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

As Time Goes By

As Time Goes By (Dooley Wilson)

The fog dramatically creeps into a black and white movie set while paralleling the fuzziness of my dream.  The Lockheed Electra 12A is not about to take off with Victor Laszlo, but instead, my husband V, is piloting the plane.  Midgets run around the Soundstage #1 at Warner Brothers Studio in Burbank.  In Ingrid Bergman’s place, I am standing on the tarmac, full of hope, while my husband’s voice crackles from the walkie-talkie in my hand (Did they even have walkie-talkies back then? Well – whatever, it’s my dream, I can imagine what I want):  “Are you done, yet?” he asks, anxiously. “You’ve got 11 more months to get it figured out,” his words shout above the roar of the propellers and static of the radio.  “But Honey, just shut those engines off and climb down the stairs – it’s beautiful out here!” I proclaim.  He vigorously shakes his head in the comfort of the cockpit, “No, no.  I’m fine.  I piloted the flight here and I will pilot us home, I just need to keep the engines warm, and besides. . .” he searches for more excuses. . . “and besides. . . I need to keep contact with air traffic control,” he dutifully responds with a nod of his head.  I stand against the roar of the plane, and the wind of my heart.  My determined eyes focus on the horizon as the edges of my trench coat flap against my body, a single, glistening tear falls down my professionally makeup-ed cheek “But the sunset is so gorgeous!” I plead, “. . . and don’t you worry about those ants or other continental beasts, as long as you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you. . . come on out and experience this moment – it’s amazing!”  Still hesitant to leave the safety of the cockpit and venture out into the world of the unknown, I deliver my most meaningful and passionate line of the entire film:  “We are part of each other’s work, we keep each other going. . . If you don’t get off that plane. . . you’re going to regret it, maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life. . .” He stops fidgeting with the dials and knobs.  For a moment – despite everything else, the world is still.  He pauses, staring out of the windshield into the humid evening.  He lets the idea sink into his apprehensive mind and heart – knowing with a previously unacknowledged certainty what it is he must do.  He carefully unbuckles his seat belt, squeezes between the seats and heads towards the door of the plane. . .

  I have a favorite book – Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach.  It is the most meaningful $3.48 I have EVER spent in my life – at a Half Price books in Dallas, Texas.  I’m pretty sure that the target audience is 50-year-old-divorcee-women, but nevertheless; it is never too early or late to find your Authentic Self.  I love this book.  It has been a permanent fixture on my nightstand in multiple houses across multiple continents.  I gave a copy of this book to all the members of my wedding party.  I’ve had it for years and every year I devotedly commit to reading the daily passage.  In reality, it rests by my bedside and I pick it up when I’m feeling determined, stressed or uninspired.  (So as a result, I’ve read January’s, December’s entries multiple times and then sporadically throughout the year, respectively.)  This year, with my kids actually, um, sleeping regularly, I’ve been able to keep up my New Year’s ‘aspirations’ for a bit longer. . . I’ve started and been successfully making daily entries into my Gratitude Journal, which Sarah suggested to me years ago. . . and I have been reading the daily passages.  To my surprise and happiness, Feburary’s entries have proven quite helpful.  (which is totally typical of this book. . . any time you’re having an uninspired day, you can pick up the book and whoa laa!  You’ll find the answer to your creative or emotional struggle. . . unless you read June. . then she’s just telling you to clean your house.  Total Blah.)   

  Highlights from February: 

    “In Africa, to go on safari – the Swahili word for journey – is to leave the comfort and safety of civilization to venture into the wilderness.  Each time you listen to the woman within – your authentic self – you do the same.  . . A safari of the self and Spirit is at times lonely.  But we know we are never alone.  It is a comfort to realize that this sense of isolation is necessary if we are to encounter Mystery, and mystery is very much a part of a safari.  Each day in the wilderness brings with it the struggle to survive and a heightened awareness of how wonderful it is just to see the sun set and rise again in the morning.  Each day on safari is lived to the fullest because it is all that is guaranteed.  If only we could learn this lesson as well in our everyday lives.”  - Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy, Sarah Ban Breathnach

   I read the passage outloud to V the other night.  He nodded with wisdom, awareness, and appreciation.  This is why I love this guy. . . he can appreciate the advice given to 50-year-old divorcee’s, too.  He’s actually the one who came up with the pilot/me standing-on-the-tarmac-begging-him-to-join-my-safari-vision.  We laughed and smiled.  We’ve talked about how I’m on the upward tick of things (I think I’ve been on since our trip home to Dallas in November. . . or rather since Little Man’s 1^st bday in October. . . If I can just survive the 1^st year, I know I’ll be OK – I always said to myself.). . . but that we both agree that V may be just slowly starting his ascent.  I think because things were so tough for me the minute I stepped into this country – no accounting job, not knowing the language, no family nearby, no personal income, no friends nearby, no prior knowledge of how to take care of a child all day long, much less two, ages 21-months and uh, 3-months. .  my struggles to make our house a home (no furniture, no knowledge or how to get food home, or how to light the stove in order cook food once we carried it home) etc. etc. etc.  I came to the realization quicker that we had to adapt or die.  (Okay, maybe that’s too dramatic. . . adapt or Go Home. . .which of course, I was determined not to do. . . we’re supposed to be here, I reasoned. . . at the very least, uh, Paris is 2 ½ hours away – let’s not forget how fabulous that little fact is!)  Whereas, V was still floating along in a somewhat skewed version of a familiar routine. . . work. . . home. . . errands on the weekend. . . take care of kids at night, etc.  

  We’re catching on.  We’re getting it together.  I think this is the beauty of the entire process.  It’s tough – we’re on our own, with no one to depend on but each other and the few friends we’ve made (which are invaluable).  But it is a great feeling when we figure something out, like – knowing exactly where to go to buy a rug, or being able to successfully make family trips to Belgium for the day.

   I was at Charity High Tea last weekend (I know – doesn’t that just sound fabulous and fancy?!  It was quite fun and lovely though – beautiful spread, great friends, a really nice event on a snowy Sunday afternoon) but one of the things the other guests and I talked about is how many of us are on a crossroads of life.  We are all here in The Netherlands for an undetermined or for many, determined amount of time and a lot of us are wondering, what’s next? (Of course, this same question comes up over margaritas in a Texas living room, too. . .but I’m not there right now. . . )  We all sat there nodding at each other. . . the question lingering in the air like chalk dust. . . What’s next?  Or perhaps even more directly, What’s the Point of being here now?  As we sipped Prosecco and nibbled on homemade bonbons and scones, one of my friends made the observation that sometimes it’s during the times when you’re most discouraged is when you perhaps find the true direction you want or are supposed to take.  It struck a chord with me.  February 11^th’s entry in Simple Abundance: “As the English historian Dame Cicely Veronica Wedgwood points out, ‘Discontent and disorder [are] signs of energy and hope, not of despair.’ What is going on is part of the process.  I call it Divine Discontent.  It is the grit in the oyster before the pearl.  This creative second chance is when we come into our own.”

   V stares at me from the top of the staircase.  His pilot’s cap is tucked under his arm as he breathes in the night air.  He slowly descends the stairs and as he approaches the bottom, my tiny gloved hand reaches for his.  As V and I continue to navigate our Expat lives in The Netherlands – an excavation of country, career, and self, I find comfort in the fact that we are not alone.  “I’ll never leave you,” he says to me.  And in return, I respond, “V – this is the beginning of a beautiful adventure. . .” and we walk hand and hand. . . and fade into the Moroccan darkness/1942 California movie studio evening.       

Man of Constant Sorrow

Man of Constant Sorrow (Soggy Bottom Boys)

  The dark suited man closes his large front door as quietly as he can.  He cringes after the large iron knocker clacks noisily against the door, disrupting his attempt.  The noise resonates through the stairwell, but luckily, does not disrupt his sleeping family.  His hollow steps echo on the sidewalk as he makes his way down the block.  Early commuters swish by him on their bikes, otherwise the street is quiet.  The sky is still dark at this early morning hour.  His dress shoes in a previous life kissed carpeted office building floors and accelerator pedals daily.  They are now worn from the weather and outdoor miles he has put on them during the past year.  He waits in the drizzle to cross the street at the end of the block and buries his head deeper into the collar of his warm grey overcoat.  Raindrops dance upon his hat.  He learned months ago that carrying an umbrella in The Netherlands is a futile attempt – the blustery North Sea Wind targets and eliminates umbrellas with a precision and swiftness of military snipers.  Although it is raining, the headlights of the cars do not blink.  They stay on a determined path, not allowing him to pass, like they would for a mother and a double stroller.  His blue eyes dilate upon entering into the fluorescent shine of the train station.  With seamless routine, he dislodges his wallet, slides out his train pass, and scans it on the metal machine.  As the scanner beeps, he is shuffled through the gates with the rest of the commuters and makes his way up the stairs towards the train platform.  His train approaches and people crowd the doors.  His Southern Chivalry, the act of letting women on the train before him, simply confused and flustered the locals when he attempted it a year ago.  He has learned to stick his elbows to his side as a tall middle-aged man inches his way closer to the edge of the tracks and tries to put his body between the crowd and the door.  Jumping the queue is sport for some people in this country.  Childhood lectures on patience and manners, “wait your turn, we’re all going to get on” and “ladies first” are useless mantras. 

  He nestles uncomfortably in his plastic seat and gazes out of the scratched windowpanes.  He watches the world around him wake up – sleepy farms dotted with windmills and cows, the lights of Den Haag skyscrapers pass through his view, glistening in the drizzle.  Some days, if it is the right time of year and the sky is unusually clear, he can see the sunrise on the horizon.  He distractedly turns his attention to the commuters around him.  No one smiles, no one says "Goede Morgen", or even nods in anyone’s direction.  Quickly bored, he focuses back to his own world – opens a book, checks his phone for American Sports News, or takes a quick nap if the baby had been crying in the middle of the night.  This is his most peaceful time of the day.  He breathes deep as the train barrels down the tracks, anticipating what disaster he will meet on the other end of his commute today. 

  My husband has barely taken his first sip from his thimble-sized cup of coffee when his senior manager storms into his office like the Tasmania Devil he is.  Always animated, always angry, and always loud, the man barks out orders to V in gruff English.  V reflexively glances at his co-manager’s now-empty chair.  At his office back in Dallas, there were a cast of managers, senior managers, and partners my husband worked for and with.  There were many personalities, tons of knowledge, arm loads of strengths, ideas, and problem-solving techniques that come with a large team of people. There were mentor and mentee programs in place that had been working positively for years.  Here in The Netherlands, with the departure of his office mate, there is a single direct line on the org chart here at his office – V, Tasmanian Devil, and then a single Partner who would rather not be bothered.  With anything.  At all.  Left to his own devices, the Tasmanian Devil has picked up the limbs from the Partner’s Hands Off Approach and holds all four hands in his control.   V, always respected, trusted, and successful at his office in Dallas has worked harder in this past year than ever to try and appease the Tasmanian Devil and complete the assignments blind-sidely dealt daily to him.  The work, the hours, and even the jumping through flaming hoops are not the things that challenge my husband.  V’s hard work, without recognition plus constant criticism and the blow that has taken to his confidence as a manager, his attitude towards work and The Netherlands, and his stress level he brings home because of it is the final hurdle – our final hurdle, as a family.  In other words, The Tasmanian Devil and the destruction he leaves in his path has proven to be the biggest challenge of the entire rotation.    

  I remember our Cultural orientation V’s company had conducted the August before we left for The Netherlands.  They brought in a few candidates who had just completed their 18-month or 2-year rotations to discuss their experiences to the excited and wide-eyed audience.  There was a girl and her husband who had just returned from Taiwan.  She was clearly glowing – gushing about how fabulous the experience was and how different their culture was to our own American culture.  She described her workday – “We all brought our lunches and ate at our desks, then pulled out a pillow and took a quick nap on our desktops.”  She smiled, perhaps a little nervously, through her whole story.  Her husband, dutifully sitting next to her, had a deer-in-headlights-look upon his face.  “She worked so much.  There was once, I did not see her for three days.  I learned Mandarin while we were there.”  And that was about all he had to say about that.   The anxious audience, ready to embark on our own 18 month rotations, shifted awkwardly in our chairs.  The panel optimistically focused on the Repatriate from Australia.  With an eye-brow raise to the Taiwan girl, he took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and shook his longish-blonde hair.  “Yeah. . . uh. . . my experience wasn’t quite like that . . .” he continued to beautifully illustrate short working days, walks along the beach, beer tastings, and rugby games.   We had anticipated something in the middle – perhaps even similar to his work environment in Dallas.  Europeans don’t love to work do they?  They like their vacations, right?  They value family more than career, right?   

  V knew he was in trouble when he sent out his first welcome/introductory e-mail to the team. . . you know something along the lines of “Hi, I’m V, just moved here from Texas. . . looking forward to the opportunity to work along side you all. . . have any questions, please stop by, my office is. . . .”  He re-read it and sent it proudly.   He received exactly zero responses.  Radio silence.  No “Welcome Aboard”s or “Nice to Have You”s.   Nothing.  We also quickly realized that there would be exactly zero opportunities for me to meet any of his co-workers.  No welcome happy hours, No Christmas party, no personal invites to dinners.  I was not invited to a wedding for his co-worker.  (V was invited, to his surprise, but spouses were not, to both of our surprises).  I’ve entertained Dallas co-workers working in Amsterdam in our house in Leiden.  His Dallas co-workers organized dinner at a restaurant for us when we visited in Dallas last November.  I guess I could just rock up to his office here in The Netherlands with my double stroller in tow. . . and believe me, I’ve thought about it. . . but there’s just something about people not caring to meet you which makes you kind of not even want to put yourself through the stress and effort of getting two kids on a train.      

   Of course, all of this is okay.  It is manageable and I can proudly say that we have successfully adjusted ourselves into our home, city, schools, and activities without the help or friendship of a single person from his office. 

  What tugs at my heart and mind, though. . . is that V’s job has been the hardest obstacle for us to overcome, and yet. . . it is the reason why we are here.  They asked us to come.  I was having trouble reconciling this fact until an idea came upon me. . . we had applied for the rotation with the expectation of finding out if we had gotten it or not in May 2011.  It took until July 2011 for us to find out that Yes! There was a need for my husband in The Netherlands because of some ‘reshuffling of the offices.’  Of course, this is just a theory. . . but maybe the reason why there was a need for my husband, was because no one else wanted to work for the Tasmanian Devil.  It’s plausible, and with his co-manager’s recent departure, perhaps not an incorrect assumption.  So with that. . . I guess I have reason to be grateful for the Tasmanian Devil and his stress-inducing management techniques. 

  V had his first review last week and after a lengthy list of all the things V does wrong, V started to grip his seat and breathe deeply.  Tasmanian Devil actually takes notice of his nearly hyperventilating employee and asks if everything is ok.  With a bravery and forwardness not necessary in America, V asks – “Okay, but is there anything positive you have to say?  Am I doing alright?  Do you like my work?”  Tasmanian, taken aback, responds something to the effect of, “Well of course we like your work, otherwise we would have sent you home by now.”  V nods thankfully and smiles.  At least it was something positive.

  As for now, V worked his tail off last week in order to get everything wrapped up before Tasmanian’s ski vacation this week.  We both breathed a sigh of relief after his final phone call (presumably minutes before the TD boarded his flight).  As for me, I recognize the happy, confident, relaxed man who walks through my door each night this week, which has been a welcome change.  I spend a lot of time trying to tell him not to let Tasmanian ruin this beautiful experience we’ve been given, remind him that he only has to endure him for a limited amount of time, that he’s still appreciated at his office back in Dallas, and that anything worth doing in life requires sacrifice and determination.    

   As for my part, I encouraged V to invite the Tasmanian and his wife to dinner.  The invite was extended, probably in the same conversation prior to boarding his plane – I wanted him time to think about it when he was in a good mood – but no confirmation has been received, yet.  I don’t know if he will take me up on it, but a few mantras dance through my head. . . “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. . . “ and “The best route to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”  Armed with Southern Hospitality and Barefoot Contessa cookbooks, I’d like to at least try to show this guy who we really are, explain why we are here, and illustrate the investment that has been made to make this experience successful – at least from the program’s standpoint (this has been no small production to move a family of 4, furniture, plus 2 dogs halfway across the world, if you know what I mean).   We’ll see what happens, and at the very least, I can say that like my husband, I have also given it my best shot.             

No Baby I Don't Want To See You Hurt

No Baby I Don't Want To See You Hurt (Old 97's)

Snow Baby

   “REALLY?!?!” I shout at the top of my lungs.  I’m outside my house, shoeless and jacketless in the snow.  I can already feel the bruise forming on the outside of my hand from pounding on the window to try to get their attention initially.  “REALLY?!?!” I shout again.  Two toothpick girls wearing furry hoods in the pack of newly-teenaged mischievous youth turn around and stare.  The boys responsible for the stunt, the six skinny males ahead of them (I can only imagine them trying to impress said ridiculous females) stop and turn to look at me, too.  Their long legs and sprinter-like pace had advanced the group like a pack of cross country runners halfway down the street by the time I had whipped around the corner of the living room, tore open the front door, and bounded out onto the sidewalk. “You’re going to STEAL THE HEAD?!?!?  That’s my KIDS’ snowman!”  The girls stop giggling.  The guys shrug and continue down the street.    I am beyond angry.  I am hurt and offended.  I think about my daughter upstairs sleeping during naptime.  I am confused.  How am I going to explain this to her?  That the Snow Lady we lovingly built yesterday, her first one, and my first one in 25 years has been the victim of harassment, abuse, and beheading?  I feel like our family has been attacked and I am responsible for protecting us.  In other words, I am irate.  I throw my hands up as I turn back towards my house.  My dog is looking at me pitifully from behind the foyer doors.  Tyler, the epitome of grace and compassion at all times.  “Whatever, Tyler. . . you bark at the trash truck and it's really done nothing to you.”  He is unmoved.  

  I think that was the boiling point, or rather. . . the freezing point in this case.   I explode on Facebook.  These kids don’t represent kids.  Or Leiden.  Or boys.  Or youth.  They represent THE NETHERLANDS, in my head.  I defended you, I thought.  I’ve been happy ever since I got back from America.  I embraced you, your culture, I spent holidays here, I biked in the snow, and I tromped through the sludge for a week and a half wearing tights underneath my jeans to keep warm.  We played along with your Sinterklaas traditions, I told people at a party last Friday that I like it here. . . much to the chagrin of many other Expats, and then this, this is how you repay me?  Yes.  Okay.  So I admit.  It was a bit of an overreaction and just perhaps. . . my subconscious was struggling more than I realized with the whole. . . snow/cold thing.  I’m from Texas where snow lasts 3 days tops and even when the ice and snow was on the ground for three whole days. . . once. . . the whole town FREAKED OUT and became completely insane with cabin fever and frustration.  You remember, Texas readers.  February 2011.  Superbowl at Cowboys Stadium.  Jerry Jones could not even control the ice.  Last winter, when the snow was covering the sidewalks outside our house I played along like a normal Texan.  I stayed inside.  At least until we ran out of food.  And then I struggled to push a stroller through the snow, fighting back tears, asking myself. . . what have I done?

  The year, I was ready.  In my previous life. . . my ‘winter preparation’ included wearing fishnet tights and knee high boots under the normal skirts I wore to work.  Maybe add a black or pink peacoat and to just walk quickly from the heated car, through the office/daycare/Kroger parking lot, into the warmth of the building.  This year, here in The Netherlands, the kids and I have a stock-pile of tights and fleeces to wear under our clothes.  We have multiple coats, hats, scarves, boots, and mittens with strings (yes, my first week here a year ago, we bought Baby Girl mittens and I had to ask the store clerk what the string was for.  “To put it through the jacket arms. . . it keeps the kids from losing the mittens.” I was thrilled.  “What a great idea!  I wish I had a string on my gloves!” I responded. She smiled at me half-heartedly.)  We have a rain suit that doubles as a snow suit if you add extra layers underneath.  We have multiple stroller covers (last winter, after a desperate trip to entertain my kids in the local library and as the rain started to fall, I sprinted down our shopping street and breathlessly rushed into our local Prenatal (baby store) and gave my first rendition of what would become my Clueless Speech – “Hi, I’m new to the country. . . do you have something to cover this double-stroller with to keep my kids dry and warm?” In response to my desperation she said, “Oh yes, it’s right up. . . “ and cut herself off.  “Actually, just wait here, I’ll be right back.”  She glided up the stairs and came back with a double-stroller plastic cover.  “Oh my goodness, thank you so much. . . um. . . okay. . .one more question, if you don’t mind, how do you put it on?”  She graciously opened the package and helped me put in over my sleeping 3-month old and curious 21-month old.  We walked back home through the rain, accomplished and relieved.)  This year, in addition to my pimped out stroller, I even have a more-efficient bike equipped with its own detachable stroller with rain cover.  We were ready for The Netherlands winter.   

  After a record-breaking ‘warm’ December (mostly in the 40s Fahrenheit) the first snow of the year fell on Tuesday, January 15^th.  I was happy.  V worked from home that day.  Around lunchtime, we bundled up the kids, put Little Man on my back, and encouraged Baby Girl to walk to the Jumbo grocery store and back.  We snapped photos.  We were excited.  We went to the grocery store stroller free in the snow.  I felt accomplished. 

Biking In The Snow

   Two days later, my daughter was scheduled to go to her Dutch-English pre-school on the other side of town.  I was hoping to take the car that day, but V had an early client meeting, and thus he needed the car.  It was a stressful morning.  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?  She could just stay home, you know,” he tried to convince me.  Baby Girl looks forward to going to school, she has a routine, it sets the mood for the rest of the day, and I had already told her what we were doing.  By this point, I feel like I can do whatever I need to in order to take care of my kids.  If that means biking them across town in the snow, I’ll do it.  “V,” I responded, “It’s not about what I want/what’s easiest for me!  We’ll be fine.”  In a rush, he took the car and I, equally determined, completed my morning routine and loaded the kids in the bike.  The cold did not affect me.  I was sweating underneath my super-cozy coat, hat, and gloves after three minutes.  I noticed my front brakes weren’t um, quite working at all at the end of my block – no biggie, they’ve been a little tight for a while, and the back ones were okay. But upon approaching the bridge crossing the canal closest to the DeValk windmill in town (wow. . . things I never thought I’d say/write) I realized that switching the gears down to a more manageable gear (left = lighter, pedal more quickly) I realized. . . that the gears were completely and totally not shifting.  Even though my seat is already adjusted for a full-length leg pump, I hop off my seat and put all my body weight into getting me and my two children up and over the frozen swans below.  This is a problem.  I made a successful trek across town, pedaling through snow-filled and unsalted neighborhood streets.  The snow had turned to powder and pedaling was like trying to maneuver my bike through sand.  We arrived, I dropped Baby Girl off at school and I headed back into town.  Next stop – Fiets 2000. 

  Fiets 2000 had sold us V’s bike a few months after we purchased my bike off of Markplaats (the Dutch equivalent to Craigslist).  The guy who sold us V’s bike was very kind.  After explaining that the Dutch don’t care about women’s or men’s bikes, “I’ve always owned a women’s bike, myself. . . the seats are much more comfortable,” he admitted, we picked one out that seemed nice, and would fit V’s height.  “Do you want to take it for a test ride?” he asked.  “Where?” V and I asked.  “Why here – on the street, of course?” he responded.  There are bikes and cars sharing the same space.  V and I look wide-eyed at the street then at each other.   He caught the glance.  “Okay, so, you not okay with that – there’s an alley across the street.  This is good, yes?”  We nodded eagerly.  V wobbled down the alley until he caught his balance.  A wide grin spread across his face on his return “test drive.”   “You want to try, yes?” the tall Dutchman turns to me.  “Uh, okay!” I say.  My bike, with three wheels and the kids, is at the end of the alley – we’re all eagerly watching Daddy ride.  I hop on to the two-wheeled bike.  I shakily pedal towards them and I jump off like a circus performer.  “No, no.” he says.  “It’s too tall!” I protest.  “No, he says. . . you need to have the seat up, so your leg can extend, otherwise – too much work.  And when you stop, go forward,” he jumps off, both feet on the ground, straddling the bike in front of the seat.  He continues the most basic of huffy-bike-riding lessons – “When you start. . . have your pedal up. . . so it is a full rotation.”  I like this guy.  I wave to him now when I see him as I pedal into town.  I think the crazy American woman with the bright green bakfiets and the circus side-saddle dismount made an impression.  I was really hoping he’d be there on Thursday morning.  But alas, he was not. 

  “Hallo. . . sprek ya Engles?”  I say to another Fiets 2000 employee.  “A little bit,” he says.  (Note:  The two official responses are A. “A Little Bit”, and B. “Of Course”. . . these two responses also correspond to A. “Yes, I will entertain you with my vast knowledge of the English language but at the end of our conversation, you will not find an answer to your question” or B.  “Yes, I will willingly help you solve whatever problem you have.”)  I trudged on.  “Okay, so I am unfamiliar with biking in these conditions and it seems as if my front brakes aren’t working and my gears are having trouble shifting.”  I nod to him, desperately.  “Ah, yes.” He says.  “They are frozen.  There is nothing you can do.”  I am sweating in this snow.  It is 10:00 a.m. and I have already had a heck of a day. I am about to respond when I hear a wailing from the bike.  Little Man, now alone in the stroller is apparently really cold without his sister in this (what turns out to be 25 degrees Fahrenheit outside) and he has a dirty diaper.  The wailing turns into an all-out fire alarm and this guy. . . this Fiets 2000 guy says my situation is hopeless.  “Frozen?!?!” I respond.  “Can I put some WD-40 on it?”  I ask.  “Nah – nothing can be done in this weather.” he repeats.  “You need to park the bike where the gears can defrost.  Yes?”  I sigh.  Where oh where is my favorite Fiets 2000 employee, the one who takes sympathy on ridiculous Americans. . . “Okay.  Thank you.  Dank u wel.”  I say to him.  Little Man is screaming his head off.  I rush to a near-by friend’s house in a panic.  She’s in the middle of a one-on-one Dutch language lesson and I apologize profusely for interrupting.  “I’m so sorry – I just need to change his diaper and I couldn’t do it outside in the snow. . he’s so upset and so cold. . . I guess the department store has a place to change babies, maybe? Or I could have biked to the library, but it’s so much further. . . I’m so sorry to interrupt.” My friend is so kind (who is also a mother) and her Dutch teacher looks mortified at the screaming frozen baby and harried mother in her student’s living room.  I change his diaper and we leave amongst a blizzard of apologies, thank yous, and promises to talk later.

Playing in the Snow

  Little Man and I head to the library, where I take the Fiets 2000 employee’s advice.  I detach the stroller and roll it into the library.  It makes a puddle on the floor the size of Lake Michigan (which, I do feel really bad about) BUT, on the flip side, it worked.  When we attached the stroller an hour later, my front brakes worked.  (The library is used to frozen strollers in their children’s area. . . again, the reason why libraries in America have carpet and any public area ever in The Netherlands. . . does not.  Too pedestrian. . . too rainy/snowy/windy/dirty).  Little Man and I biked over to Baby Girl’s school, picked her up, and we all rode home together. . . them snuggly as bugs in a rug, and me sweating like a pig in the sub-freezing temps.

  But no.  All that did not break my spirit.  I still embraced my new-found winter culture and bought a new coat (75% off) to celebrate.  It snowed again on Monday and V worked from home.  After pressure from the winter books we’d been reading and my kindergarten-teaching-friend in Germany, I decided that Baby Girl and I were going all out.  We were going to Build A Snowman in The Netherlands.  We adorned our tights, boots, coats, hats, and gloves, and set out into our front garden.  My husband, who’d grown up in Louisiana, didn’t even know how to make a snowman.  Reaching back into my very earliest of memories, I thought of my own mother teaching me.  (Which begs the question. . . she grew up in El Paso. . . how did she know?) Either way, I told him  - “Okay, start small, compact and then just keep adding.”  My daughter looked on, amazed. . . we built a Snow Lady. . . complete with flip flops, a scarf, and a flower on her head.  We used the unused charcoal from last summer and a carrot from the fridge.  Pretty cute, I must admit, and Baby Girl was ecstatic.  I felt. . . like I had embraced it all.  I felt. . . accomplished. 

The Original Snow Lady

   The next morning, when I looked out the window, I saw the Snow Lady had toppled over.  I immediately called V, “When you left this morning, was the Snow Lady still intact?”  I accused him.  “Uh, yes.  I’m 90% sure,” he said.  I was skeptical:  Of V’s attention and of the toppling over.  I thought I had made it pretty solid, but maybe I didn’t?  I am from Texas . . maybe it needs a little more support.  I went outside and put her back together.  The kids and I went to the grocery store.  Upon our return, Baby Girl ran up to our sculpture. . “Hi! Snow Lady!” she smiled, and we went inside.  I was happy at her cuteness, read her three books, and put her to bed for naptime.  As I closed her curtains for naptime, I looked out the window and realized the Snow Lady had toppled over again.  I shook it off, turned on her lullabies and went downstairs.  Confused at my apparently-crap-Snow-Lady making abilities I sat at my computer which overlooks the garden and started looking at the weather forecast.  That’s when I saw him.  The Youths.  Darting into my yard, taking my Snow Lady head, and sprinting down the street.  All my insecurities came to fruition.  All my doubts were vanished.  My Baby Girl’s love and pride of Snow Lady, my frustration with biking in the snow, being house-bound for 1 ½ weeks, for the Fiets 2000 guys saying he couldn’t help me, and me playing along. . . thinking none of it mattered, culminated into me running out into the snow and shouting English at the top of my lungs to these youths.  I later apologized to my husband on the phone.  “I know. . .I’m being so ridiculous. . it’s just a snowman. . . I know it’s going to melt anyway, but I’m upset that she didn’t die a natural death and I don’t know what to say to Baby Girl” I sobbed.  “Honey, it’s okay. . . of course you’re upset. . . you’re the one who put the work into building it, and it was in our garden.  They were on our property when they kicked it over. . . they crossed the line.”  He made me feel better and I’m glad that my husband could at least kind of justify my feeling of hurt.  

   My Dad (also a Texan-native) suggested I rebuild Snow Lady in the backyard.  There are a few land mines back there because of the dogs, which was why we didn’t build it back there to begin with.  Determined to surprise her, I thought I’d rebuild Snow Lady last Wednesday while Baby Girl was at school. . . but as most people around the world know (ahem, or so this 30+ year old learned yesterday) is that you can’t build a snowman with week-old snow.  “What happens to it?” my Louisianan-raised husband asked on the phone.  “It just turns into sand. . . it doesn’t stick”.  I explained, remorseful.  So there we are. . . hoping it snows again, so Snow Lady can reappear magically in our backyard. . .  or for all this blasted snow to just melt and stay away. . . As for now. . . Snow Lady is visiting Baby Girls’ friends’ homes. . . wandering around Leiden.  We’ll see if she comes back again.  It’s the best excuse I can come up with. 

Snow Lady II and Snow Baby

Update:  Last Saturday morning, snow fell again, and during naptime, my husband and I were able to recreate Snow Lady in the backyard.  To avoid the mess of the back garden, we built large snowballs on the balcony and front yard and carried them through the house in the backyard.  Just to outdo ourselves, we added a Snow Baby as well.  Baby Girl was a bit confused at the reappearance, but loved it, too.  Rain fell on Sunday, melting all the snow, and I can honestly say, I was okay with that.