It's Been a Long Day Without You, My Friend

See you again (Wiz Khalifa)

June 2014  - The sun is shining on a bright Dutch day. The North Sea wind teases the leaves of the school courtyard. Summer beacons. I feel happy and hopeful. Not only for the warm, long summer days that stretch ahead, but also because this is the last day I will be picking my daughter up from this school. We've found another school across town that she'll be attending in the fall.

The new school was recommended by a friend and we called for a tour. My husband and I weaved through the small playground, smiling at the line of bicycles and tricycles set out for recess. After ringing the doorbell, the principal met us with an outstretched hand, led us to the conference room, and offered us a 'koffie'. Her smile was warm, her short cropped brown hair matched her crisp suit.  Professional and attentive, she answered each question with concern and understanding.  This time I knew the questions to ask – "Do your teachers speak English?  Okay, but would they mind speaking English to me?  How large are the class sizes? I read on-line you have English classes, do you find the other children are responsive to these lessons? What is the division of the age groups? Are the four-year-olds separated or are they in a class with five and six-year-olds?"  I nodded with each answer and felt a sense of relief spread across my shoulders.  She was saying all the right things. Despite the trek across town, pregnant or with a newborn, I knew that I wanted our last few months to be enjoyable and worrying about my oldest daughter's safety at school was not okay.  We met the welcoming teachers, saw the children sitting and working in their stations, and felt the overall calm in the school.  This school was perfect.  We turned in our paperwork for the new school immediately.  And in an awkward, but not unpleasant meeting, we gave notice to her current school that we wouldn't be returning in the fall.

As restless as the trees, I shift from one foot to the other on the paved courtyard. I stare at the kindergarten door - willing it to open. I stand, guarding my treasures - my son asleep in the bike, one hand on my handlebars, the other on my bulging belly.  For a split second, I wonder if I am doing the right thing.  My daughter had only been at this school a few months, was it really right to yank her out just to start all over for a few months before we moved back to the States?  Was I giving it a fair chance?  The door opens and our eyes meet. My smile catapults to the ground.  She's wobbling, supported by her teacher with two huge band-aids covering her tiny knees.  "What now?" are my final words.  "She fell on the playground," is the explanation I receive.  "They pushed me!" my baby says to me.  And any doubt, any hesitation, evaporates.  I load her into my bike, and we ride home. Not looking back.

August 2014 -  Baby Girl's first day of Kindergarten at her new Dutch school. Just like first days of school around the world, there's shuffling, rushing, loading, excitement, stress, and anxiousness.  The entire family loads into the car – I'm about two months away from my due date.  I could bike – but when the car is available, the American in me, is going to choose the more comfortable option.  It takes us about twenty minutes to traverse the city via vehicle, even though it is only a two mile distance.  Weaving through the city centre takes time – stopping for bicycles, pedestrians, and lights.  Unlike America, drive-thru drop-offs are unheard of since biking and walking is the primary mode of transportation.  Even parking lots in the Netherlands are rare, and her school is no exception.  After fruitlessly searching for parking along the street in the adjoining neighborhood, my daughter and I jump out of the car armed with promises to meet up with V and Holden in a bit.  Hand in hand, Cosette and I follow the sounds radiating from the courtyard.  Teachers are singing into microphones while students, parents, and faculty crowd.  "Celebrate good times, come on!" blares from speakers.  Baby Girl nestles her head into my belly and I lean down to hug her, balancing my weight carefully to keep from falling over.  "You're going to do great.  I'm so proud of you." I reassure her.  The Principal spots us among the crowd and welcomes us.  I run into a friend from book club.  She tells us how much she loves the school.  I feel comforted.  In my small expat world, running into anyone I know, ever, is cause for celebration.  I take it as a good sign.  The music stops.  Announcements are made. Doors open.  My husband and son catch up just in time.  As a family, we head to her classroom with many other anxious parents.  We find her seat in the circle, already labeled with her name.  The teacher is calm - she looks at her students with sense of pride.  After allowing the parents to linger, she encourages the parents to go to the window and wave.  We give Cosette a hug and then file out to wave at the window.  Lots of kisses are blown.  A few tears (from parents and children alike) spill over and then we file back into the school for a reception of coffee.  Another Mom speaks to me.  "I'm so sorry. Spreek jij Engels?" I smile.  "Oh. You speak English?" she asks.  "Yes. Sorry?!" and although at this instant – she knows I'm an outsider, she's still friendly.  She has twin girls, who turned four over the summer.  As a mother, this is her very first day of kindergarten.  It's the same.  Parents lovingly saying goodbye to their children.  It's universal feeling of excitement and loss.

Throughout the year Cosette befriends many of the students.  I respect and adore her teachers.  I see my daughter blossom.  She's happy.  She looks forward to going to school everyday. With two other children and the trek across town - it's not always easy to get her there on time.  Every day I hope I'm able to find a close parking spot.  Everyday, I unload two (or eventually, three) of my children and walk her to and from her class - sometimes in the rain and many times in the cold.  I'm not always punctual, but I'm trying.  Her teachers seem to understand.  "Mama – I speak English to the teachers, but Dutch to the children" my daughter explains.  After the pressure to Only Speak Dutch at her last school, everyone seems OK with this arrangement.  I'm relieved.  She brings home pages and pages of artwork. She talks about her friends at school.  The 'class teddy bear' is a weekend guest, with instructions to let him sleep in her bed.  The American-In-Me puts Mr. Flip and all of his clothes through a wash and spin cycle first.

Days before I give birth, V has a work conflict and he needs the car.  I bike across town to pick up my daughter.  I'm proud and happy of my four-mile round-trip bike ride, five days before my due date.  As I lock up my bright green bicycle, I've caught the attention of a few other Moms.  The mother of the twins starts chatting.  I tell her my father is coming from Texas to help me when the baby comes.  "Oh, Texas?  You're American!" she says.  "That's a long way from here."  We may not know many things about each other, and I still find it interesting that Europeans sometimes can't differentiate between American and British accents, but I'm happy for the conversation.  During pick-up time, I usually stand off to the side of the hallway, waiting for Cosette.  The other Moms chat to each other in Dutch.  I remain quiet, excluded. But unlike a Middle School social, it's not cruel.  We smile and nod.  I know these women.  There's a shorter Mom with a red jacket that's pregnant, too.  There's a taller Mom with a purple jacket.  There's a blonde Mom with a slick black jacket.  We're all Moms that care about our children.  I'm an outsider.  Maybe I'd be an outsider in America, too – and there's a comfort in knowing that I'm labeled as an expat.

December 2014 - Rain drops flash in the line of headlights snaking their way along the winding canal.  "Ugh!  I should have known this would take forever!" I grip the steering wheel, focus my energies on willing the line of cars to move forward.  I'm unaccustomed to driving across town at this hour of night.  Cosette chirps from the backseat, "What's the matter Mama?!"

"Nothing honey, I just don't want you to be late for your first Christmas pageant," I glance in the rearview mirror with a smile.  The ancient gate of the city glows in the floodlighting on our right as we sit at the red light.  I breathe a deep sigh. Only a few more months in this beautiful city.  My son and baby are sick at home with my husband.  Forced with a 'divide-and-conquer' logistical decision, my daughter had originally picked my husband to attend her Christmas program, but she changed her mind last minute.  I was so excited.  For a full-time Mom, it's rare to leave the house and more than that, I welcomed the excuse to dress up for the occasion.  My heels alternate between pressing the accelerator and tapping the brakes.  We park in the neighborhood and high-tail it in our skirts to the church nearest to her school.  They must have been taking bets in the teachers lounge about the Late American, as the staff weren't surprised to see us rushing through the doors.  Instead, they smile and usher us to where we needed to be.  With program in hand, I grab the first seat I see, while Cosette is wisked away to the front of the sanctuary.  For the next hour, I am treated to a reenactment of the story of the birth of Jesus, in Dutch.  Joseph, Mary, Wise men, Angels, Shepherds – the whole bit.  As I sit there, by myself, armed with program and my iPhone Google translate, the reality of the moment overwhelms me.  My daughter's first Christmas pageant is in the Netherlands, in Dutch. And although the songs sound a bit different, the story is the same.  It is imperfectly perfect and beautifully simple.  Not only are we celebrating the birth of Christ in her public school, but also in a style refreshingly not Pinterest-worthy.  I watch angels in sheets and wire halos enter and exit the stage, sing along with my best Dutch accent, and laugh as hard as the other parents at the out-of-tune, but passionate solos.  Near the end of the program, the 4-year olds were about to take the stage.  A bit lost in the moment (or perhaps, unable to read the program), the mother in the red jacket brought me back to reality. She is racing from the back of the sanctuary to the front, to get a better view.  "Kome! Kome!" she motions to me to follow her.  Wedged between the other smiling Dutch mothers on the front row, we watch as our babies sang a memorable and enthusiastic version of "Kling klokje klingelingeling!"  Bells ring, children smile, and tears fill my eyes as I watch Cosette and her classmates celebrate and sing.  As the sanctuary erupts in applause, I long for everything to last longer.  We are saying goodbye to these people, this school, this city, and this country in just a few months.  I want more.  I want to hang on to this moment forever.  The pageant concludes and everyone meanders out of the sanctuary.  "Dag! Fijne avond!" my daughter and her friends chime.  I smile and nod a silent goodbye to the mothers.

August 2015  - For seven sweet, but long months, we've been waiting.  Waiting for American kindergarten to begin.  I did my best to fill our days with the American advantages – we've had countless visits to the library (the selection of books in English made both of our heads spin), trips to the Perot Natural history museum, visits with the grandparents and great-grandma, etc.  On the weekends, we've introduced the kids to baseball, ballet, and road trips through the beautiful State of Texas. They've grown to appreciate unlimited bowls of chips and salsa, sunscreen, and outdoor swimming pools. Everyday, Cosette tells me how much she misses her friends in the Netherlands.  Occasionally, we count the days until she starts school again.  We visit playgrounds and I wonder – where are all the people.  In the Netherlands, I rarely spoke to other people at the playground or at the store, but I was always around other people.  It's funny – on gorgeous days here in Texas, we go for a walk to the playground or to the neighborhood pool – and we're the only ones there.  It's isolating in two different ways.

The first day of school arrives. Again. But this time, it's American Kindergarten. I'm nervous in a whole entire different realm – mostly because I've been through it before – the competition, the rules, the pressure to conform.  The moment is special though – my brother went to the same elementary school Cosette is enrolled.  My mom comes with us to her granddaughter's first day of school and bakes her cookies for afterwards.  There are rules and papers and newsletters but at least I can read them without the use of Google translate.  I love and hate it, all at the same time.

The first day, we walk Cosette into her class, hang her backpack in her locker, and sit her down at her desk.  Her chair is decorated with her name.  For as excited as she was about starting school, she's become very quiet and shy. I put my arm around her and whisper into her ear – "The good news is. . . they all speak English?" and her eyes dart around the room.  "But Mama, I had that one friend in the Netherlands that spoke English. . . " and her voice trails off.  Halfway across the world, I know that today is the first day of school at her old school in the Netherlands.  My heart breaks a little as I imagine her friends going into their new class, the excitement they'd feel after seeing each other after the summer break.  "I know, honey, I miss my friends, too - but you'll do great."  I help her with her crayons, say goodbye, and meet the other parents in the cafeteria for the "Cheers and Tears" kindergarten parents breakfast.

In the cafeteria, I see a questionably familiar face.  It's hazy, but I know I know her. . . wait. . . our mental rolodexes are spinning.. . I have a flashback to Senior English AP class nearly 20 years ago.  "Hi, I'm Celeste!" and she tells me her name, which I already know.  We embrace.  I have a friend.  I have a friend!  A real friend from high school in my daughter's cafeteria.  Her son is starting Kindergarten too – and we're both thrilled to see each other after all these years.  I can't help but think, so this is the advantage of being back where we started.  To run into familiar friends in unfamiliar places. To go through a new adventure with someone who already knows me.

I meet my daughter at the front of the school in the afternoon.  She has a large smile on her face.  "Did you make a friend today?"  I ask my daughter.  And she says yes!  Yes I did.  I tell her I did too.  And we walk towards our parked car, hand in hand.

It's been a long day without you, my friend
And I'll tell you all about it when I see you again
We've come a long way from where we began
Oh, I'll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again

Been here Before?

Pompeii by Bastille

July 7, 2015

Loads of groceries sit snuggled in the trunk of my SUV.  The air-conditioning blasts as my dashboard glows, indicating 95F outside.  Beams of orange and red stretch across the Texas sky. The sun says goodbye on another warm, humid day.  I’m driving across the neighborhood to return a book from the library I borrowed about Paris.  I pull up to a stop sign.  I see a mother and her two adolescent sons on bicycles approach the intersection.  The older son is nine or ten.  He teeters to a stop, nearly falling off his bike on a small incline in the pavement.  Although I had approached the intersection first, I instinctively let them pass before I accelerate the car.  The mother casts glances of apology and waves to me as she follows her sons across the intersection.  I feel like rolling down the window and shouting reassurance – “I lived in the Netherlands for the past three years, please – don’t apologize for your children!  You should have the right of way all the time!  And by the way - I love your blue Dutch-style Mama bike!”  But of course, I don’t.  I breathe.  I cast a glance at my daughter in the backseat. I maneuver our car closer to the always-open drive-thru book drop at my local library.

“What’s it like to be back?” friends ask.  Overwhelming? Confusing? Sad? Exciting? Comforting? Weird? All of the above?  Yes.  I think that’s it.

After moving overseas, I discovered there was an expat spectrum of happiness and acceptance.  On one end, there are those who love their new country and want to stay forever.  On the opposite end are the ones who wished they could have repatriated yesterday.  Of course – there’s everyone in between.  On a cold winter night, my girlfriends and I shared a couple glasses of wine and talked about. . . life.  Expat life.  Before my friend moved to the Netherlands over a decade ago, her guidance counselor at school had warned her “Once you move overseas, you’ll never see the world the same.”  My friend went on to explain “It’s kind of like the Matrix – once you take the red pill, you can never go back.  People may regret moving overseas, but the thing is, they can’t help that they said, ‘Yes.  I’ll do it.’  They’re just the type of person who takes the red pill.  That’s just who they are.”

I took the red pill. And so did my husband.  That’s the type of people we are. We’re back in Texas in our same home, reconnecting with our old friends.  We’re driving the streets I rode growing up and drove as a teenager.  My daughter is pre-registered for kindergarten in the same elementary school my brother went to.  But everything feels different.  A little awkward.  Like we want to tweak it just a little because we’ve seen it in a different filter.  And it was good.

For my children – America is the red pill.  They’ve gawked at ceiling fans, garage doors, and mailboxes.  They have now attended their first baseball game, movie theatre, and library story time.  We’ve feasted on Chick-Fil-A. . . and then I’ve climbed through the tunnels of the Chick-Fil-A indoor play area because my 3-year old refused to come down.  They saw fireworks and tasted their first s’mores last weekend as they celebrated 4^th of July for the 1^st time on American soil.

“Everything makes sense.  Once you’ve been there long enough,” I always thought.  Gawking at the helmet-less children in a wooden box bicycle many years ago on a visit to Amsterdam, I became that woman.

We’re still figuring out how to mesh our European and American lifestyles.  For the last five months, we’ve been a one-car household, like we were in the Netherlands.  I rode my bike to pick up my son from pre-school.  As I strolled into the classroom another Mom commented, “I saw you riding that. . . contraption!  You’re very. .. ambitious!”  And I batted my eyes. I longed for the Dutch language.  See, as an expat, you can do weird things or everything wrong and no one cares.  You’re foreign. Or at least, a Stupid American.  There’s comfort in that.  She continued, “Oh, and I saw your husband the other day. . . walking to the drugstore? And I realized – you all must be used to walking a lot more than we’re used to!” With that – I wanted to book the next flight back to Amsterdam.

We often wondered why.  Why do companies invest in moving their employees overseas?  It was never explained during our pre-departure cultural training.  Before we left for the Netherlands, my husband and I had considered ourselves well-traveled.  We had seen some things, been to thirty or so countries.  But in retrospect, we had always visited each country and viewed it with our American Glasses.  American Glasses provide a lot of insight, awareness, and some fun party facts.  But once you live overseas. . . you start to view America with a perspective of an outsider.  And that’s the red pill.  It’s not necessarily bad or good – it’s just different.  From getting groceries home, to education, to healthcare, you’ve lived and understood that’s there’s an alternative way to everything.  Ideas like “wouldn’t it be cool if you could bike everywhere?” morph from abstract concepts into concrete reality.  And that awareness sneaks up in un-suspecting ways and moments.  Like when letting a woman cross the street on her bike when you’re driving to return a library book.

Brave

"Brave" by Sara Bareilles

June 7, 2014 - I awake in a Best Western hotel room in Healdsburg, California. I glance at the clock. 5:30 a.m. I stare at the ceiling and groan at the irony of it all - I’m half a world away from my husband, kids, and dogs. I have no plans for the day until the wedding at 6:00 p.m. I could sleep until noon, if my body would only let me. Jet-lag is a beast. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad over to the window unit and flip on the heat. I peek through the black-out curtains. Grey. Foggy. Cold. In June. I’m used to this weather, but I’ve left my spring jacket and scarf in the Netherlands, clearly over estimating the ‘sunny California’ stereotype. I shuffle into the bathroom to grab another tissue. Maternity dresses bought in Barcelona hang on wooden hangers. I’ve been fighting a losing battle with a head cold for over a week. Pregnant, jet-lagged, and tissue-box-emptying head cold make for a rough combination. I rub my eyes and my mind becomes clear. Active. It’s racing. I lay back down. I tell myself I need to rest. It’s a big day. I need to sleep. But my thoughts are bouncing all over the planet – California, Waco, Brazil, Dallas, the Netherlands, and Puerto Rico. Words flash. Sentences come together. Feelings bubble over. I know what I must do. I’ll never sleep otherwise and this is too real, too honest to let it escape. I open my computer and begin to type.

Two months earlier – Vinny returns from his business trip to the United States the weekend before my birthday. I’m finally out of my 1^st trimester, but I’m exhausted none-the-less. Cosette’s first week of school proves to be emotional and cycling a few miles a day with the two kids is a little tougher considering I’m carrying one more in my belly. I’ve still kept up with everything – laundry, house, cooking, cleaning, kids, and work, but it’s taken its toll. I want to sleep. Curl up on the couch next to him and never leave. I embrace all the goodies he’s brought back from the States – maternity clothes which were tucked away in my Dad’s garage, gifts from my best friend Nikki, and his Target purchases. I sit in the living room breathing and resting - watching him unpack his bags. I’m sentimental for home and friends. “I have another surprise for you,” he says – after the kids have gone to bed. “Ugh. You know I hate surprises!” I tell him. After nearly ten years, I wish he’d embrace this facet of my personality. “I know. I know. But I booked your flight for Julio’s wedding in June.” My face softens. “Really?” I whisper. “Yes. You need to go. I’ve already taken the time off of work so I can watch the kids. Plus, the direct flights to Dallas dropped dramatically in price.” He’s saying all the right things.

June 2014 - Two months later, I board the flight from AMS to DFW. It’s such a quick trip. I’m armed with confirmations, maps, and a credit card (in my name to avoid the rental car disaster like last time). Four flights, 6 days, 3 rental car confirmations. Maps of the closest Target, Buy Buy Baby, and Ulta (ahem, well cosmetics are cheaper in the U.S.) to Nikki’s house. Plans for a dental appointment, lunch with Dad and Grandma, and dinner with friends in Dallas. Maps, GPS, hotel confirmation, and phone numbers for my trip to California. I’m nervous about the drive from San Francisco to Sonoma Valley by myself (it’s a few hours, I’ve never driven in California, and I rarely drive anymore, period) – but V has done everything he can to make sure I (and baby) feel safe. I’m excited. Pumped. As I’ve mentioned before, solo trips to the United States to see best friends is pretty much the most ideal vacation ever.

Everything goes smoothly. I shop. I catch up. I eat lots of Mexican food. Everyone gets to see for their own eyes that I am pregnant. I’m able to tell my Dad and Grandma in person the name we’ve chosen for the baby. All my pre-ordered packages from DSW & Motherhood arrive on time. I even manage to squeeze in a pedicure the morning before I fly to San Francisco.   I pick up my rental car at SFO without a hitch. The GPS is exactly like the one we have in the Netherlands. I have 3 hours to get to the rehearsal dinner. The GPS says I should be there in an hour and a half.   The GPS is directions are consistent with Vinny’s directions. I’ve got Nikki’s mixed CDs playing in the car. I’m rolling. I’m happy. I get stuck in some traffic in San Francisco but then fly over the Golden Gate Bridge to the sounds of Sarah Barielle’s “Brave” pumping through the stereo. “Okay Baby!” I say to my bump. “This is exciting stuff. Things I thought I’d never do – drive over the Golden Gate bridge 5-months pregnant. Happy Babymoon to us!” And then. . . I hit traffic. I slowly watch my estimated arrival time expand. The original 90-minute estimate yawns and stretches in the dusty sun. It eventually settles on about 3-hours. I text Julio. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to be late. I thought 3-hours would be enough time for a 1 ½ hour drive, but apparently not.

Arriving Late

I arrive at the rehearsal dinner, late and flustered. I see Julio flagging me down, showing me where to valet my rental car from across the road. “I’m so sorry!” I tell him. But he says to forget about it – he’s just glad I made it. The evening begins.

Glasses clink and a lovely breeze tickles our faces as we dine on fabulous cuisine on the California outdoor patio. I’m seated at a table with twenty smartly-dressed men from Dallas and Julio’s family from Puerto Rico. I had been nervous – “Vinny, I’m not going to know anyone there and I’m going to be all by myself!” I had stressed weeks before.

“Honey,” he gazes into my eyes, “of all the weddings to go to alone and pregnant, this is the best option. A gay wedding in California? Julio’s friends are going to be awesome! They’ll love you - don’t worry!”

Vinny’s assessment proves to be correct. Julio introduces me to many of his friends and we all smile and chat the evening away. Many have heard of me and there are many others who are curious as to who I am. Snippets of stories flash – “We used to work together in Waco. . . actually we were roommates. . . actually, we worked together again at American Airlines. . . we’ve been friends are really long time. . . Julio was in my wedding. . .” Each face glows with excitement. Loves and adoration radiates towards this couple. I’m the only girl at this gorgeous table besides his mother and aunts. I’m pregnant and have flow across the world. Everyone seems genuinely curious as to why I am here and wants to learn more, but none of the sentences spouting from my mouth truly captures the entirety of our relationship. Waves of memories flow. Images flash. The officiant sits across the table from me and asks the man sitting next to him if he is going to give his speech tonight. “No no,” he says, “I’m going to give it tomorrow night at the reception.” Apparently, my subconscious takes hold of this idea, and comes to fruition at 5:30 a.m. the next morning.

I text Julio a few hours before the wedding. “Happy wedding day!!! I woke up this morning and wrote something (a speech? A blog post?) about you. I’m sure you already have everyone all lined up, but I’ll bring it just in case. Love you and best wishes today!!!” Julio writes back and tells me to bring it and that he’s excited I’d speak from his side of the table. I’m excited, too.

The ceremony takes place at sunset overlooking the valley. Acoustic guitar music twinkles. The two grooms look dashing in their black tuxedos. The officiants’ voice recites the vows with confidence and the grooms repeat. Julio’s emotions shine through and every heart in the audience falls with his. In the end, there wasn’t a dry eye on the patio. Afterwards, we mingle and guests sip from wine glasses as waiters circle the stone patio. Julio laughs with his guests about his tearful breakdown. Mike admits he almost broke down when he saw Julio enter the ceremony. “When I saw him crying though, I knew I had to be strong. That’s pretty-much how our relationship works – if one is wavering, the other stands tall.” I smile with appreciation and at the fact that it was represented during the ceremony. After two glasses of cucumber water, I excuse myself to practice my speech. Minutes later, I find myself in the middle of a gorgeous table that stretches the length of the barrel room. Forty men and women who adore Mike and Julio surround them with their presence and love. Conversations are hushed. “Are you ready?” Julio asks me from across the table. I breathe in and out. “Yes.” I stand up and all eyes are on me. My paper shakes in my hand as I introduce myself. “Hi! I’m Celeste. . .” and I continue to ramble a few more words I don’t remember. Everyone smiles, anxious to hear what I have to say. I conclude with, “I’m more of a writer than a speaker, so you’ll just have to bear with me,” and everyone nods with encouragement. As I conclude, the room erupts with applause and I glance at Julio. We’ve made each other cry tonight. I’m still shaking with nervousness – I mean, I just voluntarily gave a speech! But I’m so proud of everyone in the room that has made this day special for one of the most special people I know.

Toast to Julio and Mike

Julio and I started our careers on the same day in August 2001. I, running late and flustered, rushed into the lobby of JRBT – a tiny accounting firm in Waco, Texas, apologized to the receptionist and with an air of defeat, plopped breathless into an armchair. A well-dressed and relaxed Hispanic man sat to my left. With gleaming skin and wide, friendly eyes, his warmth and hand extended my direction. “Hi, I’m Julio!” he proclaimed. Time paused. The entire momentum of my first day of work shifted. I reflected the beam of light and shook his hand. “Hi! I’m Celeste!” I smiled. At that moment, I knew we would be friends forever.

   Three days later, my original assessment was confirmed at 6:30 a.m. on the side of a darkened highway 84 as we left town for our first training in Dallas. “Bumpity, bumpity bump.” My little blue Toyota Carolla begged for relief. Oblivious, or just in denial, I drove a few yards further until Julio told me to stop. “Uh, Celeste – I think you have a flat.” I pulled over. The tire was shredded.   Flashes of being late for my second day of work, waiting for tow trucks while cars flew past on the highway, watching the sun rise as time ticked by scrolled through my head. “No problem. I fix it!” he said. And I wondered where this angel came from. “Puerto Rico!” he said.

   We worked side-by-side in tiny banks all over Central Texas for a few years. We drank bad coffee, ate chicken fried steak, and met friendly people that had never been outside of Texas. “Excuse me m’am, but do you have low fat ranch for this salad?” I asked a toothless waitress at a café across from a bank in Valley Mills. “Honey,” she cocked her head, “I ain’t got low-fat nothin’”. And in response to her raised eyebrow, I just ordered the regular ranch. Julio snickered from across the table.

His lease on his expensive apartment in Waco ended and my fiancé moved to Houston. Julio and I decided to save money and move in together. We eventually found a 3-bedroom duplex in Hewitt. Our backyard was enclosed by a chain-link fence and opposite that was a farm that stretched to the horizon. With cows. I bought a dog named Tyler that Julio spoiled and who befriended the livestock. If you had told us then we’d be living in the Netherlands and a high-rise apartment in Dallas later in life – I don’t think either of us would have believed you.  

My parents’ marriage and my engagement ended while I was living with Julio, which of course prompted a lot of drama on my part – poor guy! As part of my ‘recovery process’, I wrote a list of twenty qualities I really wanted in my future spouse - funny, smart, loving, thoughtful. I needed a guy who made me feel beautiful and who I loved spending time with. As I reviewed the list, my eyes grew wide with realization – I had described Julio. I ran into his office to explain my experiment. “Ahh – did you come here to confess your love to me?” he smiled. Desperate puppy dog eyes blinked behind mascaraed lashes. He laughed and shook his head. I already knew, but Julio was most definitely gay – with no hopes of conversion. I fell back into a chair, shrugged, and repeated the advice he most commonly chanted during our years at the accounting firm - “So, what can be done, that’s life?” I needed to find another Julio, but straight. This is not an easy order to fill.

   We parted ways and left the tiny town of Waco for bigger adventures – him to San Antonio first, and me to Dallas. Luckily, I met Vinny pretty quickly. “Oh, Julio – I don’t know about him,” I’d exclaim. “Celeste, try. He’s good for you,” and he’d mime spoon feeding me. I listened. I fell in love. Julio was officially an usher at our wedding, but in reality, he was more. Vinny and I had planned a gorgeous outdoor wedding on the steps of a plantation home outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. As the rain gushed from the sky twenty minutes before the ceremony was to begin, the guests huddled on the front porch like scared rabbits, my own tears flowed. It was Julio who found my make-up artist and told her to “run!” It was Julio, along with my other bridesmaids, who hugged me tight and made me laugh as loud as the thunder above. The indoor ceremony was beautiful and Julio and I danced to Santana at the reception to the applause of my family. It was the best day of my life – not only because I married Vinny, but also because I was surrounded by the love of my friends and family. A culmination of years of laughter, heartbreak, and excitement for the promise of the continuation of love in the future.  

   From culinary adventures in Waco, to sightseeing in Brazil, to hosting my daughter’s baby shower – Julio fills my mind and heart with years of laughter and happiness. When it came to the decision to return the favor – to see him at the best day of his life – the decision was easy. A solo trip, five months pregnant, from the Netherlands are just details to help me prove my point. Julio literally means the world to me.

Julio and I both traveled alone and with each other when we worked at American Airlines. We can traverse the world courageously solo, but I also know that life’s journey is a lot more fun when you’ve got someone to carry your luggage, help you navigate, and a relive the adventures.   I’m excited that Mike is the man that will make and share in life’s plans with him. But more than that, I’m happy he’s found a love that’s good for you, too. 

Come Back to Texas

Come back to Texas (Bowling for Soup)

I had an epiphany today.  We’re leaving.  We’re leaving.  We’re leaving.  I officially posted it on Facebook recently after weeks and months of disbelief.  I mean, I knew it was coming.  It was always part of the gig.  My husband and I signed up for a temporary rotation.  We applied and we were accepted into the program.  I think this simple fact – that we moved to the Netherlands voluntarily – had a huge impact on our attitude towards the engagement (and our stubborn determination to MAKE IT WORK) when at times, defeat seemed imminent.  Normally, the rotation lasts 18 months.  Like America’s maternity leave policy of 12 weeks, I think this is strategic.  18 months is short enough to get your feet wet, but not dive head-first and swim to the surface and order a Mai Tai at the swim-up bar.  At this shorter time frame, you’re still figuring things out and have your life raft of going back home when things get rocky.  Because of our January 2012 start date, we started out at a 2-year rotation (to get in two autumn ‘busy seasons’ for V).  We had a groove by the end of 2013.  We were happy, and with the kids growing older, we really wanted to stay longer.  We extended to October 2014.  After finding out we were pregnant, with a due date of early October, everyone agreed to extend an additional 3 months, with a departure date of January 31, 2015.  The kids and I arrived at Schiphol on January 21, 2012.  Three years and 10 days later, our time in the Netherlands will end.

Three years and 10 days.  It seems like a small amount of time, but in reality - it’s more than half of Cosette’s life, the majority of Holden’s life, and all of Brecht’s life.  That’s significant.

An expat friend asked me recently “When did the Netherlands feel like home?”  In our cultural training, they had told us to expect a 6-month transition.  It took us longer.  After arriving in January, I was anxious for spring to arrive.  I waited and waited and waited for it to get warm.  June 2012 and it was still too cold for my Texas blood and I stared out the window.  There were 1,000 other factors that led me to this conclusion, but the cloudy and grey skies were the final straw.  “I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” I said out loud to no one.  V went on a business trip and my doubts grew more intense.  I remember V asking me if I wanted him to call Dallas to send us back home.  I didn’t want to give up.  But moving to the Netherlands was the hardest thing I’d ever done.  We’d been emotionally stretched in ways we didn’t know we could move – individually and as a family.  I told V no.  Don’t call Dallas.  We’re going to keep trying.  Moving overseas was our dream.  The sun came out and the thermometer rose.  The skies resembled something I had seen before.  We picked up our pace, smiled.  We went outside without our jackets on.  In October my best friend visited from the States.  Having her familiar face in my foreign world lifted my spirits immensely.  Then we went home to visit.  We hosted a party and saw everyone we loved in Texas.  We had friends from Dallas, Ft. Worth, and Waco attend.  We headed to Baton Rouge and we were embraced with more hugs, smiles, and cheered on the LSU Tigers.  I stocked up on Bath & Body Works lotions, fajita marinade, and washable markers.  There was a shift in my mind.  When we landed in Amsterdam, I was ready.  I knew we could do it.  I knew this was home.

For the past few years we’ve been through the spectrum of life experiences – weddings, funerals, starting jobs, ending jobs, making new friends, and losing others.  We’ve celebrated 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th birthdays here.  I’ve joined bookclubs, a writing group, run a B&B, hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners, sent my daughter to kindergarten, and then sent her to a better one.  Our children have been to 13 countries.  They can identify the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben and Van Gogh paintings. They speak and understand Dutch.  We’ve been on international T.V., I gave birth to our third child, and we have thousands of more memories and experiences.  This is home.

We’re leaving.  We’re leaving.  We’re leaving.  How do I feel about this?  In reality, I’m heartbroken.  Home is where the heart is and I feel that forever, my heart, or at least a small piece, will be left in this country.  People often ask – could you stay?  Is the option there?  I guess it is – V could get a permanent job here.  I believe he could.  There are a lot of financial implications that would have to shake down and I’m not sure if he’d like to work for the Tasmanian Devil forever, but would that be something we’d want?  There are days where I say yes!  (Mostly when it’s sunny).  But there are a lot of things pushing and pulling us back.  For every life event we’ve had in the Netherlands, there’s also a birthday, engagement, chemo treatment, hospital stay, and Christmas Day we’ve missed in Texas, too.  As much as I adore my daughter’s new Dutch school, they aren’t going to teach her the Pledge of Allegiance, either.

My brother and his wife visited last August.  They live in California and I warned them to bring jeans and shoes ‘they wouldn’t mind getting wet’.  My warnings proved valid and their visit coincided with the coldest August in the Netherlands since like, 1982 or something, and they took the rainy wind in stride.  We stood outside the Van Gogh museum, hovering under umbrellas for two minutes before they decided to skip the art and head to the Heineken experience.  They went to the Jumbo Grocery store with me and my brother was verbally abused (in Dutch) by the cashier for not putting his groceries on the conveyer belt correctly.  He took the lashing as a badge of honor.  But more than that, as we hung out in my living room late in the evening, he turned to me and explained his admiration, “We see these people on TV, moving across the world – but you’ve done this with a family.  Today, I’m on a canal boat in Amsterdam and I’m awe-struck.  Your 4-year-old daughter is coloring besides me.  She’s like, ah yeah, I’ve seen this before – this is Amsterdam.  She’s seen so many things.  She speaks two languages.” I had invited my closest friends over to meet him and his wife for drinks and dessert a few days prior.  He continues, “Your expat friends I met the other night – they’re awesome.  But I can see. . . how hard it is.  People come and people go.  One of your friends started tearing up when we started talking about you all’s approaching departure.  That’s. . . . intense.”  He says this.  And I’m so. So. Happy.  He’s only been here for a few days, and he’s my little brother, but he gets it.  He recognizes that we’ve taken ourselves out of everything familiar – our friends, family, careers, and home – and we’ve succeeded.  “Celeste, you never even lived outside of Texas – and suburban Texas at that. . . and you’re living life in a city, a foreign city. . .”

What’s next for us?  To be honest, we’d hoped for another adventure.  We’d looked into moving somewhere else – London, Austin, Chicago – but nothing panned out.  So we’re headed back to where we started – Dallas.  And back into our old home at that.

Will we embrace the familiarity?  Or will we feel like it’s the equivalent of going to college and then moving back in with your parents?  I’m not sure.  I worry that our entire Netherlands experience will feel like a dream, but then again, I’ll have a 4-month old baby at 4:00 a.m. to wake me up from it.

If anything, I know it took us a while – ten months - to find the balance between our American heritage and our Dutch surroundings, and we found home here in Leiden.  With a little patience, trial and error, and ingenuity, I think we’ll find a new normal back in Dallas – meshing our European lifestyle with American culture.  It won’t be the same as when we left - just as everyone else has changed in the past three years.  We’ll find a new dream, and go after it with as much passion as we’ve exerted over the past few years.  In the meantime, I’m going to have a kick out of introducing my children to the Texas and Louisiana cultures they’ve missed.  After all, New Orleans Café’ Du Monde beignets have a strong resemblance to Dutch Oliebollen.

To Be With You

To Be With You (Mr. Big)  

  A childhood nightmare flashes.  Standing alone, but in a crowded courtyard.  Aging brick walls suffocate, paned glass mocks, trees whisper.  Faces stare.  Silence prevails.  I’m naked.  My eyes plead to the crowd for help.  No familiar face will extend a jacket.  There are no familiar faces.  Mumbles are exchanged between friends – the words foreign to my ear.  I stare at the ground.  Confused. Embarrassed.

***

Courtyard

   I lift my head.  I awaken from the nightmare and realize that I am clothed.  No one is staring.  No one sees me.  I am.  Invisible.  Like a ghost, I stare at my surroundings, unseen, felt, and acknowledged by the human forms around me.  I blink, then grasp my daughter’s hand and lead her through the crowd towards her first full week of kindergarten.

   In the Netherlands, children start public schooling the day after their fourth birthday.  Once we discovered we would be extending, we set to work to figure out where to send our daughter.  Two year waiting lists are common, and we were clearly behind.  Back in Texas, the decision is made for you – parents send their children to the elementary school closest to their home.  The curriculum is standard throughout the district, and in order to choose a different school than the one assigned is not an easy task.  We had interviewed the international school in Leiden and were very pleased with what we saw, but they wait until all children turn four years old and start them together in September (as opposed to the day-after 4^th-birthday-rule).  Considering Baby Girl’s birthday is in April, and our departure date is October, this was not a feasible option for us.   We had even inquired of her Dutch daycare if they’d be willing to accept her (and our money) after her fourth birthday and they looked at us quizzically.  “Why would you send her here when you can send her to Dutch school for free?  And either way – our waiting list is too long.  We need her spot.”  Again, from our understanding, the Dutch children are not required to go to school until they turn five, with an optional start date of four.  But this option has seemingly never been exercised.  We contacted a few schools.  Most said their waiting lists were too long, but the school closest to us said they’d have a spot for her.  (Schools in your neighborhood give precedent to the children in the neighborhood.)  We made an appointment for a school tour. 

    November 2013 - The clouds did not part and rain pours from above.  V and I enter the school and I am instantly reminded of my own elementary school in the 1980s.  Red brick walls line the worn staircase.  Echoes and dim lighting cascade shadows on the dusty formica floors. That unmistakable gym-smell penetrates everything.  This building hasn’t been renovated in at least 40 years.  We are greeted and seated in the teachers’ lounge.   I shift in the hard plastic chair as the introductions are exchanged with the principal of the school.

    She is an elderly woman with short hair and a nice smile, and has been a part of the school for decades.  As she speaks, I begin to relax a bit.  “Oh yes – we have a place here for Cosette,” she speaks in clear English.  I nod.  We had not heard these words from anyone else.  A guaranteed place.  “Oh, and there is another girl, yes – who speaks English in level zero class.  We can see that we put Cosette in her class. Yes?” Also good news.  This lady is on a roll.  “A tour now, yes?”  I fumble with my purse.  My husband grabs my hand to calm my nerves. 

Level Zero Classroom

   We enter the first classroom and to my surprise, it looks much like what I’d picture a kindergarten (or as they call it, level zero) class to look like - almost.  A play house station is in the corner, bins of legos line the walls, and a circle of small chairs surround a circular table in the middle.  I cock my head to the side.  Not only are there about 28 tiny chairs (about twice the amount I would perhaps expect in an American school classroom) but they’re also covered in clothes.  Pants, shirts, and shoes litter the backs and seats of each chair.  “Oh yes – the children are at gym,” the principal says in way of explanation.  When she sees my confusion deepen, she continues “Oh yes, see the children have gym in their underwear.” My eyes grow wide. “Yes, see, it’s much too hot for them to run around in their clothes and it’s too time consuming to change into gym clothes.”  Visions of naked children kicking soccer balls does not compute in my American brain.  I look to my husband for help.  He gives me the look that says: Something is being lost in translation – it will be okay, Honey.  I nod and focus my attention back to the principal.  She’s pointing to the clothesline above the teacher’s chair.  Photos of the day’s activities are pinned to the string.  I nod with appreciation.  I like schedules.  The principal is pointing to the pictures and explaining them to me.  “Yes, so in the morning, after the children hang up their coats, and put away their bags, they sit in the circle and the teacher first reads them a bible story.”  My eyes grow wide, yet again.  Underwear and bible stories: two phrases I wouldn’t hear during a tour of an American kindergarten.  I look back at the art station.  The principal is demonstrating a traffic light.  “There are so many children, you see – the teacher can’t possibly attend to all of them at the same time, of course.  The children take their names from the board and place them next to the station they’d like to play in.  Each station has a limited number of spots.  The teacher directs the art station.  If the red light is on – it indicates to the other children to not interrupt.  If the green light is on – the children may approach with questions, yes?”  I nod.  I like this idea.  “Oh – that’s nice.  Where can I get one of those?” I smile.

   We complete the tour and we return to the office to receive the paperwork.  “When do we need to return this form?” my husband asks.  “Well. . . as soon as possible, of course.  There are waiting lists.”  We nod.  We understand.  We have little other choice.  The school is fine.  The principal is warm.  The school is half a mile from our home.  Our daughter has been understanding and speaking Dutch at her preschool for the past two years.  The Dutch kindergarten should be good experience for her.  We fill out the paperwork and return it the next week. 

March 2014 - Because each child comes into the classroom at different times, the classroom is well established.  Four sessions are scheduled before her first day of school.  Parent-guided for a couple hours the first time, then she could attend by herself for half a day.  I like the idea of this – introducing her (and us) into the new routine gradually. 

     My husband and I awake on the day of her first ‘visitation’.  We dress both kids, ourselves, and head out the door and a flurry of anticipation and nervousness.  V had thought we could bring Holden with us and the four of us could observe the class together.  I had my doubts.  Upon arriving at the classroom, we are introduced to the teacher.  “Sorry, spreek je Nederlands?” she asks.  My husband explains that he does, but that I do not.  She explains that she doesn’t speak English.  I’m floored.  Besides a few aging repair men, everyone in the country speaks English.  The teachers at their preschool have always conversed with me in English.  I love them.  I’m Facebook friends with one of them.  I stare at this educated woman in disbelief.  Dread seeps through my veins.  She explains that only one parent can attend the observation session, so clearly, my husband would be the one, considering the language barrier.  My husband and Cosette enter the class and the door slams behind them.  I peer into the window.  My daughter, shy and small, blonde and beautiful, dressed with hope and anticipation, sits in the tiny chair confused and staring at the other 27 children.  My husband sits behind her in the circle.  My Baby Girl - my daily responsibility for the past two years - looks at me through the window.  I wave and turn with tears stinging my eyes.  The mama.  Shut. Out.  I hoist Holden on my hip, hug him tight, and pedal him over to the local park in the cold.

April 2014 – Cosette turns four on April 2nd, and on Thursday, April 3^rd, we dress her in a new outfit, snap photos, and pack her snack.  We pedal over to her school.  My husband on his bike, the kids and I on mine.  I’m anxious.  It’s a big day.  We hang her hoodie, put her bag in the cupboard, and help her find her seat.  After a flood of hugs and kisses, my husband and I grasp each other’s hands, and with Holden, exit the

Official First Day of School

door. We pedal slowly home.  We sip coffee and he works at the dining room table.  I split my time between idling around the kitchen, playing with Holden, and watching the clock.  Most of the school children stay until 3 p.m., but we’ve decided to pick her up at noon every day – at least for the first few weeks.  Vinny had originally been scheduled for a business trip to the United States during her birthday and first day of school.  We were both relieved he was able to change it and be here for this big week.  Just as any parent would be after dropping their first-born child off at their first day of school, we’re as nervous as we are anxious.  It’s compounded by the fact that we’re in a foreign country, but we tell ourselves that she’ll be fine.  She’s been understanding and speaking Dutch at preschool for the past two years.  She’ll make friends.  She’ll learn how a classroom operates.  We are all waiting outside the door at noon when she completes her first day.  She smiles, says it went well, and Vinny and I smile above her head, relieved. 

  The following week, Vinny is in the United States.  The loneliness that occurs anytime he’s gone is intense and magnified.  The week before, I had not noticed I was not greeted by the teacher when I dropped Cosette off at school.  I had not noticed that no other parent made eye contact with me.  We had reassured ourselves of Cosette’s comfort level being a part of a Dutch classroom, but I had not anticipated how I would feel as a parent.  My experience with their preschool was very similar to the one I had in America – I have a relationship with their teachers, and the other parents are friendly.  Their teachers and I discuss our concerns about the children.  They want to teach and share their culture with my family and are curious about Texas.  Starting my daughter at the new school makes all the insecurities, nervous-vibes, and invisible-like feelings I felt our first few months after moving here resurface.  I’m surprised at how vulnerable and clueless I feel.  The teachers do little to provide any reassurance.    

  During her first full week, I lock my bike in the courtyard.  I stare at the buildings and people around me.  I blink, then grasp my daughter’s hand and lead her through the crowd.  I walk her into the classroom and encourage her to choose a book from the table before she finds her seat.  Her hand is in her mouth, she hesitates.  She does not speak, but points to a book similar to the one we have at home.  She smiles when she sees it – it is something familiar, and slowly moves towards it.  Another girl in the class watches our interaction and moves swiftly.  She grabs the book, presses it to her chest, and rushes to her seat.  My daughter and I stand there, stunned.  I’m new at this.  I blink and encourage Cosette to pick another book.   Later, I ask the teacher about the interaction and explain that I found the girl to be a bit rude – and if that behavior was appropriate.  She shrugs as if to say, of course.  I cock my head as if to say, really?  “Oh yes, in America I suppose the classrooms are - how do you say – quite severe?” she challenges. I raise an eyebrow. 

   Weeks later, my daughter comes home with bruises on her arms.  “The boys at school grabbed my arms on the playground and would not let go.”  She says.  “My arms hurt, Mama.”  I ask who the boys were and what the teacher did.  I recognize their names.  They are 6-year old boys who tower above her.  She explains that the boys were sent to time-out.  I’m upset that 6-year old boys are beating up 4-year old girls on the playground, but more than that, I’m upset that the teacher didn’t bother to tell me.  V confronts the teacher the next day.  “Well, of course – I was not here yesterday,” (the teacher who prefers to not speak English to me works Mon-Wed, and this is Thursday’s teacher), “but I can tell you that. . . in America, I hear that you must sign a form for every little scratch,” and again.  A shrug.  Dumbfounded, V slinks away with the Paranoid American hat on that she’s just handed him.  He calls me and explains the interaction.  I’m livid – after 2 ½ years of learning, understanding, and embracing many facets of the Dutch culture, lectures in cultural shortcomings is not what I was looking for.  

Pregnant with 2 kids, pedaling my 'bakfiets' to Dutch school

June 2014 – In retrospect, I now realize the importance of researching the schools far in advance before children turn four years old.  Not all schools are created equal.  My husband and I are currently researching and weighing options for the fall.  As with many things, the Home in Leiden website has been an invaluable resource.  I have heard from many Dutch parents that the school Cosette attends currently has high ratings and a good curriculum.  Ultimately, I think our decision comes down to where we feel most comfortable, and of course, every child is different.  After such a positive experience with their Dutch preschool, I feel strongly that there’s a school out there that suits my daughter’s needs and makes me feel comfortable.  We just have to cross our fingers that we’ll find it and that the waiting list isn’t too long.  No one wants to be invisible.             

Hold on little girl
Show me what he's done to you
Stand up little girl
A broken heart can't be that bad

When it's through, it's through
Fate will twist the both of you
So come on baby, come on over
Let me be the one to show you

I'm the one who wants to be with you
Deep inside I hope you feel it too
Waited on a line of greens and blues
Just to be the next to be with you

       
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ABC, Easy as One, Two, Three

ABC - Jackson 5

August 2011 - The three of us glisten in the late evening sun.  North Texas has cooled to a balmy 88 degrees at 7:30 p.m.  “We’re close to the record – 60 days of over 100-degree heat.  I think we’re at day 56 or so,” V pants for air.  I nod.  Brace myself to speak.  It takes a lot of energy these days.  Baby Girl is comatose as we wield her stroller up and down the sidewalks.

Tanned and warm in Texas July 2011

“You know.  The Netherlands has probably never seen 100-degrees.  Ever.  In the history of the entire country.” I shuffle along the side walk.  My baby bump shortens my breath and hinders the spring in my step.  “Bump” being a conservative term – more like a beach ball by late August.  Flowers wilt in our neighbors’ yards as we pass.  Water conservation alerts in Plano mandate sprinkler systems can only be used once a week.  “The girl in Accounts Receivable asked again today,” I roll my eyes and attempt to shift the conversation away from the heat – although towards an equally dismal subject. 

“She didn’t,” V asks incongruously.

 “I swear – if she asks me one more time if I’m having twins, I’m seriously going to report her to HR. This has been the fourth time!  It’s not a difficult concept – small people give birth to normal sized babies.  I’m only 5 feet tall – there’s nowhere for the baby to go but OUT.  Duh!” I’m hot at the thought.  Lately, I’ve made a habit of waddling onto empty elevators at work and punching the door close button before anyone else can join me.  It’s the only opportunity I have for peace, otherwise I’m bombarded by questions in the claustrophobic space.  My cube is on the 9^th floor – which proves to be plenty of time for the following seemingly innocent conversation to ensue: “Oh, when are you due?  Oh wow – October?  You look like you’re about ready to pop!” Which, on my good days, makes me want to want to ask about the progress of their own diet or fitness routines which have clearly failed.  On my bad days, I want to punch them in the face.  Most of the times I struggle a sarcastic smile and cock my head, which in the grand game that is Corporate America, isn’t much better than the former two options.  Good thing I’m moving to the Netherlands in six months. Game Over.  “You know what would be awesome?” I say to V as we turn the corner.  I see the shining promise of pink bricks basking in the sunset.  We are steps away from relief - A/C, Texas Rangers, and my fluffy couch awaits.  The evening exercise in the form of walking around the neighborhood after dinner, is almost complete.  “You know how we’ve always wanted three kids.” (V nods in agreement.  At the time, we are blissfully unaware of the challenges of two children.)  “Wouldn’t it be great if we could extend the rotation another year then have our 3^rd child in the third year?  Imagine!” The idea formulates in my head and grows rapidly.  “No miserable Texas heat.  No one to bother me about how big I am.  I probably won’t even be working!  We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.  I could possibly, finally enjoy a pregnancy without having to hear all the ‘oh wow, you’re so big’ nonsense! And then, when we come back, I could get a job. . . or not. . . but either way, we’ll have it all out of the way!  Since you never want to start a job and then get pregnant six months later or whatever.” (Again, hands-on lesson learned in Corporate America).  “What do you think?” I say with as much excitement as a 7-month prego Mama can muster.    

Texas Rangers, couch, and A/C in Texas August 2011 

“Yeah!  Sounds like a good idea,” V nods and molds the idea with his own reasoning.  “We know the 1^st year is going to be tough with this little guy,” he pats my beach ball affectionately. “But the second year should be awesome.  By the third year, we’d probably be ready to give it a go.” We grin like conspirators.  He puts his hand on the front door handle, gives me a sweaty kiss, and we enter into the cool of our living room.   

Winter 2013 “I always wanted three kids, until I had two,” my friend Alexandra laughs with me as we enjoy brunch over the holidays.  V is shuffling around the table refilling our coffee cups.  “Yeah – we knew the 1^st year was going to be tough with Holden, but we didn’t expect the 2^nd year to be tough with him, too.” We all laugh.  His curls are bobbing up and down the living room as he runs from one place to another for no particular reason.  Cosette is sitting quietly at her art table. “He’s put a damper on our plans.”  I smile.  I adore my son, but over the past couple of years, he’s definitely worn me out.  He’s dragging a dining room chair over to the TV.  He’s determined to get the remote controls I have placed out of his reach.  “But should we really let Holden determine our family size?  I mean, he’s not going to be this crazy forever.” (I hope!)  “I also don’t have a whole lot of time, me being in my mid-30s and all.”  I reason. 

“Oh, lots of people have kids in their 40s,” my friend Erin attempts to reassure a few days previously.  Pregnancy, amongst my expat friends, has been a hot topic.  I repeat the observation to Alexandra but shake my head.  “I already feel like I’m about 100 years old some days after chasing Holden around.” (Holden get down, no.  No remote.  Okay.  That’s good.  Curls race away. Vinny?  What’s he doing in the kitchen?  I hear him dragging the stool over to the sink!)  “Besides, I don’t want the kids to be too far apart in age and I’m worried if we don’t at least try, we’ll always regret it.  We’re so stubborn in our dreams.”  I raise my eyebrows at V and he pauses to smile and nod before returning the coffee pot to the kitchen.  “Oh, I don’t know. . .” Alexandra says, “Isn’t having a child an ultimate part of the expat experience, though?” She smiles. 

“True.  I mean – you only have a limited time to bear children.  We’re only in the Netherlands for a limited time.  It’s kind of funny that it corresponds.” I imagine myself with a cute baby bump in front of the Eiffel Tower, walking over the canals of Amsterdam with a sense of calm and purpose, and pedaling my bike around Leiden with 2.5 kids.  “It would be pretty cool.” I agree.  “Besides, we’ve always wanted three kids.  And who knows if it will even work.  We’ve had trouble before.  And surely, even if we do get pregnant, it will be a calm, sweet little girl.  The universe knows loveable, energetic Holden is all the boy I could handle.” 

January 2014 – I knew as soon as it happened.  In previous pregnancies, there’s a sense of wonder, confusion, and curiosity.  It wasn’t my first rodeo and I knew.  I felt horrible from Day 2.  Queasy, turned off by even one glass of wine (now you know something is wrong), and already tired.  By the time I took the pregnancy test, I was already showing.  V eyed my bump with suspicion.  “Yeah.  I’m pretty sure that’s not just. . . “ he trailed off.  I waited until the appropriate amount of days, anyway.  And while the pregnancy test instructions were in Dutch, French, and German, I didn’t bother translating.  The photos, and the pictures,

Baby Bump Feb 2014 - just a few weeks along

and resulting “zwanger!” line were clear enough.  I showed V the test and we both smiled and shook our heads in belief and disbelief.  Stubborn and successful.  He called and made an appointment with our general practitioner.

“So!  You come here because you are pregnant?” our family doctor asks.  “Yes,” I smile, a little sheepishly.  “This is good news, yes?” she is confused already.  “Oh no.  Yes, it is good news.” We say.  “You took a test, yes?”  Of course.  I nod.  “Oh-kay.  So. In the Netherlands what we do, is that we refer you to a midwife.  Unless.  There is a specific reason for you to see a gynecologist,” she shrugs and waves her hand.  I’ve heard this before.  Midwifes and home births are very common in the Netherlands.  It was the reason that scared me enough into giving birth to Holden in the United States.  I now know that home births are not common in the expat community.  “Actually,” I interrupt her dismissive waving hand, “I’ve had two C-sections.” This grabs her attention.  Natural births are also common in the Netherlands.  “Oh okay then.  That would be a reason to see a doctor.” She nods and takes out a pen a paper.  Time to get serious.  I’m glad she’s not going to fight me about this.  She interviews me about the details of my C-sections, my mother’s C-sections, and my sister’s birth experience.  She documents everything.  This is all important to state my case to see an actual gynecologist.  Whatever it takes.  In the end she says “Oh yes.  You have a very special case.  You definitely need to see a doctor.  Call tomorrow.  He should see you in about three weeks.”  My brow furrows.  Special case and three weeks do not add up in my head.  That means I won’t see the doctor until I’m nearly ten weeks along. I feel absolutely horrible, which of course is a good sign.  But I’m already showing and have questions – is it twins? Is it developing properly? What about my hCG levels? “Do you want to take my blood or anything?” I ask. 

“Oh no!” (Dismissive hand again)  “That would be too much trouble to transfer the results.”  The doctor’s office is next door to the hospital which houses the gyno. “You took a home pregnancy test, correct?” 

“Yes, of course.” I nod again.

“Then you’re pregnant.”  She smiles, shakes my hand, and ushers me and my husband to the door.  And with that ‘official’ assessment, my most courageous or crazy adventure yet, begins. . . 

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