All-Star

All-Star (Smash Mouth)

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. 

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. 

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 real-life casting producer has emailed me. . . that they found me because of my blog. . . 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 West Texas high school.  I was SO excited. 

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.     

We arranged a Skype video-interview with the casting producer at 5:00 p.m.  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 anything 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 used to be able to have a conversation with an adult!” I shout to my husband.  I do like 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 my life and I couldn’t even talk!”  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 loved him!”  I pause for a minute to consider.  I must admit, Little Man is 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.           

We went on-line.  We found other casting videos.  We found a really good one from a couple in Kyrgyzstan 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 U.S. 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 America 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 final product – even if we didn’t get picked for the show. 

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. 

Finally, as I was enjoying a day to myself in London 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. 

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 Leiden.  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 ‘thank you for the international publicity?”), at the Leiden Market, at the kids’ daycare, and at a local hotel.   

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.  

I Paid My Income Tax Today

I Paid My Income Tax Today (Irving Berlin)

“The only things certain in life are death and taxes” – Benjamin Franklin

  What Ben didn’t mention was that the dead still need to complete their taxes.  Even in The Netherlands. 

   

  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 Gouda – a small town about 30 minutes from where we live in Leiden.  The story of  her death and burial 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. 

  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.

  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 11:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.?” 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 calling you on Wednesday between 11:00 and 1:00 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 Amsterdam.

   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^st 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^th, 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 have an appointment to file your taxes, then it will be just fine.”  Of course.  This appointment business again.   He instructed V to go to the Hogeschool in Leiden.  Hogeschool, isn’t that a college? 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.     

  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 Texas. 

  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.  

  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.

  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 an appointment!”       

All I Really Need

All I Really Need (Raffi)

  The overwhelming task that lay before me – each step to be approached and passed like mile markers on a stretch of highway in the desert – prevented me from indulging myself in too many heartfelt, tearful, fully-aware goodbyes.  It was a sunny day in January 2012.  I had less than 12 hours remaining in my hometown – Dallas.  The place I was born, raised and visited during college holidays.  It was the city where I returned, fell in love with my husband, bought my first house, birthed our children, and worked for nearly ten years.  My entire house had been packed up and the goods shipped across the ocean.  My two dogs and husband anxiously awaited the reconciliation to occur the next morning.  In a smart black skirt and fishnet tights I saw my husband’s 2000 Explorer being hauled away from my office building at lunch.  The security guards dancing with excitement, waiting for a confrontation with the suspicious tow-truck driver, until I informed them of my plans to move to The Netherlands the next day – thus the need to get rid of everything that was not necessary.  We had already haggled with CarMax over the value of my car – a fair but lower-handed struggle considering we had no return purchase as a bargaining chip.  The Cars for Kids tow truck driver waved goodbye as I stood in the warm parking lot, grateful for the donation.   Later that afternoon,  I packed up my last few belongings in my cube, hugged my co-workers one last time, pressed the lobby button in the glass elevator, and greeted my Dad, who was waiting to pick me up from my last day at work.  “You okay?” he asked suspiciously.  “Yup!  Just fine.  Let’s go pick up Baby Girl,” I said determinedly.  My To-Do List still running through my head.

  We weaved the SUV through the familiar streets of my childhood, and arrived at her school.  I’m sure I passed the building every day on my way to high school.  I never noticed it until I was a mother.  We pressed the individually assigned security code and entered – for the last time.  My daughter started attending daycare when she was 3-months old.  I cried and cried the first day I dropped her off.  As Miss Betty held her arms around me, she talked to me in a honeyed-voice dripping with years of experience, “There, there.  During the first week, we don’t worry about the babies, it’s the Mamas we worry most about.  Don’t you fret, child – your Baby Girl will be just fine.  You take care, now.” and she handed me a tissue.  To my surprise and delight, she was right.  My little Baby Girl was just fine and I too, improved in a weeks’ time.    For the next 19 months, my daughter was showered with an endless supply of affection from these wonderful, caring ladies.  We spent Baby Girl’s first birthdays and holidays together.  They celebrated my 2^nd pregnancy and anxiously awaited the birth of our son.  They sunk with disappointment and cried when I told them our plans to move overseas.  I adored these ladies as much as they adored my daughter – they made my apprehensions and confusion of being a first-time parent, a hugely less stressful experience in so many uncountable ways. 

  My Dad and I entered her classroom and there she sat – playing in a circle with all her friends.  My innocent Baby Girl – what was I doing?  Taking her away from everything and everyone she knew?  She was only 21-months old – too young to understand, but old enough to know that things were different.  I hugged her teachers, the principal, secretaries, everyone as we left.  Tears brimming over everyone’s eyes – for the first time – my heart got the best of me.  My To-Do List nearly complete and crumpled deep in my pocket – completely forgotten during this significant moment of time.   We drove to my Dad’s house, my Baby Girl oblivious to the huge blow that would be coming to her tiny little world.  I knew a move overseas would be a positive experience – the lessons and opportunities would be boundless and amazing.  Everything would work out and be wonderful.  But as we drove to my Dad’s house with her tiny voice singing the ABCs from the backseat, my head and heart ached.

  We flew over the big huge ocean.  We settled into our house.  I tried my best to entertain her and my 3-month old simultaneously, but even as Raffi belted out of my stereo speakers accompanying us as we walked around our house for hours (her pushing her play grocery cart, and my baby in his stroller) – it was clear that this stay-at-home-mom-gig was a far cry from her regular routine of vibrant learning and playing with kids her own age.  I needed help.  She needed social interaction.  In April 2012 we decided we needed to enroll her in daycare at least one day a week.  

  V and I searched the neighborhood for options and we discovered one at the end of our block that had been rated highly on a local Expat website.  We attended an open-house one evening.  Flustered and running late (as always), the director opened the door.  Confused by the term ‘open house’ – I had pictured a large group of people, mingling, sipping fruit punch out of tiny cups while attempting to hold adult conversations – I realized that it was actually a private tour.  My family, and one other expecting couple were the only ones attending.  Fun fact about me – when I know, I know.  My wedding venue?  I researched online and I had limited the options to one.  We visited and I was sold – it was exactly what I wanted.  Our family home in Texas?  When I saw it from the street, I knew it was the one I wanted.  We walked into the Dutch preschool that cool spring evening and I had that certain feeling.  I knew it was where I wanted my daughter to go to school – despite my anxiousness of enrolling her in a school where they did not speak English and she knew no Dutch.  I knew it was where she needed to be. 

   Despite her love of her preschool in Texas – the transition to her new Dutch preschool was a little rocky.  I saw tears I had never seen before as I dropped her off.  I cried the entire block home as well.  I berated myself – what are you doing?  Dropping your vulnerable daughter off at a school where she knows no one and doesn’t even understand what they’re saying.  Mantras such as “Oh, children are so resilient!” and “They’ll soak up a new language like a sponge,” provided little comfort to me in my equally vulnerable state.  Weeks passed.  Months passed.  Baby Girl started to look forward to one-day-a-week daycare excursions.  We packed her bags, she became accustomed to routine.  Considering I’m at home with the kids all day, I have limited contact with adults.  When I would pick her up at school, I’d talk with her teachers in the garden for much longer than probably necessary.  They indulged me in talking about my daughter, America, and how I was finding living in The Netherlands.  One rainy day in July, my husband had been out of town for a week, and I had had a particularly stressful night and morning with the two kids.  Baby Girl could feel my sadness and she hugged me for an extra-long time during drop off.  As the rain drops fell, she wrapped her tiny arms around me, and in my exhausted-state, I missed my husband.  My eyes watered at her sweet nature as I encouraged her to sit by her friends for breakfast.   I took a deep breath, smiled a little too widely, and hastily said goodbye, trying to mask my unreasonable vulnerability.  Before I was out the door, the director chased me down.  “Are you OK?” she said with a concerned look in her eyes.  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.  I’m just quite tired,” and I turned for the door but stopped and turned around again.  “Thank you, though,” and I nodded.  She nodded back. 

  I reflected as I push my son’s stroller back to our house, and a small, awe-filled smile replaced the frustration I had previously felt on the walk 20 minutes earlier.  I never thought that I would find a school with such loving, caring people to take care of my daughter.  And I had.  Twice.  Like in Dallas, my daughter’s Dutch teachers love her, but they also help take care of me.  A confusing, overwhelming experience becomes manageable and enjoyable – and for that, no matter where in the world we live, I will always be grateful for the love and support of teachers who touch my children’s lives.        

La Vie En Rose

La Vie en Rose (Edith Piaf)

The high dive represents a rite of passage.  Mine was at Jack Carter pool in Plano, Texas, but regardless of where you grew up, the high dive at the community pool terrorized your small, but important, youthful world.  You gazed for months with envy at the other children carelessly flipping, tossing, and cannon-balling over the edge of the scratchy white platform suspended at an unimaginable height.  You carefully calculated the steps, envisioned yourself being one of them, and finally decided that it was your time.  But as your tiny feet slapped water on the burning concrete determined to join the ranks, your palms started sweating and doubt filled your mind.  Questions raced through you like scrolling credits of a movie:  What if I fall?  What if I hurt myself?  And most importantly – What if I do both and everyone laughs at me?  As you approach the looming metal ladder with steps that lead to heaven, your safety-net pulls too hard.  With the cartoon devil and angel on your shoulder tormenting your little brain, you decide to wait for a more opportune time to risk embarrassment.   Slinking back to the shallow end of the pool you disappointingly sit in the shimmering water with ego still safely intact.

   That was me.  But it wasn't a pool and I wasn't ten.  I was approaching my mid-30s.  For more than a year, I watched the skinny Dutch women perch elegantly on the backs of their boyfriends' bicycles, riding through the picturesque town of Leiden.  Their legs crossed at the ankles, heeled boots pointing daintily at the street, and carefully draping their arm around the waist of the man pedaling.  With the longing of an adolescent, I wanted to be one of them.  It looked so fun, so romantic, and so. . . free of physical exertion for the lady!  Most lovers are not hanging out during the hours of 9:30 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. – it’s mostly a bakfiets (mini-van bike) crowd at that time.  I had seen the skill required to hop on the back of a bike only a few times – and the running, giggling girls gave me doubt as to my abilities to replicate the same move.  It required the first person to start pedaling in order to balance the bike, and the rider to complete a series of steps and then hop sideways onto the luggage rack on the back.  The footwork reminded me of a basketball lay-up: step left, right, left, and then hop up!   After time, like any successful athlete, I visualized myself effortlessly completing the steps.  But I had yet to practice.

  This stunt was not a solo effort, and I doubted my teammate’s ability to execute his task.  Now I’ve seen the Dutch carry everything from suitcases, to framed works of art, to Christmas trees one-handed while pedaling down the bike paths.  V had trouble balancing his bike with a bottle of wine hanging from one handle bar.  We are American and that obviously means that we have acquired no such innate balancing skills over the past 30 years.  So thus, my dream had been left unfulfilled, unwilling to risk the seemingly unattainable feat.                   

   Then we saw an 80-year old man pedaling his side-saddling elderly wife in front of our house a few weeks ago.  If that’s not mockery, I don’t know what is.  

  Date night, Saturday night.  We planned to take our bikes.  There’s no place to park, walking just takes too long, and so it was decided, we’d ride our bikes.  As much as I love pedaling my kids around town, my mini-van bike is as sexy as a vegetable.  I purposefully put away my thoughts of ever wearing a skirt on a date night again.  I know the Dutch cycle with them on, but I just don’t think I’m mentally ready to pull that one off.   We say goodbye to the babysitter and close our heavy front door.  I’m about to unlock my avocado bike from its spot in the front yard and V gently touches my arm.  “You want to try?” he looks at me suspiciously and raises an eyebrow.  “Try what?” I cock my head to the side, rolling my eyes.  “To ride on the back of my bike?” he says pointedly with a smile.  “What?  Now!?  No way!  I’m not ready!” I reply, flustered and smoothing my hair.  My hands start sweating and I reflexively look up and down our street to see who is witnessing this ridiculous exchange.  “Yes!  Now – no anticipation.  Let’s just do it,” he says, and I meet his gaze and challenge.  He unlocks his bike.  Like two kids who jointly agree to a dare but wither during execution, we glance at each other with questions in our eyes.  “Should we try it first on the sidewalk?” I ask.  “No – look at those bikes parked all over the place.  There’s not enough room to get through,” he calculates and shakes his head.  We gaze up and down our block and wait for a group of taunting bikes to pass.  When the coast was clear, he bravely pedals into the middle of the road.  I trot behind him and just like I had envisioned, perform the cadence with wobbly style: left, right, left, hop!  Within seconds, I realize that I’m flying through the air with the bravery of my 10-year-old self – I am channeling through this rite of passage and I’m ecstatic at my courageous, youthful accomplishment!  “Are you on?” V shouts, disbelieving his own elementary success.  “Yes!  Yes I am!” I say with amazement.  We’ve done it!  We’re pedaling down the road at a snail’s pace because, we’re uh, American and V isn’t that fast – but we’re doing it!      

  We glide through Leiden, immaturely speeding up at yellow bike stop lights and avoiding left-hand turns because we don’t want to stop the rhythm of this beautiful moment (and more importantly, we don’t want to stop the bike which would force us to repeat the maneuver in front of expert Dutch eyes.)  We lyrically sweep along the now-familiar sights of our hometown: around windmills, over canals, and through cobbled alleyways.  I berate him for attempting to use hand signals – “Please!  Keep both hands on your handlebars you’re going to make us fall!” we giggle like schoolchildren.  Like a home-cooked meal that you didn’t cook yourself, after pedaling my kids around town for a year – there is nothing more beautiful and appreciated than seeing the world go by at the relaxing pace of a cyclist without actually having to cycle.  The ancient shops and houses dance in the rosy glow of sunset as we smoothly sashay by.  I snuggly wrap my arm around V’s waist and rest my head on his back.  “You’re so light!” he says and I smile at the seamless ease of the moment.  I beam at my crossed ankles and the green high-heeled boots that accent my European-trimmed, but skinny-jeaned legs.  I reflect as we pass over the shimmering silver canals, maybe I will wear those skirts I wishfully imported from the U.S. after all.   

Big Parade

Big Parade (The Lumineers)

Shannon & Richard on the steps of Chelsea Town Hall

  What No One Tells the Bride:  Your vision, whatever it is – detailed, general, simple, complex, town hall or Westminster Abby – will be derailed at some point, no matter the extent you have submerged yourself, and all those around you, into believing and actuating your fairy tale ceremony and celebration. 

  I know.  Total.  Buzz Kill - at least for all those brides-to-be with hopes of their perfect wedding day illuminating before their eyes.  As for those of us who have already been through the momentous occasion, I think I hear a giggle and imagine a few head nods.

  I flew to London on Thursday morning to celebrate one of my best friends’ wedding day.  Shannon and I went to college together, which results in a not-too-shabby-15-year-friendship.  She’s lived in the U.K. for seven years and gave me memorable advice prior to moving overseas:  “You will go to the grocery store and stare. . . not know what the heck this stuff is or what you’re supposed to do with it.  And I had a leg up. . .at least my packaging was in English.”  She shrugged, patted my shoulder and attempted to console my freshman soul with the wisdom of a senior quarterback.

  My pre-flight stresses about making sure there was enough food in the fridge, the wedding gift was intact, laundry was done, hotel confirmations printed, and hundreds of other preparation worries disappeared into the horizon upon take-off from Amsterdam Schiphol, only to be replaced by solo-traveling jitters.  I used to travel to unknown cities alone all the time when I worked for American Airlines – I stumbled upon Leiden while tagging along with one of V’s business trips a bazillion years ago, thus prompting the I’m-going-to-live-here-someday-flashforward.  I had decided to attend Shannon’s wedding alone with a peaceful vision of me frolicking carefree through the streets of London without a stroller or husband for an entire day.  But all that sunshine slowly shifted to cloudy with chances of showers once I started to calculate the logistics of navigating the system – train tickets, tubes, maps, new currency, directions, etc.  Once confident with tromping around Japanese country sides, having a family changed my perspective in ways I never dreamed possible.  There is safety in numbers, but also unbelievable amounts of stress that come with moving an entourage – visions of our family lugging a double stroller up and around the stair bridges of Venice haunt my memory – which led me to waver in my confidence to successfully run around London alone.  I knew it was going to be okay, but I didn’t really know. 

  Upon landing, a wonderful, beautiful rush came over my entire body like your favorite Old Navy hoodie.  English.  Nearly everyone I encounter in The Netherlands has a superb grasp of English, and I’ve caught on to the key phrases in Dutch – but to be submersed in a culture where English is the primary language and spoken without pride or grudge, was fantastic.  I purchased my train ticket with the swiftness of a brushstroke.  Without having to check my map and memory every ten seconds, I relaxed in my train seat, knowing I wouldn’t miss Victoria Station.  (Dordrecht and Vlissingen stations in The Netherlands just get stuck like taffy on my tongue and prompt confusion in my head).  Wandering around London, I felt like I was in New York City – with it’s sky scrapers and busy streets – but I also loved how I had to ask for my bill at Wagamama because, despite how I had told the waiter that I was “all done” and that the “food was great” and how I was “ready to go” those key words: Please Bring Me The Bill – were the only ones that would prompt and actual exit from the building.  West meets East.  In the end – there is nowhere like London. 

     

Me, Shannon, & Tess

  Our friend, Tess from Texas had flown in for the ceremony as well.  We met her with coffee in-hand at the international terminal of Heathrow Airport.  Reunited, we drove back to Shannon’s new hometown of St. Albans and spent the entire day on Friday searching for a basket and tights for her soon-to-be-step-children.  Being accustomed to crap-European retailers and the beat-down that accompanies ANY quest to find ANYTHING you’re looking for, I quite enjoyed the day.  I could empathize with American-friend Tess, though.   She was an awesome sport, ducking in and out of every store, keeping pace with our European abilities to walk forever.  I could tell though, in her jet-lagged state, she would have traded one of those charming English Pubs for a Super Target and after twenty fruitless stores, I joined in on the mental mind force, with disappointment. 

   Friday evening was met with a debate about cottage vs. shepherds pie (Google that one, fans) but either way – it was a fantastically yummy dinner despite the nomenclature of the dish.  Tess and I retired early (relatively? We were on vacation, you know) to our local hotel in St. Albans and instructed the grinning youthful hotel clerk of our intensions for our 7-a.m. wake up calls. 

  Shannon and Richard planned a 10:00 a.m. wedding ceremony in Chelsea. “I really wanted 11:00 a.m., but it was already taken,” she explained.  It was a fabulously intimate wedding and the entire wedding guest list was instructed to meet them at their house to travel with the bride and groom in a Hummer Limo to the wedding ceremony.  Not wanting to disappoint, Tess and I arrived at her house, at 8:15 a.m., empty stomached but fueled on our rations of hotel instant coffee.  We were greeted heartily by Shannon’s family and local friends.  “So, are you nervous?” Tess asked Shannon’s Dad.  “Awww.  Naaah,” he responded, in the finest Texan accent the tuxedo would allow. “This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. . .” and with a wink and a tip of his imaginary hat, he moseyed on in search of his wife’s arm that he’s held close to his heart, for nearly 44 years.           

   “Tess!  Celeste!  Your presence is being requested upstairs!” Shannon’s mom sang from the staircase.  Tess had just hunted down the coffee maker and dredged the last of the coffee – literally a shot of grounds – and we smiled at the invitation.  “We’re here!  We were just on our way up!” we echoed back our excitement to the mother-of-the-bride.

   The bedroom was a mess but Shannon looked beautiful.  She took a sip from her coffee cup as we walked in.  “Something Old” the cup said, and the photo of her groom smiled back at her.  A lovely silver wired ribbon adorned the handle.  “Isn’t it cute?  Richard wanted to give it to me as a surprise.” She set the Shannon’s hairdresser shifted around the tiny space surrounding the bed.  She had woken up before dawn to meet Shannon at her house at 5:30 a.m. and all efforts had paid off.  It was time to put on the dress.

"Something Old"

cup down and studied her reflection in the mirror.  Her hair was piled half atop her head while curled tendrils fell among her pale shoulders.  “I’m so white!” she said.  For a beat, Shannon and I teamed up against our tanned-Texas friend with our mutual glares. 

  During lunch the day before Tess and I had predicted Shannon would cry at the wedding.  “No I won’t!” she protested.  “Oh yes you will!  Do you have waterproof mascara just in case?” she waved our accusations away with her hand.  She stepped carefully into her dress and I zipped her up.  She looked at her reflection in the mirror and for that brief moment, her eyes brimmed with glassy tears of happiness.   Business woman that she is, before falling too far over the emotional edge, she looked out the window and she shifted in her dress.  “Where’s the limo?  It’s supposed to be here by now.” she said.  Tess and I put on our coolest calm-collected faces.  “Oh no worries.  It will be here soon.  Everyone is completely ready to go downstairs.” Tess says.  “You know, they can’t start without you.” I chirped happily.  She shakes her head slightly and then, like a key plot point, she delivers the line, “Well. . . see the problem is, they have a wedding scheduled at 11 o’clock and if we are even 20 minutes late, they will cancel our spot.”  I nod once and I’m sure my smile did not mask my nervousness. 

Richard sees his bride for the first time in her dress

  Tess and I go downstairs to witness the big moment when Richard sees Shannon for the first time.  She parades down and runs her hands over the long skirt to mask her anxiousness of the event.  They kiss gently and the admiration in Richard’s eyes is transparent.   The intimate moment is suspended as Richard’s cell phone rings and Shannon’s mother steps to her side.  The limo is lost or running tragically behind schedule – it’s not clear to all of us witnessing the exchange – but what is obvious, is how calmly, intently, and splendidly professional Richard is speaking to the person on the other end of the phone.  He’s going to fix this disastrous blunder the limo company has catapulted into this couple’s wedding day, and potentially – their lives.  In America it wouldn’t quite happen like this.  People would shrug and get in their cars, which are parked outside, and drive.  Insert a majority of car-less people, trains being a far-too-time-consuming-option, a tiny suburb town, and you’ve got a logistical crisis of a monstrous size.  

  Our taxi driver was an eager and willing participant in the challenge that faced him. “I will get you there in time to see your friend’s wedding,” he promised with the seriousness of a wedding vow.  He leaned forward in his seat, barreling our car down the British highway system at Autobahn speeds, admirably never forgetting to use his turn signal, following the path that the bride and groom had taken twenty minutes before in a friend’s borrowed car.  As we zoomed past double-decker busses, our friend Russ received a call.  “Tess?  Do you have Shannon’s lipstick?” we all laughed with relief.  “Oh good, Shannon is on to smaller cosmetic problems.  This is a good sign,” everyone in the car nodded in agreement.  With squealing breaks, our car jolted to a halt outside the Chelsea Town Hall, Hugh Grant-Notting-Hill-style, with two minutes to spare.

  The room was unlike anything you’d imagine in a Texas town hall – floor-to-ceiling-silk draperies, plush velvet chairs, and sparkling chandeliers.  The guests were giddy with excitement – a combination of adrenaline and caffeine, and we quickly found our seats and awaited the ceremony. 

  Shannon and Richard walked down the aisle together - symbolic of their past, present, and future.  The entire ceremony lasted twenty minutes, but it was heartfelt and to the point.  We all applauded the kiss and signing of the nuptials.  The 11 o’clock wedding party need not be worried of us overstepping our time slot. 

Fancy French Dinner

   After the ceremony we celebrated.  Sipping champagne in a hummer limo while passing by Westminster Abby, Big Ben, and other iconic London landmarks will forever be ingrained in my mind.    A 6-course French meal greeted the guests and the food was heavenly.  I had to endure my table-mates smirking at my choice of Spring Pea Soup over Duck Liver (despite living in Europe, I just haven’t quite advanced my pallet that far.), but nothing could deter me from savoring every bite. The champagne and wine flowed, the food appeared and disappeared course after course to the happy pleasure of everyone.  Toasts were sung “To Love!” - Richard’s daughter announced prompting approving applause from everyone in the room.  But beyond the spotlight celebration, what I loved most about the day was observing the couple on their wedding day unscripted.  I watched with interest the loving and intimate way they nodded, smiled, and chatted unrehearsed in between courses – engaging in conversation that no one else was able to hear.   I loved seeing Richard’s children take turns sitting on his knee and seeing the affection he so unabashedly feels towards them.  I appreciated that the couple’s main goal was to make sure that everyone have a good time and how it was achieved by the elegant production:  props of crystal glasses, characters of superb wait staff, and a setting of dining under canopy of branches heavy with delicate pink cherry blossoms. 

Walking into the ceremony together

  The next day, I was treated to more spontaneous observations during the relaxing day-after events: dropping her parents off at the airport, lunch at an English Pub (yes, I ordered the fish and chips because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?), and a languid walk under the shining sun in the woods.  I loved seeing them interact.  If there’s anything that gives you joy and hope for the world, it’s seeing a couple on their first day of marriage.  “Thank you so much!  I totally feel like I crashed your first day of your married life together.  I mean, I am – but thank you!”  She shrugged and explained that they were taking the next day off as well – the honeymoon to be decided later.  As I exited the car, Shannon leaned over in the front passenger seat and reached her right arm out to stroke the back of Richard’s head.  “I’ve told him, but I’ll tell you, too.  Life’s not going to be easy.  But I’d rather go through all the crap with him. . . than to live a different life without him.”  I smiled, thinking of the phone call to the limo company and how, in the midst of the chaotic moments they can’t control, they stayed calm, smiling admirably and confidently at each other.  Life may not turn out how they envisioned, no one’s ever does - but with each other’s daily doses of support, dedication, and love – I know their world will be a joyful and peaceful place together.     

Float On

 Float On (Modest Mouse)

 Unfortunately, I have discovered that the correct answer to the question:  Which scenario results in a piercing-scream and panicked-stricken, OMG-I-don’t-think-I-can-do-this-anymore, frantic calling of your husband’s cell phone five times in the middle of his business meeting until he freakin’ answers his phone?  Options:

A. Seeing two mice running around your foyer while being perched like a statue at the top of the stairs, or

B. While cleaning up the dog’s water bowl your 17-month-old spilled all over the floor, you pull the dog bowls from the wall and come face-to-face with a dead mouse while on your hands and knees holding a wet dish towel.

Well, as you may have guessed, the correct answer is B. 

I know.  I know.  There are mice all over the world.  This could happen anywhere, as my Facebook post after Incident A told me.    But I’ve never actually had to deal with mice in my house in Dallas.  Sure, we had a rodent man – he had a trap outside our house.  He proactively baited it, and after that, I don’t know what happened.  At all.  Ignorance is bliss. 

 I’ve said it before, but I love our house here in The Netherlands.  It’s over 100 years old, adorned with lovely chandeliers and hardwood floors.  It’s elegant, but like anything or anyone who seems a little too good to be true, it didn’t take long to uncover its few, dark secrets.  Last fall I discovered mouse droppings in my kitchen.  I freaked, like any good American would.  We called the owner of the house.  He said good luck with that, and gave us the number of a mouse exterminator to call and pay for ourselves.  Fine.  Cool.  Whatever.  Mouse Man came out and put boxes of poison all around our house.  As I watched him investigate the corners of our home – were they in this room or were they not. . . I communicated with him in broken English.  “Oh yes, there are a few mice here,” he says.  “MICE!  As in MORE than ONE?” I asked, panic and dread seeping through my veins.  I clutched my squirming 1-year old in my arms.  “Oh yes,” he reassures me.  “There are more mice in the world than people.  They are everywhere.”  How did I miss this fabulous, fun fact?  “It will be a week or so until they leave.  It takes a while for the poison to work,” he says.  Weary of the little boxes all over my house, I began to wonder – what is worse, a live mouse or a dead mouse?  “So. . . they eat the poison.  And then what?  Where do they die?”  I ask.  He smiles with a bit of a crazed look in his eye, like the Wizard of Oz or Willy Wonka, “No one knows!” and his gaze lingers on the imaginary horizon for a beat, then he goes back to his work, filling his boxes.  In my naiveté, I’m satisfied with his answer.  I imagine the little mice going out into the field to die or simply evaporating.  In retrospect, there was something severely lost in translation – Mouse Man really meant – they could die “Anywhere.”   

   We had a peaceful few months and then we started to hear it (them?) again.  They’re nocturnal, which amazes me how anything can sleep in this house during the day – I mean, really??  I have two screaming, crying toddlers.  But my husband and I would hear scurrying starting in the evening.  He’d play it off like they were running on the balcony.  It wasn’t until we went out for a date in Amsterdam one night and came home to our (brand new) babysitter, telling us that she had seen the mouse.  If there’s anything more mortifying, it’s an American mother being embarrassed that the babysitter saw a mouse in your house.  Cue: Death Look to Husband.  Luckily, she’s Greek and apparently used to mice, played along saying “mice are a problem in this country” and stuffed her 50 Euros in her pocket and went home. 

  Instead of calling Mouse Man and paying the dude 70 Euros to put poison around our house, we decided to do it ourselves.  V Google translated the directions and found that mice, if so inclined, would eat through the bags of plastic poison.  After a few weeks and seeing two mice running around our foyer one night while he was at Dutch class, I went through the house, opening the plastic packages and emptying the poison contents into the boxes like the determined woman I was.  Clearly, these mice were not motivated enough.  Thus. . . it worked. . . and thus. . . the dead mouse in the kitchen incident. 

  Panicked and terror stricken, I walked my kids around the neighborhood and train station until V got home that night.  The trash is picked up every two weeks and had just come that morning.  Instead of putting the poor sap in our bin for two weeks, it has been properly buried in an unmarked grave in the back yard.  My husband, the caretaker, I’m sure said a prayer for the mouse’s elimination and a hope for the return of my sanity.   In the meantime, I hope that my negative feelings towards my daughter’s Minnie Mouse doll fade soon.   

Who'll Stop the Rain

Who'll Stop the Rain (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

Antwerp Central Station

    It’s taken until I had two kids and endured exhaustion for years to really appreciate winter.  And that’s a good thing, because we have a lot of it here.  It’s cloudy and cold, a majority of the time: winter, spring, and even half of summer.  People joke about how depressing Seattle is in America, but little did we know that there are entire countries which could prescribe Prozac.  But they don’t.  The strongest thing they prescribe is Paracetamol.  For anything.   Don’t even bother calling a doctor until you have a fever for four days straight.  But I digress.   It’s cold.  It’s rainy.  I like it.  For about two days it’s lazy and comforting.  You cuddle with your kids, gaze into the fire, clean your house from top to bottom, organize the mail, catch up on your Facebook and e-mail messages, and then. . . as you open your bedroom curtains to another lazy, grey morning. . . you slowly start to lose your mind.  It’s a surprisingly sneaky process.  You don’t really realize you’ve lost your marbles until your claustrophobia leads to one-sided shouting matches of frustration with the dogs because you’re tripping over them while trying to feed bite-sized hot dog pieces to your children.  The sixth morning produces yet another shade of pale, and your subconscious craving for sunlight culminates into a distressed plan of escape.   You sit to check Facebook mid-afternoon but instead, your fingers are attracted to an intensely spiritual and powerful energy. . .  the result is Ouija-board like Google searches for flights – any flight -  to a warmer destination.

  It’s not that we can’t get out of the house when it’s cold and rainy.  We have all the equipment now: stroller, stroller covers, umbrellas, boots, gloves, scarves, mittens, etc. etc.  But sometimes, you just do not feel like pushing a double stroller in the icy, cold rain.  You just.  Don’t.  On the flip side, we are much more zealous than a year ago.  Which is progress I am proud of – and I’m pretty sure my kids and dogs have appreciated the efforts as well. 

   V and I have learned to create Rainy Day Plans and Decent Weather Plans.  Decent Weather is defined as: Any weekend where you wake up and it’s above 40 degrees F (3 degrees C) and NOT raining/snowing.  The weather is so variable here, it almost makes it fun! Think about if it dropped to 80 degrees F in the middle of July in Texas.  People would go crazy-happy and head to The Ballpark in Arlington just to tailgate or actually enjoy a cocktail sweat-free on the patios of Uptown.  So.  This is the perspective we’ve taken.  Last weekend was a crap weekend and thus resulted in uber-exciting/stressful journeys to the two super-stores in The Netherlands: Ikea and Albert Heijn XL (basically. . . a grocery store the size of a typical one in America WITH a parking garage - WHOA).  Both visits resulted in productive shopping experiences, Walmart-on-Christmas-Eve-type-crowds, and an almost comical rearrangement of goods in our tiny European car. . . “If we squeeze the rug into the space between the car seats. . .”

  But there have been a few Decent Weather weekends as well during the past few months.  So we’ve been offsetting the potty-training, teething, cleaning house top-to-bottom, cleaning-out-the-fridge, organizing-the-children’s-books, painting-that-piece-of-furniture-I’ve-always-wanted-to, replacing-every-lightbulb-in-the-house-because-it’s-so-dark-all-the-time, with exploring The Netherlands and Belgium with a few day trips.  It’s fun.  Even if the clouds loom menacingly above us. 

    1.  Den Haag (The Hague) V and I had visited years ago and I had loved the city.  It’s only a 20-minute train ride from Leiden and was comfortingly easy to get around with a double stroller.  We found a fabulous bookstore (American Book Center) which was like walking into a Barnes and Nobel (okay – so not really like a B&N, but after months of searching fruitlessly in the Engels sections of even the largest bookstores in Leiden for the next book club requirements, it was nice to find the next months’ selections.  Yes, I know you can just order them on-line an/or download them on an Ipad.  I like browsing, okay?  I’m a sucker to marketing like that.)   We perused the shopping areas and purchased some nice linens (which questionably fit our American sized mattress – uh, what’s a Queen in Centimeters?) at Zara Home.  We picked up the pace to pass Iranian protesters we did not understand, marveled at the Binnenhof, and thus satisfied with our productive and happy day, headed back home.

Spoorweg Museum

  2.  Utrecht:  V had read on-line “Het Spoorwegmuseum” was a train museum in Utrecht which had been decorated for Christmas.  We headed out to Utrecht and found a shopping mall (OMG – an indoor shopping mall!!!! – I almost cried, because it was there. . . because all the shops were closed. . . and because, well – ‘home’ tugs on you in funny ways when overseas) Our dramatics shifted from excitement to confusion after searching for an escape route from the shopping mall which would accommodate the double stroller, but that’s just a sub-note.   We explored and snapped photos at the Domkerk (Cathedral) on the way to the train museum.  We marveled at the subterranean homes and restaurants along the Oudegracht and canal below.  We were confused. . . and spent our time hypothesizing about the purpose of the cells below – “they housed prisoners or the poor during medieval times?” our imaginations stretched to fill in the blanks. . . but after searching the internet –  I discovered that the very rare wharf system had been implemented in the early 1100s in which the warehouses and cellars were built at water level, with stairs and ladders extending up to street level.   So yeah – no prisoners were stored in the jail-like cells, just stuff; so much for our fairytale drama. . .

Oude Gracht in Utrecht

  We toured the train museum and after perusing the antique train graveyard, snapping photos of Baby Girl riding the kiddie train all by herself, our family two-stepped to questionably authentic Dutch Country Music singers (the rotation included a shout-out to Texans – they clearly did not realize there were ACTUAL Texans in the audience – and the lyrics included something along the lines of smoking pot in the country.  That’s some good ol’ fashioned family fun, for ya. . . )  All in all, it was a fantastic and fun day trip from Leiden.     

  3.  Antwerp:  I love the fact that Belgium is so close to us.  Beer, chocolate, waffles, and fries are all things that Belgium is known for (I know – I told this story to my British hairdresser and he turned his nose up at the reference to Belgian beer. . . I don’t know what the dynamic is between the English and the Belgians, but I’m afraid Duvel has the upper hand on Bud Light.)  We decided to drive.  (I feel like Aunt Bethany from Christmas Vacation every time we agree to drive: “I just LOVE riding in cars!”)  The kids were comfortable and took turns sleeping in their ridiculous lazy-boy imported car seats while I snuggled in my heated chair and flipped between radio, CD, and V’s playlists on his phone.  Riding in cars IS fun if you don’t do it very often.  We easily parked in a garage near the Grote Markt and headed out to explore the town. 

Antwerp Grote Markt

   We passed through the Grote Markt admiring the ancient architecture.  After wandering through cobblestoned lanes and storefronts, we found a bric-a-brac market and purchased 6 questionably antique wine glasses for 15 Euros.  V instantly broke one while trying to stuff the bag into the double stroller basket, but I (eventually) forgave him.  I don’t really need six matching wine glasses since there are only two of us, and I must admit that I have felt like Audrey Hepburn sipping from my wide-brimmed, short bowled wine glass for the past few weeks.

  One of the things I was most excited about when becoming a parent was to view the world through my children’s eyes.  Baby Girl does not disappoint.  We walked into the train station in Antwerp (#1 on Trip Advisor’s list) and she was just as impressed as I was.  “Oh!  Wow!  Look, Mama!” she exclaimed.  (Baby Girl, by the way, can identify the Eiffel Tower and country music – this makes me one proud Mama.)  Together, we marveled at the beauty and vastness of the station.  “This is like Grand Central Station,” V said outloud.  I continued to stare with awe, craning my neck to look at the architecture above - “I’m sorry, V.  But no, it’s not. . . this is better than Grand Central,” I had to admit. 

Cogels-Osylei Avenue in Antwerp

  We feasted on fresh waffles with obscene amounts of chocolate and cream while the kids (conservatively?) ate their waffles soaked with raisins, apples and syrup.  We read on Trip Advisor about the Cogels-Osylei avenue outside of town and stopped by for a few photo ops before heading back to The Netherlands. 

Little Man and Baby Girl Chasing Bunnies

  Our family has enjoyed a few great months.  Winter, the time for self-reflection and internal pursuits, has delivered.  Last Tuesday the thermometer rose to nearly 60 degrees Fahrenheit (almost 15 C) and the kids and I celebrated by cycling up to the Merenwijk Kinderboerderij (Children’s Farm) and gleefully welcomed the arrival of cuddly baby sheep and I laughed as they chased large rabbits around an enclosure.  We picnicked and smiled at the other parents, grandparents, and children dancing in the warm sunlight, but I knew the festival was temporary.  Like an insincere, apologetic boyfriend who rocks up on your porch step taunting gifts of purple crocuses and proclaiming promises of change, I accept the gifts with appreciation, but apprehension.  The winter and cold is far from gone.  He will, without doubt, stray again and break my spirit if I do not hold it close to me.  But in the meantime, I’ll accept kisses of apology and promises of better days ahead and know that it is up to me to make the most of the time I have, in this sometimes challenging, but beautiful relationship.                      

Promises of Spring at Merenwijk