time with her and I got to see her smiling face when the day was done.  We were basically always home at the same time, so all duties were shared.  Or at least, “Okay – you give her a bath while I clean the dishes,” with two, it’s a little more difficult. “Okay – let’s give them both a bath, and the dishes will just have to wait,” but the point is, work time was work time for both of us, and family time was family time for both of us.  It was equal and shared. 

   Here, as a stay-at-home-mom, in the heat of a discussion, I actually find myself saying things to him like, “You get to leave this house without the kids everyday and get paid for it.”  I know.  Hardly helpful, and I hang my head.  I love my kids and I love spending time with them.  Again, I’m learning more about them and myself that I ever would have had I still been working.  But the limitations of where I can go with both of them and the fact that I’m not contributing to the household income (which, I must say, has caused more than a few hyper-ventilating episodes by this CPA), sometimes makes me think and say and do things I wouldn’t otherwise do if I was able to find a job here in The Netherlands that didn’t require me to speak Dutch, and paid me more than the daycare costs of doing so.

  Is it fair? As stay-at-home-moms, we are around our children all day long but sometimes feel resentment towards our husbands when they just “don’t get it?” Is it a communication failure or are we holding them to a standard higher that is humanly achievable?  It is because the kids are ours that we feel like they should innately understand all the nuisances and jobs that come along with raising the kids?  Do we understand everything that goes on at their full-time job?  I am very lucky in that I have public accounting experience and that V is a very involved Dad.  I do think that we can talk each other’s language, which is a huge starting point.  I can put things into his daily terminology if needed.  I can say things like, “Okay. . . so your partner calls you up during dinner on Friday night and tells you that you’re going to have to pull an all-nighter on Monday night in order to get the report out on time. . . do you think you’d be happy with that message?  Was it delivered to you in a timely manner?”  (This line was in response to a conversation during dinner on a Friday evening telling me that he was going to be at a client on Monday and Tuesday, which would require an over-night stay – with a baby that wakes up in the middle of the night, this news was not received without due consideration) and once I put the situation in the context of a public accounting assignment, we kind of laughed at the analogy and he agreed that letting me know sooner would have been a better way to approach the news.  But I think for the most part, V DOES get it.  He just does things different than I do.  His focus is not always with the kids and in the end, it is probably okay.  “Why was the baby crying?” I asked him last Sunday afternoon.  “Crying?  When?” he said.  “Yes.  Crying, when I was upstairs with Baby Girl.  You were down here with him and I heard a crash and he started howling.  What was that all about?” I asked him.  V looked at me blankly.  “He was okay.  I don’t remember why he was crying,” he said dismissively.  I was amazed that he could eliminate the cause of his screams from his memory – if only, I was able to do such things. . .  “You don’t remember?  What was the final score of the LSU game you were watching this morning?” I asked.  I saw the hint of a smile and a quick evaporation, “I don’t remember,” he answered, staring at me intently.  “I don’t believe you.  I’m pretty sure you can remember the exact score of the game, but yet, you can’t tell me why our son was screaming his head off, I heard water running, a shuffle of feet and other movement – all of which I could hear from upstairs, but yet – you can’t tell me what happened?!?!”  In his defense, he did remember.  And to be honest, it was not a big deal.  I just made it one.  Because I was emotionally involved with every cry my baby exerted, even from the second floor. 

  I think being a mother is hard.  Your babies are physically part of the woman’s body for forty weeks (give or take) and so with that unequal beginning, add a ton of wacky hormones, we women are already put in an extremely emotional place that our husbands are not privy to.  If you’re a stay-at-home mom, this gig is unlike any job you’ve ever had because the results of your hard work are not instantly tangible.  You’ve turned in your badge and there are no raises, no bonuses, and no promotions.  Even on a day you’ve worked your absolute hardest, stayed focused, multi-tasked like a pro, and physically exhausted yourself, there’s still no guarantee that your boss or your clients (aka your children) are going to be happy at the end of the day.  Actually, chances are that they won’t.  Because that’s what kids do.  That’s tough.     

  Do we really want our husbands to be as emotionally involved as we are?  To be honest, would that make things better or worse?  Isn’t that why we were attracted to them in the first place?  Their ability to keep their cool, offer an objective perspective, and give logical advice when we were irate about pre-children problems such as, bridesmaids dresses or shoes? 

   I don’t have any answers to any of the questions I posed above.  But I do have hope.  I think that as the tiresomeness of The Jobs of raising two small children become less tedious, more fun, less labor-intensive, and more rewarding, everything will get better.  SuperNanny says, (Your toddler) “wants more attention than it is humanly possible to give, and he wants it for longer than there are hours in the day.”  That helps me feel better about the task we’re facing.  Individually and together, it’s a seemingly impossible one, but every day is a learning experience and we’re getting better at it.  As the months pass, the physical demands of the children lessen, the emotional relationships grow, and my husband and I are able to spend more time focusing on each other.  Even now, we spend a few hours in the evenings together, sitting and talking uninterrupted, which is a welcome change compared to the first few months of being here, when our baby boy was just three months old.  We may argue more than we had in our previous life pre-children, but our smiles are deeper and have been compounded on the tiny faces around us.  My Director at my previous job, after breaking the news to him that I was pregnant responded with the following, "As a parent, you will have your highest highs and your lowest lows," and to this day, I think there is no truer statement that describes parenthood.  With time, everything improves.  Someday V and I will be able to hold hands again walking down the street, instead of pushing strollers.  Our family will be a line across the sidewalk, all four of us, Red Rover Red Rover style, before I even know it.    In the meantime, I’m going to keep a mindful eye on the new roles we play in our Netherlands life: the balance of work, family and self needs we both face.  While I’m at it, I’ll see if I can trade my American Thinking Cap in for a Dutch one.  And maybe get a matching one for V.    

Full Circle

Full Circle - Aerosmith

Rhine River, Trechtingshausen, Germany

Our flight is going to be delayed due to the ongoing strike at Frankfurt Airport.  All the gates are currently occupied and air traffic control is not allowing any aircraft to depart towards the airport.  Our cabin crew will be coming around with juice and snacks.  We’re scheduled to depart in an hour, but we will keep you posted if that time is moved up.  Once we are in the air, our flying time will be 55 minutes and we will see if we can make up some time.  Thank you for your patience.

And with that, the Captain switched off the intercom.  I’m sitting in the middle of the plane by the window.  Earlier this week, my husband’s flight home from Norway was cancelled because a maintenance worker at AMS found a bomb from World War II and they shut down a portion of the airport for hours.  I can’t help but think: strikes and WWII bombs, I don’t think these are things that would happen in America.  Either way, it’s a rough week for airline travel in The Netherlands.  I settle back in my chair and for about the tenth time today, I am thankful my children are not with me, and the trip is just getting started.  I hear a small child, about 18 rows behind me, with piercing clarity.  He is not pleased with the news about the hour delay.  Maybe the chocolate “Time Out Cookies” will brighten his mood.  I text my husband and my childhood friend with the information, then sit back and smile.  More time to read my book…alone.  I am okay with this. 

   My husband had pushed the double-stroller to the train station and I said goodbye to my adorable children just hours before.  “Bye sweeties!  I’ll be home in just a few days.  You be good for Daddy!”  Baby Girl blew me kisses from the back seat of the tandem stroller while Little Man just looked at me confused.  At almost 11 months old now, I’ve never been away from him for a night.  Tears streamed down my face as the train doors shut and the train pulled away from my family standing on the platform, but the sadness was short-lived.  I reminded myself that I needed this get-away and I didn’t feel too guilty about leaving my husband in charge for a few days.  He’d gone to Paris with some friends a few weekends back, and he had been in Norway earlier in the week.  He should be well-rested.  My girl’s trip to visit my childhood friend who lives outside of Frankfurt had been my carrot all week during his absence and I was ready to savor it.

   I’ve known Amy since before she was born.  Decades ago, our grandparents lived down the street from each other in Lubbock, Texas.  My dad was best friends with her uncle growing up.  My dad went to high school with her dad.  In a convoluted way I don’t remember clearly, her family introduced my parents to each other.  My mom was pregnant with me when she visited Amy’s mom in the hospital when Amy’s brother was born.  The story goes that the nurse joked, “Oh, I guess we’ll be seeing you soon.” “Oh no,” my mother replied. “I still have five weeks.”  I was born four days later.   My parents dropped me and my sister off at their house when my brother was born.  My Dad apparently shouting, “I’m off to have my 3^rd girl!” as he sped into the night.  We’ve spent countless summers growing up together, swimming in their pool, playing house, playing school, and riding bikes.  We had a yearly tradition of attending the Morton Meyerson Christmas concerts in Downtown Dallas together and made bets on which grandparent was going to fall asleep first.  When I was in middle school, my grandma and her grandfather would go dancing.  The thought that they’d fall in love and get married thrilled the five of us kids.  We couldn’t think of anything more appropriate than us becoming real cousins.  We’ve attended each other’s high school graduations and Amy and her parents were at my wedding.  

  Amy lived in Florida for a while and had been living in Germany for almost three years when I moved to The Netherlands in January.  With geography between us, we had fallen out of touch.  I had e-mailed her before my departure, joking that we’d “be neighbors soon,” but I did not realize what a significant influence she would have on my new life.  She has no kids of her own, but she is a kindergarten teacher in an International School outside of Frankfurt, which credits her more than any mom I know.  She e-mailed me after I arrived here and said, “I will come.  I will take care of your kids, while you and V do whatever you need to do to get settled.”  Three weeks after the kids and I moved here - We did not have furniture in our home, but she came and slept on the Ikea sofa bed and ate at our card table.  She looked around our empty house and said, “Take pictures of this – this is part of your journey.”  She made shelters out of our cardboard boxes for my daughter.  She played with Baby Girl while V, Little Man, and I bought paint in the snow. 

Walking on the frozen canals in Leiden

    During her visit in February, she and I excitedly explored my new home town while V looked after the kids.  The canals were frozen over and she encouraged me to walk on them.  “What”?  Are you crazy?!?”  With raised eyebrow, I watched Dutch women push their strollered babies on the ice.  With the dare in her eyes, I responded, “Okay, I’ll do it,” and we walked out on the ice in our boots.  She took me shopping and told me what tights I needed to buy for my daughter to keep her warm. “Kids don’t get sick from cold, they get sick from germs,” she explained.  News to me, I reservedly trusted her teacher’s assessment.  Together, we purchased a bight pink snow suit (1/2 price in February) for my daughter.  Once we were home, Amy played with my daughter in front of our house in the snow, while I watched from the window, shivering and cowering inside, clutching my newborn.

  When she offered to have my family visit her in Germany, we had lots of considerations – we could take the train, but do I really want to haul two children plus stuff on the five hour train ride?  (The answer is: no)  We could drive, but is five hours too long for the kids, etc. (Yes, perhaps, it is too long?)  In the end, I decided, I’m going to go.  I want to hang out with Amy.  Me.  Alone.  I think I deserve this. 

   So with that, a KLM ticket was purchased and I was on my way to Germany.  As the plane ascended, I looked out the window and thought – geez, The Netherlands is as flat as Dallas.  With that, if Dallas was old and had some fabulous architecture and a few canals, who knows what it could be. . . . (Think. . . San Antonio Riverwalk???)  I arrived at Frankfurt and was pleased at the EU agreement, as I bypassed customs on my way out of the baggage claim area.  Reveling at the fact that I was in Germany without jet-lag, I found Amy amongst the crowd of people and together we high-tailed it to her car parked outside, toting my pink polka dot carry-on, while dodging hugely large suitcases on the sidewalks.  We snapped our seatbelts efficiently and eyed the parking ticket machine as her car sped towards the gated exit.  Panicked about the requirements of pre-payment, in a frenzy and as a result of her direct instructions, I jumped out with her ticket and Euros in hand, paid the parking ticket, thanking the language Gods there was an English option on the machine, and jumped back into her awaiting car, while other cars and hand gestures were piling up behind us, to the tune of, “Well, I usually park over there, where you pay the attendant as you leave!”  I smiled, pleased with myself.  “Do one thing that scares you every day,” was on a postcard she sent me months ago.  From one Texas Expat to another, it reigns true.  As we maneuvered the German countryside to avoid the pile-up of traffic on the highway (highlighted as red on her GPS with the British voice), I laughed out loud.  She turned to me, my friend from my childhood and said, “What?”  “Amy. . . if you had told me. . . that we’d be running around the German countryside in our 30s. . . because you lived outside of Wiesbaden, Germany and I lived in Leiden, The Netherlands. . . would you have ever have believed. . .” and she just laughed. “No, I never would have believed it.”  

  We toured her school and I explored her Kindergarten classroom at the International School in Wiesbaden.  Prior to moving to The Netherlands, many terms were unfamiliar to me:  Expat, American School, International School, etc.  As we walked through her classroom and outdoor playground with a fantastic view of German countryside, she explained her curriculum.  “There’s this shed, where we keep tricycles, wagons, etc.  The teachers never even bothered to really get the toys out because the shed was in such disarray.  So, I decided to give the primary kids a task.  They were instructed to determine how to organize it.”  I’m looking in the shed.  Each tricycle, wagon, toy, etc. has a predetermined ‘parking spot’ complete with photo and precious 5-year-old-hand-wrtten-sign.  Amy backs me up to the instruction totem-pole, in which, the 5-year olds have determined the optimal order in which the toys should be loaded into the shed, again, complete with pictures and hand written sign.  At 5 years old, these children, via my friend, are learning logistics.  I am in awe. 

  She drove me into Weisbaden for dinner.  She’s determined to park in her regular parking garage, but unfortunately for us, the parking hassles continue.  The garage is closed to all those apparently not driving a Mercedes and we have to ridiculously maneuver her car backwards, up the hill, onto the street.  It is hilarious and exhilarating.  We find a new place to park, and walk to her favorite restaurant.  It is quaint and German, complete with the wooden beams you’d expect in a movie.  She orders in German, and again, I’m impressed.  We split a schnitzel (otherwise known as a chicken-fried-chicken) and I am happy.  I am a small person, but I’ve left more than a few Dutch restaurants still hungry.  I am constantly amazed at the biking required by this country, but yet the small portions of bird food they serve you.  This schnitzel, split, was enough to fill my eternal hunger.  I was happy with the food, and drank my pilsner of a beer (geez man, does this come in a small?) with gratitude. 

Breakfast on the balcony

  I awoke the next day to a sleep-filled night and past 8 a.m.  As I was starting my day, she called to me from the bathroom, “Can we eat out on the balcony?”  Although we are both from Texas, after 3 plus years of living in Europe, her blood has apparently thickened before mine.  “What?  No way.  It’s cold!” I shout as I saunter out of the bathroom.  I turn the corner and see that she already has breakfast set up on her balcony with the fantastic view.  I am instantly apologetic and feel like a master jerk.  “Oh, I’m sorry!  Of course we can eat outside, just let me blow dry my hair.”  Sleeping in and her making breakfast for me has already equated to the best vacation ever.    

Burg Rheinstein Castle

  We tour castles, visit vineyards, and have lunch overlooking the Rhine.  I am in love with Germany and the life she has created for herself.  She hosts a BBQ for her Expat friends on Saturday night.  As I am introducing myself, reiterating my script, “We are on a 2-year rotation to The Netherlands.  We started in January,” every one of their responses was, “Can you extend?”  I think this says a lot about the life they’ve created for themselves.  Amy and her friends are happy, and why not?  They’ve got great jobs and benefits they wouldn’t have back in the states.  They love to travel and have wonderful relationships.  I’m proud of Amy and the life she’s created for herself.  She’s knowledgeable and successful and I’m glad I’m close enough to recognize it. 

  The majority of my visit was light-hearted and stress-free, but we were also able to explore a few uncharted territories from our past, like no one else close to me might know.   I think this was an important part of our journey.  We individually and mutually mourned the family we knew in our youth.  Members have passed away physically and emotionally and we were able to share such intimate moments with each other.  We cried together and nodded with understanding and misunderstanding, but yet, it was good.  Not many people I associate with now know my parents and my sister and brother the way she does, and vice versa.  With time and perspective separating us, it was enlightening.  Although I’ve known Amy my entire life, it’s reassuring that we are still discovering ourselves.  We not only support each other in that journey, but we are just across the border from each other.       

  We zoom down the Germany highways as she assures me, “Don’t worry, Terminal 2 is a piece of cake.”  I’m nervous and shaking my head.  I talk to her like the sister she is, “Amy, your house is 30 minutes from the airport, not 20.  This is an important distinction for you to make when people are departing.”  She smiles and apologizes, yet reassures me it will be okay.  My type-A-personality-with-the-crap-poker-face eyes her suspiciously.  To my relief and surprise, Terminal 2 at FRA is like American Eagle Terminal B at DFW:  A piece of cake.  As I’m wandering around the terminal, waiting for them to post what gate my flight is departing from, I reflect on our goodbyes outside Frankfurt airport.  We said goodbye until Thanksgiving.  She and her roommate are going to celebrate Thanksgiving with us in The Netherlands.  I don’t know if we’ll find a turkey, but she reassured me, “I don’t care if we eat pizza.  You choose your family.  I choose you.”  I couldn’t agree more.                                   

Bang My Head Against the Wall

Bang My Head - Cross Canadian Ragweed

Baby Girl on the balcony overlooking Lake Zurich

 So…I’ve always been a bit of a stress-ball.  (I can hear my ex-coworkers in America laughing from here. . .)  I like things organized.  I appreciate soothing background music.  I work most effectively by focusing on one task at a time until completion.  I like to be in control and empowered.  I care a lot about what other people think of me.  I do not like to inconvenience others and sometimes have trouble asking for help.   I hate looking incompetent.  I sure I am not alone with these statements.  Anyone who knows me also knows that with all this stress-related energy comes great passion and drive.  I will be the first person to welcome a new employee, take them to lunch, and become a life-long friend.  I will be at the wedding, birthday party, baby shower, and Christmas party, if I’m not already hosting it.  I enjoy trying to understand why people do the things they do.  If I say I’m going to do something, I do it.  I’m forgiving.  I love to dance and give hugs.  So, in the end, there’s a balance:  stress and love.  Energy is the common denominator.

  As a parent, your life is no longer your own.  At least not in the form it was previously.  Your child has a significant influence on when you sleep and when you wake, and then everything else just stems from there.   

  One of the biggest differences between living in America and living in Europe is how public your life becomes.  For example, in America, you’re driving home from work or the store at the end of a long day with two young children in the backseat.  You and your children are tired and restless.  Tensions are starting to escalate while being confined in your 4-door car or SUV.  Perhaps one has pinched the other one and now one or both are crying.  You’re looking into your rear-view mirror, alternating between sympathy and frustration, “Are you okay, sweetie?  Did you hit your brother?  How many times do I have to tell you, No hitting!  This is your warning.  Do it again and I’ll pull this car over and put you in timeout right here on the side of Preston Road!”  At the end, both are wailing while you’re trying to keep your cool, lecture your children, and you’ve got a death-grip on the steering wheel while your foot reflexively accelerates on the gas pedal towards home.  The car next to you at the stop light, on the rare case the driver even bothers to look in your direction, sees a snow globe of activity.  They may smile at the two sweet little children in their individual car seats.  If they do notice the tears streaming down a face, with the screams muted, they may look on sympathetically, and think, oh shame, the poor little dears.  The driver looks forward, perhaps switches the radio station from the traffic report to a song, zooms down the road once the light changes from red to green, and does not give you and your family a second thought.  The blizzard of stress, screaming, and anger is yours and contained. 

    In Europe, in The Netherlands in particular, it is five o’clock and my children are sitting side-by-side in the carrier on my bike.  My daughter is nearing her ‘witching’ hour and she pinches the baby for kicks.  His screams shatter the otherwise peacefulness of the bike path all around us.  Wailing beyond belief, every bicyclist within a ¼-mile radius (and there are a lot of them) can hear the disaster I am pedaling down the road.  We are not in a bubble, but rather, we are a painstakingly clear high definition movie complete with surround sound.  Cyclists are coming towards me and zooming around me and everyone is turning their heads and staring in wonder at the absolute volume radiating from my bright green Bose speaker of a bike.  Within seconds, I pull to the side of the bike path, jump off the bike with lightning speed, lift up the rain cover and have my son unbuckled and in my arms while glaring at my daughter.  A woman cradling her howling baby on the side of the bike path in front of the most colorful bike in the country attracts no less attention.  Walking down the sidewalk pushing a screaming toddler or baby is just as much fun.  I’ve had old women in Dutch, French, and German comment to me and my children about the goings-on of the scene in front of them.  The most intense of all, is the train.  Inevitably, after physically walking all over town to get to the train station, you may or may not have had to carry the stroller plus child down an unbelievable flight of stairs and lift it breathlessly onto the train.  Every train in Europe I’ve been on has a door labeled handicap, but it beats me as to how a wheelchair is supposed to lift itself up two to three stairs to get into the train.  I have yet to see a ramp.  So you’re already low on energy, probably sweating, and your sweet child is not thrilled to be stuck in the tiny space allotted for strollers, suitcases, bikes, and whatever other large device people are taking on the train (I saw a man carrying a stringed bass in Zurich).   Your child’s mood changes from yellow to red and with that, the whining, screaming, kicking, and if you’re lucky, even hitting commences.  As a parent, your energy level is already at low point from the physical requirements of getting to the train and your patience with said child is minimal.  The people around you are stuck listening to everything you and your child are saying for minutes on end.  They don’t know you.  They don’t know that you and your child are 90% of the time sweet and loving towards each other.  They don’t know that you’re on holiday and sleeping a family of four in a one-bedroom hotel room which inevitably results in the day excitedly starting at 6:30 a.m. instead of the normal wakeup time of 8:00.  They don’t know that you’ve flown your family of four to another country because it was important to you to attend a wedding of one of your closest friends.  All they see is one stressed-out Mama and a screaming child (or two). 

View of Zurich from Lake Zurich

  The first Secret of Adulthood Gretchen Rubin writes in her book, The Happiness Project is “People don’t notice your mistakes as much as you think.”  Okay.  Fine.  I’ll take a breath and ponder that one for a minute.  But has Gretchen ever been on a wedding cruise boat with a seasick baby and a toddler who had approximately 1/3 of her normal nap for the day?  Did she see you balancing on the boat in heels and a short dress, alternating between trying to get your toddler to go to sleep and wrestling your fidgety 11-month old to the point where you’re afraid he’s going to fly out of your arms and into the lake?  Did she see you put your glass of wine in the cup holder of the stroller only to have you knock it over and shatter all over the deck while trying to place squirmy baby back into the stroller?   Oh no.  I don’t think Gretchen has seen any of this.  But I have.  In the middle of the absolutely breathtaking Lake Zurich there we were.  I was the guest-trying-to-have-a-good-time-while-at-a-wedding-on-a-boat-with-two-children-under-two-and-a-half-years-old, which only led to Germans whispering to each other about the party foul caused by said clearly unstable American mother of two.  Or so it was.  In my head. 

   Sometimes even Mamas need a time-out.  My daughter, when I can see the restlessness increasing in both of us, sometimes goes to her crib for ‘relax time’.  I shower her with stuffed animals and books and she will read to herself, talk, and play for 20 minutes or so, until she has calmed down.  After the mortifying wine-glass-shattering-event, the boat pulled up to the dock, and as the other guests turned to enter into the reception, I grabbed a stroller and with angry and sad tears about to spill, hugged my friends, told them inconclusively that I needed to go back to the hotel, and marched off, my husband and other stroller trailing behind.

  With every vacation we’ve been on, starting with a trip to Disney World when my daughter was seven months old, I’ve had that break-down crying moment where I say to V, “Why?  Why do we even try?  We have got to be crazy!!  Why do we even try to go on vacation with one/two children?  We should just stay home.  It’s just too hard.”  This was that moment, in the hotel room between the wedding and the reception.  This was the first time my daughter was a seemingly understanding witness to the event and after fighting with me for hours (all I wanted was for her to fall asleep so she could feel better and we could enjoy the evening) she looked at me and said, “Mama’s sad.  Mama’s crying,” which of course, made me feel even worse.  “You can’t just leave it like this, you have to go back to see your friends,” my husband was saying. He was trying to convince me that he would stay with the kids while I went and enjoyed myself.  “Please, I don’t want to go back by myself,” I said, conflicted.  I was very confused as to how I was going to swing this one.  My daughter’s regular bedtime is 7:30 and that’s after her regular 3-hour nap.  It was nearing 8:00 and with a one-hour nap, I was worried that she’d continue down the path of self-destruction she’d been on for the past few hours (which, clearly, leads to my self-destruction as well.  See, we are one.)  But as she looked at me with sympathetic and calm eyes, I think, something may have clicked with her.  My son, too, was surprisingly pleasant.  So I relented.  “Baby Girl, do you want to stay in the hotel, or go to the party?” I asked.  “Go to party,” she said sweetly.  My husband looked at me with a see-let’s-do-this-it’s-worth-a-shot-type of look, and I sighed and smiled back.  I changed out of my short skirt and into pants – a much more suitable attire for chasing children, re-applied my makeup, braided my daughter’s hair, and we were set to make a determined appearance at the reception.                                             

   From the moment we stepped into the restaurant, a magical feeling came over me and I was thankful for my children’s calmness and my husband’s insistence.  We found our places at the table, complete with highchair for my daughter and M&M-filled hearts with all of our names on them.  The wait staff rushed to bring us our salads, but upon completion, we realized we had caught up to everyone else’s soup course.  In between courses, the wedding party and guests launched balloons into the starry night sky with sparklers attached.  The balloons floated across and over Lake Zurich and my daughter watched mesmerized.  “Rapunzel, lanterns,” she whispered with eyes wide.   I chatted with my friends and when they asked if I was ok, I was able to respond, “Sorry, Mama just needed a time-out.”  In the end, we stayed out until 11 and like many times before, my daughter amazed me with her grace and stamina.  After chatting with my friends, we said goodbye to them and the beautiful bride, grabbed a taxi, and headed back to our hotel up the hill.

  Both children fell into bed without a fuss.  My husband had purchased a bottle of wine at the train station across the street from the hotel earlier in the day.  We settled into a couple of lounge chairs on the balcony overlooking Lake Zurich and sipped white wine.  As we memorized the scene in our heads, complete with calming waters and enchanting lights, I turned to him and said, “This.  This is why we try.  Because we love our friends and love moments like this.”  He smiled and said, “I couldn’t think of a more relaxing place to be stressed, but yes.  Today is why we try.”    

          

Zurich, Switzerland

Eye of the Tiger

Eye of the Tiger (Survivor)

"Londen Park" at Leiden Centraal Station

“Geaux Tigers!” my daughter shouts at the TV.  She excitedly runs into the family room, grabs her stuffed tiger, her purple LSU hat, and her green and gold pom-pom.  (Yes, this Baylor graduate has to at least try to make an attempt at competing).  We have our standard background noise going, ESPN America.  We have many channels on our cable television, but of course, most of them are in Dutch.  We’ve caught glimpses of some American channels such as the history and travel channels, toy around with watching the BBC, and have disappointedly searched for sitcoms other than Home Improvement and Frasier.  So, usually, in the evenings as I am preparing dinner and my husband is playing with the kids, ESPN America is what’s on.  This is not quite the same as the ESPN we had at home, but rather, it’s an international version.  Many times, we are simply looking for the lullaby of summer to accompany our evening: the relaxing noise of a professional baseball game, something you would always find on ESPN at home.  While ESPN America sometimes airs a Tampa Bay Rays game?!?! (I don’t think people who live in Tampa Bay care, much less Expats around the world), ESPN America also inserts Little League World Series games, Nascar races, and Xgame competitions during primetime, which are all somewhat anti-climatic.  There are no commercials on ESPN America, so during the breaks, they air sports highlights and memorable moments from years past.  Currently they are gearing up for the college football season, and unfortunately for my husband, will be playing the LSU-Alabama National Championship 2011 highlights for months.  (And for those readers who may be unfamiliar, LSU played in the National Championship last winter against arch-rival Alabama.  LSU lost after an extremely sub-par performance that most crazed-LSU fans would really rather forget).   Nevertheless, my daughter is extremely excited to see her favorite team lighting up the living room television and my husband can do nothing but laugh at her enthusiasm and pat himself on the back for brainwashing her at such a young age despite my attempts of prevention.  (Sigh).

  There’s a strange feeling watching live daytime sports in the evenings, but then again, sometimes ESPN America airs recorded evening games, which is just weird.  Despite your desperate attempts, you never quite have the lush, fuzzy feeling that you’re really partaking in something other people are seeing and watching, and feeling connected.  Coupled with that, the Dutch do not celebrate American baseball or football, of course.  And while we were here for the Euro cup, watching our neighbor pack 16 of his closest friends onto his railing-less 2^nd floor porch outside our bedroom window, we just could not get into cheering for European soccer.  “Oh man, will someone score already?!  What do you mean it’s OVER?  It’s only 1-0?  Geez man, where are the commercial breaks, I need some popcorn, etc.” 

Picnic Tables at Leiden Centraal

  So, with that, you can imagine my excitement that the Summer Olympics were being hosted in nearly our time-zone.  Sure, growing up in America, you realize the “whole world is watching,” but to experience it was something different.  The Leiden Centraal Station went all-out for the event.  They spent a week preparing for the event and in the end, they had transformed the station into a fantastically lovely recreation of a London Park.   A green carpet stretched the length of the station.  The tables and stools were covered with red and white checked vinyl.  Colorful birds and delicate butterflies hung from the light fixtures.  Topiary plants had been sculpted into discus throwers and other athletes.  A tree with 8 colorful birdhouses and piped bird music greeted travelers on the west side of the station.  And to top of the transformation, two humongous flatscreen televisions hung above the crowd, poised to entertain.  If you weren’t excited about the Olympics before traveling in and out of Leiden Station, well – you definitely caught the vibe. 

  My husband and I were prepared for Opening Ceremonies – Kids were in bed and snacks of cheese, crackers, fruit, with wine were on the coffee table.  As the BBC coverage started an hour before the event began, we viewed the members of the audience getting soaked.  I looked outside our window.  Yup.  Across the North Sea, it was raining here as well.  Luckily for them and us, the rain stopped just before kick-off and we viewed our first live, truly international event since we’d been here.  I personally thought the Opening Ceremonies were insightful, creative, intense, and magical.  I’m not sure of the reviews it got around the world, but at the same time, I needed the event to be all these things.  I felt connected – London is only 221 miles from Amsterdam (as the crow flies), which is like Dallas to Austin and the coverage was in English. 

Olympic Topiaries

  Throughout the next three weeks, we enjoyed the sounds of the swimmers splashing, the shot-putters grunting, the audience cheering, the British commentating, the buzzers buzzing, the start guns shooting, and the national anthems playing.  We viewed all these things live, even before America was off work.  We walked to the train station nearly everyday, just to experience the sights of everyone crowding underneath the large screen television, to feel like this is perhaps, the one event that we can really all understand and get excited about.  Sure, the big screen played events I’d never seen before (women’s field hockey?) but it was equally as exciting. 

  The Games ended.  The decorations came down.  A large sign communicated “See you in 2016” and with that, life went back to normal:  Dutch and American, soccer and football.  I am glad I was here to experience the event. 

  V has already researched the ESPN America college football coverage and to his delight, it will be playing many of the LSU games.  Personally, I am a little excited about being able to see College Gameday, and truth be told, I think it might be even better at 4:00 p.m., when our day is winding down, as opposed to 9:00 a.m. when we need to gear up to go to market and run errands around town.   Living in Dallas, a state away from most of his closest friends, he always became a little bit crazy around this time of year, which in turn, challenged my own sanity.  But after years of gaining understanding and perhaps, even being able to say that I have successfully bridged a large gap and have some LSU friends as well (not an easy accomplishment for a Baylor graduate), I too, am really excited about the upcoming football season and the connection it provides us to “home”.  So with that, you know we’ll be cheering from our Dutch living room.  Get your game face on, Tigers.  And eat some Cane’s chicken for me!     

When You Wish Upon a Star

When You Wish Upon a Star - Louis Armstrong

I was chatting with a friend from Dallas a few months back and her son (just a year or so older than my daughter) was asking if my daughter could come over and play.  My friend regretfully told him, “I’m sorry sweetie, but she can’t because she’s in The Netherlands.”  His eyes apparently grew very large and he became extremely excited, “I want to go to Neverland with Peter Pan too, Mama!!!”

I love the fact that Europe is the land where fairy tales were written.  Hans Christian Andersen was Danish, The Brothers Grimm were German, and Charles Perrault was French.  As my children and I walk through the ancient streets of Leiden and enter churches built centuries ago, my daughter will often shout “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”  Every building with a balcony or window far above our heads is suspect to her keen assessment.  We walk through Liedse Hout (Leiden Woods) once a week and as the delicate trees loom above us I too, picture myself in a fairy tale. I push the double stroller over curvy bricked bridges and rumble along gravel paths and think that grandma’s house with the big bad wolf could be around the next turn.  Many streets in Leiden remind me of scenes from Belle’s and Rapunzel’s visits into town, complete with cobblestones, tiny passageways, and leaning homes.  As I’ve mentioned before, my daughter’s favorite movie is Rapunzel and I always smile as she packs her ‘mother’s’ lunch for her journey which is to take “3 days time”.  She includes a fresh loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and an apple.  My family purchases these things at our market each Saturday.  Growing up, I never really understood the “This little piggy went to market” or the “Market to market to buy a fat pig” pieces of the nursery rhymes.  It was always explained, “Well, he went to the grocery store.”  This is the closest thing America has.  True.  But in reality, “market” is very different.  We participate in “market’ each Saturday and have our favorite cheese, fruit, flower, and bread vendors.  There are a hundred vendors with portable trucks and stands that set-up every Saturday to sell their goods.  They are lined along the Neiuwe Rijn canal in Leiden, in front of our Stadhuis (Town Hall) parallel to Haarlemerstraat (the shopping area).  It is incredible that I’m able to buy the freshest, well, everything for my family (at ridiculous rock-bottom prices at that) while participating in an event which has occurred amongst the canal in Leiden for hundreds of years.       

  So as the nursery rhymes become clearer and the fairy tale scenes unfold before my eyes everyday, I reflect on the position where have been lead.  I am half a world away from suburbia and corporate America.  This is a dream I had, and choice I accepted.  My world has shrunk and expanded in so many ways.  I watch Elmo and Disney videos with my children.  (Bear with me here and see me through, like I said, my world has shrunk. . .  but they’ve got some good messages.)  Elmo says I should “Walk with Pride” (along with Beyonce) and “Believe in Myself” (a duet with Ray Charles).  I don’t care how gangster you are, this is good stuff.  But another scene that gets to me is in the movie, Tangled, about Rapunzel.  She and Flynn Ryder (the suave male character) are in the boat, about to witness the lighting of the floating lanterns that she’s wanted to see in person her whole life.  “I’ve been looking out of a window for 18 years, dreaming of what I might feel like when those lights rise in the sky.  What if it’s not everything I dreamed of?” she worries.  He tells her, “It will be.”  She turns to him innocently and says, “And what if it is?  What do I do then?”  He says, “Well, that’s the good part, I guess.  You get to go find a new dream.”  We all have dreams, but sometimes the day-to-day may get in the way of seeing that we are accomplishing them.  When we achieve our dreams, do we even realize it?  Are we scared to acknowledge that fact for fear of having to let go and find something else?       

Reading storybooks and watching cartoons are some of the reasons I like being a parent.  It allows me the excuse to return to childish ways, but coupled with that, The Netherlands, in unexpected flair, allows me to return to youthfulness as well.  My friend invited me to a book club meeting this past week and we were scheduled to meet, on our bikes, outside the train station.  (Honestly, America, when is the last time you’ve met anyone on a bike?  How youthful and fun is this?)  I was excited and nervous.  I’ve never been to a book club and had visions of passionate people telling me what I should have gotten from the book while I sat there speechless without thought.  But she reassured me that the people were cool and it didn’t matter if you had even read the book.  She explained that book club meetings typically consisted of eating great food, drinking some wine, and lively chatter.  Sounded pretty fun to me, but once I committed to attending, another storm of stress hovered above my head.  Everyone was supposed to bring something (I love the idea, I mean, my favorite party is the bring-your-own-brunch-dish event) so I anxiously perused my cookbooks and tried to find something that would impress but not be over the top.  It was warm, so I wanted something fresh and light and she told me most of the attendees were vegetarian.  I really wanted to bring my staple spinach-artichoke dip, but was unsure if it would stay warm, and I’d have to carry it on my bike.  I continued to confuse myself:  Perhaps it would stay safe in the carrier, but did I want to drive my SUV of a bike to a girl’s night out?  Should I try to take off the carrier and snap on the extra wheel to make it into a regular bike, where I’d have to balance and hop off at stop lights?  My husband convinced me that no, I did not want the challenge of hopping on and off while trying to balance anything on my bike and besides, fruit kabobs and fruit dip would be a safe bet.  Plus, I could load it up in the carrier and it would be fine.  In the end, I agreed.  I am a mother of two and an American at that.  The SUV tricycle would suit. 

  I met my friend at the train station and she led the way, google maps app on her phone, in hand.  We are talking, riding our bikes, I’m admiring the way she can handle her phone and ride her bike simultaneously, and she’s explaining how, while she lived in Amsterdam, she had accomplished the ultimate feat – riding her bicycle while holding an umbrella.  This is so Dutch.  I love it! 

  We arrive at her friend’s house and I’m already enchanted.  One of the things I miss most about being in America is diversity.  I know, it seems weird – you’re living in a foreign country, what do you mean?  Back home, my best friends are Mexican, Puerto Rican, South African, and Indian.  Here, I am amongst Dutch all the time, but it’s just not the same.  The hostess is Finnish and the other attendees are British, Irish, German, and my friend, who is from Minnesota (which might as well be a foreign country from my perspective, considering Minnesota is nearly same distance from Texas as say, The Netherlands to Budapest).  We talked about the Secret Life of Bees, but more than that, we talked about life.  We are all Expats adjusting to life in The Netherlands.  Each story was animated, lively, and full of insight.  The fabulous vegetarian salads disappeared and the tea lights dimmed as the conversation went on. 

  After many laughs and thank yous to the host, the five attendees headed out the door and unlocked our bikes.  The mothers admired my bright green bike that converts into a stroller and we started pedaling down the ‘fietspad’ (bike path) towards town.  This is not far from where I bike my children regularly to the local farm.  “Turn left!  Turn right,” my friend and I called out to the others who live closer into town and aren’t as familiar.   We pedaled our bikes under the dark night sky and shining street lights.  It was near 11 p.m. and the air was crisp, but not unbearably so, and trees and grass rustled in the wind around us.  We playfully rode alongside each other chatting, then gracefully merged into a line to let another group of cyclers pass.  I felt like Wendy flying through the night air for her first time with Peter Pan.  “I can bike, I can bike, I can bike!”  It was fun and magical.  I waved goodbye and parted ways from the girls, up and over the steep bridge where my daughter always shouts “Go Mama!” and sped excitedly towards home.     

  My husband texted me as I was turning onto our street, not anxiously, but just a little worried, wanting to make sure I wasn’t hit by a car or anything on my bike.  I lightly tapped on the door and walked inside our home.  I excitedly began to tell him about my evening.  As I started to illustrate the enchanting bike ride home with five other women, he interrupted me.  “Wait, wait.  Honey, do you remember?” he asked.  Blankly, I stared at him and responded, “What?” shaking my head.  He continued to explain, years ago, while we were visiting Amsterdam we had wandered hand-and-hand through Amsterdam’s largest park, the Vondelpark.  I remembered the park.  Amsterdam is not a particularly green city, but Vondelpark, similar to Central Park, provides residents and visitors with a tranquil space to enjoy the outdoors.  I remembered the rosy cheeks of the Dutch surrounding us.  I remember the enchanting feel of the air, and how everyone we saw seemed especially happy and enjoying the weather.  But I was seeing only the bright smile of the Cheshire cat.   “Don’t you remember?!?!” he repeated.  “When we visited the Vondelpark years ago?  You saw the pile of bikes and the women picnicking on the grass.  You said to yourself, ‘I want to do that someday!’” I gasped and my hand touched my lips instinctively.  He was right, and the flash of memory, the whole picture, like Alice in Wonderland seeing the entire cat sitting in the tree above my head, its tail languidly waving back and forth, presented itself before my mind with clarity.  This was my dream. I wanted to ride my bike, meet a group of girl friends, drink wine, eat dinner, exchange thoughts, laugh, and cycle home.  But this was even better, because we had chairs and a table! 

  As I readied myself for bed that night, I realized why the evening had been such a success.  We have many dreams.  Sometimes they’re big, but sometimes they’re small.  Sometimes we just need the perspective to realize that we’re accomplishing them.  And sometimes, like Rapunzel, we need a slight nod to the fact that we have accomplished our dream, as perfect or as imperfect as it comes, then find a new dream.     

Piece of My Heart

Piece of My Heart

  During the spring of 2009, a few months before I became pregnant with my daughter, I co-hosted a dinner-party baby shower for a friend at my house in Texas.  The theme was twinkle, twinkle, little star and I had decorated four card tables in my living room with blue and yellow table cloths and sparkly star centerpieces.  We had planned a four course menu and with each course, my friend moved from table to table in order to have time to speak with each guest individually.   As white Christmas lights sparkled above our heads (my staple decoration for any party I host) and the tea lights’ warm glow glistened upon our faces, I sat listening to a mother of two as she spoke to my pregnant friend.  “Being a parent is the most amazing experience,” she said.  “Your heart is no longer a part of you, but rather it is walking around outside of your body.”  I remember thinking how fantastically poetic that statement sounded.

After two plus years of being a parent, complete with an uncountable number of sleepless nights, ear infections, teething problems, dirty diapers, picking food up off the floor, making sure you have the pacifier, wipes, diapers, the bottles with powder, the bottle of water, the crackers, the blanket, the sippy cup full of juice in the diaper bag, while making sure you have enough formula and baby food in the cabinet and milk in the fridge, the whining, the begging, the questions – why aren’t you tired, why won’t you eat, and really, just why won’t you stop crying. . . while not without its wonderfully memorable and rewarding moments, I think I may, just may, finally understand what the baby shower guest had been getting at.  I was talking to my college roommate on the phone last weekend.  She’s planning a trip to visit me in a few months and I was telling her how much my daughter had changed since she had seen her last.  “She’s just so amazing, you may not even recognize her,” I told her.  She has a nephew just a few days older than my daughter and she replied that my daughter was probably just like her nephew – running around and talking up a storm.  Yes.  True.  But my initial reflexive thought to her statement was “No. No, she’s exactly like me.”

I’ve been a stay-at-home mom and a working-mom.  After both experiences I can say I have total respect for both positions as just having kids period is hard work.  Each job has its pros and cons and still to this day, I can not say with certainty which one I liked better.  I remember driving to my office for the first year of my daughter’s life and as I pulled into the parking garage, I took a sip out of my jumbo-sized cup of coffee, and thought “I feel so defeated.”  Here in Leiden, after feeding my family four meals a day (yes, snack time is important for all of us), washing the dishes and bottles, vacuuming, washing clothes, running the dishwasher daily, as the clock nears 6:00 p.m., I anxiously wait for my husband to return home from work.  Both kids are screaming, dinner is on the stove, and the dogs are barking to be fed, I am once again reminded that I am constantly outnumbered in the household, and I think to myself, “I feel so defeated.”  It’s a different defeated, but both scenarios require large amounts of physical exhaustion, time-management, and either way – you never quite feel like you’re doing a good enough job. 

To my surprise, I never felt guilty about dropping my daughter off at daycare in Texas (well, at least not after the first few days).  The women at her school loved their jobs and they loved my daughter.  They had full nights of sleep, had someone to answer the phone, prepare the meals, and had the advantage of years and years of experience caring for children.  My daughter learned to be independent and social and knew her letters and numbers before the age of two.  I got to dress up everyday, meet friends for lunch, use an analytical side of my brain, and help our family successfully complete Dave Ramsey’s Baby Step #2 before we moved here.  Now that I am with them all day everyday, I do sometimes feel guilty about the way I can lose it with my children.  I do get annoyed and angry.  A lot of my dissatisfaction stemmed from the fact that they are both so small (especially when we first arrived) and inevitably, they’d cry at the same time and I would have to pick one to attend to first.  This broke my heart while making me crazy with frustration because I couldn’t meet their needs like I wanted to.  It just wasn’t physically possible, yet I felt an immense guilt and anger about it all.  I wish it were not so, but after many late-night discussions with my husband questioning our place in the universe - why are we here and what’s the point, I think this is a key part of completing this rotation.  We are both facing sides of our personality which are not exactly flattering.  There is nowhere to run and hide and no luxury of ignoring certain qualities, but with that self-awareness and acknowledgement, comes growth and understanding of not only ourselves, but each other, and our children. 

It took a month of training my daughter to not throw her food on the floor (something the daycare tolerated, but drove me insane), and now we were working on “No run off!”  As you know, our lives are very pedestrian and running down sidewalks and chasing after her is not only dangerous but embarrassing.  (As if I needed more reasons for the neighbors’ eyebrows to rise.)  But as both children grow older, there is more understanding and predictability, which soothes my nerves more than a Mozart CD and a glass of Pinot Noir. 

I have a brother 4 years younger than me and I always remember thinking that he was my baby.  I wanted to take care of him and perhaps, do everything my mother did.  My siblings always called me ‘bossy’ and made fun of this undesirable character flaw.  But as my daughter grows, I will often hear her shouting “No baby!” from the other room.  I will sigh, put down the spoon I was cooking with, and turn the corner flustered and ready to scold her for yelling at her brother, but I’m stopped short.  I am instantly apologetic for my near-outburst because she is right.  The baby is about to pull on the computer cord or is crawling too close to an electrical socket.  She’s not telling him what to do to tell him what to do – she’s imitating me.  More humorously, I also hear her telling Tyler (our dog) to eat his food and for Dash to stay away from Tyler’s food.  “Tyler Eat!  No Dash – Go Away!” she shouts from her highchair as she officiates the activities below like a tennis judge.  These are words she has heard for months straight.  (For some reason, we just can’t find a Dutch dog food Tyler will gobble up like we had in the U.S.  So with that, like my children, I have one dog that picks at his food and another that had an empty pit of a stomach.  Each scenario comes with its own frustrations.  We’ll see what happens when the baby is old enough to pick food off of my daughter’s plate.)  She will hold her stuffed Minnie Mouse and bounce her up and down, shushing softly, patting her on her back, as I do the same with the baby.   She sees me in shorts and a tank top and runs to get her play cans of food.  These are her ‘weights’ and she excitedly “works-out” with me regularly in the living room.  She loves ‘cooking’ and I have taught her how to make guacamole using her play avocados, tomatoes, and onions as examples.  After hearing her shout my name all day long for 6 months straight, my son started saying “Mama” when we visited Bruges and has been repeating it incessantly ever since.  I was witness to the 1^st time my son pulled up on the coffee table and caught the 2^nd go around on video.  These are all things that perhaps, I would not have been able to experience or understand in its entirety, had I still been working full-time in the U.S.  So as life handed me a job during the first year plus of my daughter’s life and a position as a stay-at-home mom now, neither of which was a particularly conscious decision on my part, but rather it was simply the best way to survive in each chapter, I am grateful for the advantages each one provides and the perspective to recognize them.

  Do I feel a slight sense of identity loss as the ABCs, Row Row Row Your Boat and the Wheels on the Bus songs replace my previously-daily phrases of ‘inventory investment schedule”, “in-transit reconciliation”, and “finished goods balances”?  Yes.  I do.  But after months of spending time with my children, I find myself, my true self rather, walking around outside of my body in the form of my children.  My Baby Girl loves to sing, dance, has an excellent memory, and superb sense of direction.  She doesn’t just get tired and go to sleep.  In a sleepy state, unfortunately, her energy level rises and she becomes angry and physically rambunctious.  She’s never met a stranger, becomes ecstatic when people visit us at home, and has adopted our handyman as “Opa”.  Her teachers have described her as “very confident” and “fearless.”  When no other Dutch children would pet the mouse at the farm, she ran up to the front of the group and petted the tiny rodent (not exactly something I would do.)  My Little Man is perpetually laughing and is constantly analyzing his surroundings.  I wouldn’t necessarily describe myself in all these ways, but really, as a parent, isn’t that what we all like to see:  A more confident and happy, version of ourselves?  Moving to The Netherlands, I had fully anticipated learning about different cultures and history and I think we’re well on our way to accomplishing this feat.  But to find and learn more about myself, during a move across the world, was not really a thought I had entertained.  As I watch my children grow and learn everyday, it’s been a surprising but welcomed discovery.  So go ahead babies, take your piece of my heart, and let it soar.  

I Want to be With You Everywhere

I Want to be With You Everywhere

De Valk Windmill - Leiden

Sweet relief.  As I walked around Leiden running errands for my upcoming guests in knee high boots, jacket, and a scarf on July 18^th, I ran into a friend of mine who reiterated what V’s coworkers had been telling him all week:  The weather is about to get better.  I know little about jet streams, but I’m learning.  Apparently, the typical jet stream in Europe during the summer months rests north of the UK, pushing the cold weather and accompanying depression and grumpiness into the North Pole (only Elves could maintain a cheerful demeanor all year long in this weather). Summer 2012 thus far, had the jet stream resting in France, which led to wet and cold weather amongst most of Europe which resulted in threats between husbands and wives to throw in the towel and move family back to the US where summer = warmth because said wife could just not take it anymore (hypothetically, of course).  But lucky for all of us (my husband’s employer included) the beautiful, wonderful jet stream moved and with it, clouds of doubt and frustration. 

   As we neared the ‘summer’ my daughter’s classmates’ parents started to small talk with me, asking me where I planned to ‘holiday’ during the ‘summer’ months.  I felt immense pressure to answer them accurately, but as usual, I was completely confused by the question and thus, had no correct answer.  I flashed my well-practiced “I-wish-I-knew-what-you-were-talking about-smile” while my mind processed the simple inquiry.  (What the what?  Holiday? In July? Heck no we’re not taking a month-long vacation to, well, anywhere, but especially not back to Texas right now when it has the potential to be 115 degrees Fahrenheit, but what’s that you say?  What do you mean the entire country shuts down?)   In my defense, I had expected at least a small number of people to go on vacation for a month because on previous July visits to The Netherlands, V and I were never able to see all his family, as their holiday vacation plans were staggered throughout the month.  However, in my mind, I had likened the entire summer vacation to be simply a myth, like how people don’t have to go to work on President’s Day in America:  you know those people exist but you personally have little to no experience with the seemingly fictional day off from the office.  Luckily, my husband had gotten clued into this cultural standard at work a few months back, when his co-workers were inquiring about his holiday plans for scheduling purposes.  “You mean, if I don’t take off in July or August, I will be the only one in the office?” he asked a colleague.  “Yes,” he replied.  “Yes, you will.”  So, not to be left out, we decided to play along and planned for V to take a week off, mid-July, and have a true “Staycation”. The goal was to devote an entire week traveling to different nearby locations to explore our own backyard. 

  One of the first things I purchased and have spent months appreciating is the Dutch Museumkaart (Museum Card).  For only 49.95 Euros (approximately $61.00) you can purchase a Museum Card which will give you unlimited access to nearly 400 museums all around The Netherlands for an entire year.  Considering one entry into the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh museum will cost you about 25 Euros, this is a fantastically good deal.  But beyond the accountant-budgeting-cost-benefit-analysis side of my personality, it also speaks volumes of practicality as a mama – I can just pop into say, the Natural History museum, which is only a 10 minute walk from our house, and we are met eye-to-eye with a taxidermist’s dream, complete with an abundance of previously living stuffed animals gathered together in a formation nothing more elaborate than a standing-room only concert at The House of Blues. I suppose a little fake grass, much less a few displays at least attempting to depict animals in a ‘natural habitat’ wasn’t what they had in mind, but either way, depending on the mood, hunger, sleep schedules, just general-stars-aligning-with-the-cosmos-affecting-my-children’s-moods, we can stay for an hour and a half, or 20 minutes, then try it all again the next week without additional entrance fees.  On Wednesdays when my 2-year old daughter is in school all day, my son and I will often check out the other various museums around Leiden for a few hours in the afternoon.  I once decided to be adventurous and visited the Boerhaave Museum, named after the famous Dutch botanist and physician who taught at Leiden University in the 1600s.  The further I explore Europe, the more I have encountered museums which, while extensive efforts have been made to made the ancient buildings more wheelchair/stroller accessible, the practicality of those renovations still may cause frustration in order to help preserve the originality of the place which houses the collection.  The Boerhaave museum fit nicely into this category and after half an hour of struggling with the layout of the museum and trying to find the ‘lift’ I leave, noting that science was never my favorite subject in school, anyway.  As I pushed the stroller past the friendly museum attendant who had greeted me a mere 25 minutes earlier, I did appreciate the fact that the building was older than my home country and had originally been a ‘plague hospital and madhouse’ before becoming a University hospital in 1635.  Museumkaart in hand, my baby and I rolled along the Oude Singel canal to my favorite museum in town - The Lakenhal (Cloth Hall) - where we could view Rembrandt paintings while listening to Gregorian chant music.

   We purchased my husband his own Museumkaart at the beginning of our “Staycation” week and started to map out and plan our itinerary.  It was a fun process and with the sun shining everyday and temperatures in the 80s, we couldn’t have picked a better week.  We learned a lot and here were our top adventures:

        

Makes-Your-Hands-Sweat-But-Best-View-Of-Leiden-Museum:  There are a few words I think my daughter would not use on a daily basis had we stayed in Texas.  #1 is Windmill (to be followed by canals, umbrella-lle-llas, raining, mittens, tunnel, fiets (the Dutch word for bikes) and Lekker! (the Dutch word for yummy?)  For the past 6 months, we’ve been passing the De Valk windmill on our way to the market and library – it was about time we’d show her the inner workings.  We strapped her to my back and parked the baby’s stroller at the base of the windmill (No elevator at all here) and my husband carried him in his arms.  We toured the kitchen and living areas of the family who operated the windmill hundreds of years ago, viewed a video explaining the different types of windmills and history (they originated in the Middle East), then climbed the steep stairs.  The museum, in and of itself, was a fabulous explanation of the history, operations, and purpose behind the windmills in The Netherlands.  We were able to grasp the big concepts and step out onto the platform waving to the boats lazily sailing down the canal below.  After smiling at the closeness of the windmill’s fans and etching the amazement of my daughter’s face in my mind, we painstakingly and nervously followed the museum’s path and carried our children down ladders similar to the ones found in homes in Texas leading into our attics, but even steeper and three times as long.  This was so not safe but yet, this is Europe and it’s how it goes. 

Cheese Market Auction - Alkmaar

Makes-V’s-Co-Workers-Laugh-At-Him-And-Explain-That’s-Only-For-Tourists:  Alkmaar – “It Doesn’t Get More Cheesy Than This,” my Netherlands Guidebook says, but yet. . . we packed the kids and the car for the hour-long trip to Alkmaar to witness the Cheese market re-enactment which is held every Friday morning.  I still can’t say what exactly went on, as we approached the market in the midst of the announcer asking “does anyone speak Spanish” and 10 or so tourists raised their hands.  I can honestly say (with head hung, perhaps?) that I probably understood as much of the Spanish commentary as the Dutch – Queso!  Kaas!  But there were men running around in ‘teams’ complete with heavy loads of cheese wheels (or children, if the photo-taking parents obliged) around the small square.  Afterwards, we experienced the quaint, but informative Cheese Museum adjacent to the square. (Complete with complimentary cheese sample upon arrival).  It too, was very informative and we viewed black and white 1920s footage of the process - milk from Haarlem is transported to the cheese makers in Alkmaar, and eventually, the deals are completed (with a funny slapping of hands) in the Leiden market.  I felt mildly a part of history, even if it was cheesy. 

Makes-Me-Want-To-Take-A-History-Class-to-Keep-Up-This-Information-I’m-Absorbing: Dutch Resistance Museum (Verzetsmuseum) – My first international experience was a visit to Berlin in 2002, when my sister was an exchange student for three months.  She had been studying German and lived in Berlin and I was fortunate enough to visit her during her stay.  She took me to the ­­­­­­­­Deutsches Historisches Museum and to this day, I feel that it is one of the best Historical museums I have ever visited, but the Dutch Resistance Museum is stiff competition.  We are all familiar with Anne Frank’s Diary and her personal story.  My husband and I went to the Museum three years ago when we visited Amsterdam (it was just a block from our hotel) and it was, as expected, overwhelmingly somber.  The energy of the building still resonates with an intensity that made my heart drop the instant we stepped behind the secret door.  The Dutch Resistance Museum was a fascinating account of the bigger picture – how World War II affected the mass population of The Netherlands.  The museum was laid-out chronologically (like the museum in Berlin) with videos, personal accounts (in both Dutch and English), interactive displays, great lighting, intriguing artifacts presented in interesting and unexpected displays, and wall-sized photographs of the Dutch rejoicing as the Allies drove their tanks into Amsterdam.  It was small enough to really come away feeling like you saw and understood most everything in one visit, which is a rarity considering we were still pushing one stroller with us.            

Royal Delft Pottery Factory - Delft

Makes-You-Walk-Slower-And-Enjoy-The-Beauty-Around-You-No-Wonder-Famous-Dutch-Painters-Are-From-Here:  Delft – A charming little town is famous for its tiny gorgeous canals, home of Vermeer, and Delft Blue pottery.  If you’ve ever read or seen the movie Girl with the Pearl Earring, this is the place.   Every corner we turned was breathtaking on that warm day.   After dining at an outdoor café in the town center between the town hall and the Oude Kerk, we rounded off our trip with a visit to the Royal Delft (De Porceleyne Fles), the only original Delftware factory still operating since the 1650s.    

Boring-drive-gives-Dallas-to-Lubbock-a-run-for-it’s-money-but-unfortunately-no-Allsups-to-break-up-the-montony:  Venlo is about 2 hours from Leiden and near the Germany border.  My husband has a client there and had forewarned me of the uneventful trip, but the Floriade World Horticulture Expo is currently being hosted in Venlo, which is an event only held every 10 years.  We didn’t know what to expect when we arrived, but upon arrival, at least in my mind, it appeared to be a bit like Epcot, except it is for plants.  There were five themed areas: Relax and Heal (that’s where we spent the most of our time – ha!), Green Engine, Education & Innovation, Environment, and World Show Stage.  The last was quite like Epcot in that each country had a small area in which they created an informational display depicting the local horticulture of that country (whether it was a building with videos explaining olive and wine production, like Spain or a re-creation of a peaceful garden of typical architectural style, like China).   The only difference was that countries such as Afghanistan and Pakistan were represented.  I don’t think these two countries are at Epcot.

Floriade Chinese Garden - Venlo

So all in all, the “staycation” was a success, despite by Day 2 at 10:00 a.m., V had already worked 8 hours.  (Unlike his Dallas office which adequately compensated for such changes in schedules, I’m sure no one even noticed.)  So while the sunshine abounded, our hopes lifted, our minds expanded and our sense of adventure enlightened.  We closed the week happy and satisfied.  On Friday afternoon, I still wore the buttercup-yellow sundress which is really only appropriate for the beach or a steamy LSU tailgate at the beginning of the season, as we walked down our street towards the train station for a cup of coffee.  On our way, we ran into a couple of my daughter’s teachers on their way home from work.  Although the sun had been shining brightly that morning at the cheese market, the clouds started to roll in and the sky darkened.  They happily greeted us on the sidewalk and we all agreed what a wonderful week it had been.  They looked up at the graying sky and exclaimed, “Well!  Wasn’t that fantastic, but now summer is over!  I hope you enjoyed it!”  With a nervous giggle and a sideways glance at my husband, I laughed along with them, not completely understanding whether they were joking or not, but my husband and I, responded with a confident, “We did!  We had a fabulous week!”