Our Blooming Jungle

Things they wouldn't learn in the states...

2009-03-03T19:32:00.001+01:00

Tonight as we sat at the dinner table my child suddenly blurting out, "Oh! This is jonge kaas!" We were cutting up long slices of some delicious Dutch cheese fresh from the local deli for an after-spaghetti snack. But what impressed me most was not that we had taught her this interesting fact, but that this information was given to her in the local classroom. "They told us to touch it and taste it and told us what type of cheese it was." Even down to goat cheese. No, I wouldn't be surprised if she came home and told me about wine tasting next week. At any rate, it impressed me that our children have gotten something very different out of this culture already, even if it is only knowing the difference between young cheese and old cheese.

Italy . . .

2008-07-28T13:33:00.001+02:00

That one word simply does not describe the life that resides in that beautiful land. Yet I will not gloss over the love that I have for that simple word. Forever more will it hold an armload of warm feelings and rushes of pleasurable memories all within it's brief utterance. Never have I been to a place as that which has given me such a place to belong in. We fit each other perfectly and I will not pass into the after lands without having visited it again. I find myself dreaming daily of my own villa in the hills which I can visit multiple times a year. Sigh . . . why not every day? My children would follow me. Daily they voice their own versions of the same desire. "Mommy, wouldn't it be nice if Italy was in the Netherlands?" "Mommy, the sun was nicer in Italy." "In Italy . . . " and the list is endless. My husband has voiced more than once the desirable positions he could attain in Italy. Yet for some reason I hear that voice we've all been trained to listen to. You all know it. The one that seems to talk to you in the voice of your mother, "Wake up child and stop dreaming. Welcome to the real world." Well, there's this song I've heard from a favorite artist that claims there is no such thing as the real world. Some of you may know it. I realize now that I have experienced the awakening you expect you will find upon traveling Europe. It is nothing I expected it to be. It is like falling in love for the first time and tasting a new flavor that upon first touching your tongue you had an urge to dislike, but realize it's possibly the best thing it's ever touched before and then find yourself making that flavor linger on your tongue longer than it can possibly stay.

It is here that I beg of you to answer me one question. Would you prefer that I lavish you with the intimate details of my view on this world experience or that I gloss it over and compress it into a quick and quiet travel diary?

You know you've only one answer, but you must answer anyway.

Behind on blog posts? Me? Never!

2008-07-21T18:26:00.001+02:00

I had to laugh over Holy's comment on my last blog post. Yes, I'm afraid I'm dreadfully behind on my blog posts, dear. Touring Europe, you ask? I will be painfully coy and admit that I have been doing a bit of traveling through the continent. Sigh . . . . and LOVING it!

Between visits from parents, visits from friends, children's vacation, and family vacation I'm afraid this blog has not seen it's proper use, but I promise to fill you in on all the best details. Eventually. ;) Many posts are half written things that could probably get plopped into the blog just as they are and you'd enjoy them, but because I'm a neat freak I MUST have all my lines straight before you see my thoughts. Please be patient with me. I'm working on the photos and posting them to Flickr slowly but surely and the kids are still out of school and suffering from rainy summer day syndrome (several days in a row). Sigh . . . I'm not so loving it!

Oh . . . another thing. That Cat is expecting a litter any day now! Catherine says, "But, Mommy, she's only a teenager." The conversation I just about went into . . . Sigh . . . not so sure if I'm loving it or not yet.

Shifting Simulacrums

2008-05-19T11:08:00.001+02:00

I have rounded the bend and seen the sun rise from a new horizon. Or could it be the horizon has always been the same and yet I have not yet taken it in from this perspective? It may be that the overseas move has finally started to work it's magic on my mind, but I will not be so grand as to admit this chosen adventure has had an affect on me. Though this one thing I will admit, things have changed.

In an effort to pull myself out of a pit of self-pity and descending depression I turned to what reason I had maintained and attempted the age old cure: exercise. What better way to feel better about yourself and get some energy back but by working off those extra pounds accumulated by sitting on the couch in front of the English BBC channel in an attempt to avoid the foreign not-so-niceties and popping bon-bon's to console my guilty conscience. Yes, my conscience was still capable of producing guilt which is a quality I am proud to admit I possess an abundance of. Without that forcing me to face reason in the eye I may never have lifted a foot again.

Is there not an ideal life we all imagine ourselves living? Even a life we may "show" others we are living? There was a point in these last few weeks in which my mind came out of those lofty clouds and realized I was nowhere near that life I'd imagined creating for myself, my family. I served up a good helping of humble pie and sat back to watch a film clip of my past revealing embarrassing lies to myself. Yes, I had thought I was on the road to this "reality" but at some point I had disengaged the gears and was coasting with the navigation system set on scramble. Fortunately, somewhere along my journey I looked out the window and witnessed a bit of scenery I did not like the looks of. In the blink of an eye I witnessed my children growing without me. I was missing moments which could have been spent on the playground or dancing barefoot on the living room floor to sweet little voices singing princess songs. Suddenly I understood the looks on the faces of crouched and wrinkled faces who watched us as we passed them by in hurry to get to the next "must-get-it-done" place. They gazed at my children with a look of longing, a longing which could only be for the days they had once spent with their own small and beautiful children who'd now grown and possibly even moved to a far away land. I was living in the midst of those moments and not enjoying them to their full capacity. Would I one day be resting my weary legs on a park bench and watch a young frazzled mother rushing her children along and have the thought cross my mind "if only I'd spent that time enjoying their innocence and youth more" or would it be possible for me to watch that woman pass by and recall more happy moments than can be recalled singularly but blur themselves into years of happiness with my many young children?

Strangely enough it was not the fresh and frequent trips to the playground or living room ballroom or even the loss of over 20lbs which made me realize my life vessel had finally found the proper detour and I was in the midst of transformation. It was the easy transition into a portion of lifestyle I've only dreamed possible of those I most admire. There is a particular type of friend with whom I have always held the most respect for and this friend (plural) often has many qualities to be admired. Shamefully I admit most of which I had once found myself, if not equal to, on the path to perfecting. But one thing never ceased to amaze me and placed these women on a pedestal at least one step above mine if not lifting them into the clouded realm reserved for goddesses. What could this unreachable quality possibly be? I will admit that it could even be interpreted that the woman of Proverbs 31 accomplished the same task (verse 15), the one verse which I would shake my head at and loose hope at ever being able to achieve. Okay, let me be more honest and tell you that I'd shake my head at that Proverbs woman and convince myself that she was a tad overzealous in her endeavors, at least when it came to that particular passage. What needed to be done in a day could always be done at a sane hour of the day, namely after all the sweet dreams you could squeeze out of the night had been exhausted.

The transition happened with a clarity of vision and rational thinking, so was too smooth of a decision. It dawned on me that the exercise I needed to achieve each day was not being met due to time constraints and conflicts of interest during the day (one of those being the extra playtime moments). It stood to reason that if I could just wake up an extra 30-40 minutes earlier in the morning I could go for a brisk morning jog in the sweet spring sunrise and still have enough time to shower and get the kids ready for school. I had motivation enough to pull me away from those sweet moments of sleep the first few mornings and that is when the sunrise shown down on me. I had rounded the bend. Suddenly I have turned into a person I had once deemed if not impossible to become, at least insanely fanatic (the thought I used to convince myself I was not in need of such regime or in my less than finer moments that I tried to convince myself I could never achieve it even if I eventually wanted to).

It is an accomplishment that even if it does not produce the results desired (an extra 20lbs shaved off my figure) it has already given me the vision of a foreign sunrise which will never be forgotten. Once an accomplishment as monumental as this has been hurdled, the next hurdle will look less daunting. In addition, I feel great. It seems the fresh morning air has not only boosted my confidence but also my immunity and energy. Now I can catch up on all those other Proverbs verses . . . sigh . . . well at least get the house mostly clean and the essentials bought for a tasty meal for my family, Italian style, tonight.

A Most Memorable Mother's Day

2008-05-13T18:47:00.001+02:00

The last two weeks have been spent in luxurious sunshine! Remarkably, the nice weather for once coincided with the children's holiday. We've been spending time between the lake, our back yard, and various sites within our neck of the woods. To end our adventures and excursions I requested we take the train down to Scheveningen beach for a Mother's Day treat. It seemed the perfect way to finalize our May vacation and give the kids (and mom) a special time to remember. The word "remember" doesn't seem to do the experience justice.

As any day on the beach should be we enjoyed hours in the sun, warm sand between our toes and bobbing up and down in the cool waves. The children made sand castles and found crabs buried in the moist sand after the tide went out. Lillian was wonderful and even napped on the beach wrapped in a towel under the shade of our umbrella. It was one of the few naps she'd gotten the whole vacation.

I have described the beach from our brief encounter with it during our travels last August, but it worth it to mention a few things in detail again. The beach has been frequented as the place to bathe since record can seem to recall. The wealthy were often fond of visiting as is obvious from the exorbitant buildings lining the promenade. Below the stone paved promenade is a boardwalk lined with one restaurant after another, each with their separate tables, couches, pillows, and whatnots to lounge on in the sun while sipping your cocktail or eating your treat. Beyond this is the wide sandy beach and the ocean with a faint trace of a distant land on the opposite side.

Though most of our visit was spent under the shade of our own umbrella amongst the hundreds of sunbathers on the sand we soon determined it was time for a nice dinner before the long trip home. My wonderful husband reserved a table overlooking the beach and under the shade of an umbrella with a menu befitting a Mother's Day gift dinner. Once all of us had arrived at the table and began to settle in is when all havoc begin. We'd run out of cash (you'll learn that not all places in Europe accept the card form of currency) so the leader of our small band dutifully sought out a cash machine while our order was being prepared. It was during this time that 5-year-old Amara told me, "I have to go to the bathroom. I know where it is." Normally, this would not have been something to blink an eye at, but I should have been tipped off by the sentence she tagged on at the end. As all the rest of us had recently used this bathroom and it was only a few visible paces behind me I had no doubt she knew where it was and I let her go. Several minutes went by as I watched people play on the beach and sailboats glide by in the distance before that feeling arose in my mother's heart. Something wasn't right, what was taking that girl so long? I left the other two at the table and poked my head into the toilet room only to reveal no Amara present. Just then her father rounded the corner and I asked him to have a look in the men's room. He came back out and nonchalantly stated she wasn't there, but at the mention of that room he'd be right back. In this time I suddenly became aware that she was nowhere within my line of sight and when he came out I manically stated she was gone and I must go find her. His only choice was to stay at the table with the other children and wait to see if she'd come back. I set a quick pace and checked the nearby restrooms which then led me to pace up and down the beach and back to the only restaurant I'd seen with a security guard. It was a monumental moment for me to rationalize in my mind that my child was lost among a throng of beachcombers and vacationers and I was not going to be able to find her without the help of the authorities. I remained calm throughout this decision and followed the path towards the beach police headquarters only to find it locked up and abandoned for the night. It was at this precise moment that I felt my throat constrict and my heart rate exceed the quick breaths I needed to draw in order to keep my legs from collapsing. It was adrenaline which raced my feet across the long spans of sand back to the table.

I knew it before he even had to say it, my child was lost. She had still not come back to the table. He met me on the sand and held me as I sobbed. No, I did not sob. According to him I "blubbered" and I will admit that from this moment on I was either blubbering or deferring into the basket case. Instead of insisting that I sit down while he continue the search he rightly reasoned I needed to finish it, if not driven for the end product of finding our daughter, at least to give me something other to do besides wait with only the horrible thoughts that found their way into my subconscious. I was sent with an escort, Catherine, to help me further my search and we came upon the same security guard as before and I interrupted to tell him the police station was closed and my daughter is lost. He brings me into the depths of the bar and offers me a seat and some water while he calls the police for me. I stare at him as if he must think I'm some incredibly insensitive woman who would sit and sip water while my daughter is out meeting who knows what fate. In reality, I'm sure I looked like a needed a seat and some water. The fateful call was made and I found myself spilling out the description of my daughter, what she was wearing, was she wearing shoes, how long had she been missing. What had probably only been 20 minutes seemed like hours. While waiting for the officers to meet me at the bar my eldest daughter makes the statement, "At least I've still got one sister left." What was probably meant as a reassurance of some sort was taken as if biting into a lemon with mouth full of sores. I bit down on it though and refused to puddle into a sobbing mess on the floor for the sake of this precious daughter whose had to witness more than she can comprehend already.

The police had arrived and assured me they already had men searching the beach and boardwalks. A police officer has never looked so friendly in my entire life. After getting through more description I reasoned to him that we had best get back to the table she was last seen at and where her father was probably waiting more than impatiently. I had several photographs of her on my camera I was willing to show them and I thought of the photographs Madeline's parents had taken of her near the pool the day before she disappeared. As I was pulling up the photographs he took a radio message, looks at me and says, "Sit down here. We think we've found her." And they left . . . left me to sit and to rest my mind and wonder . . . wonder just in what state had they found her. I looked up and down the beach for clusters of paramedics huddled around a small lifeless body. My husband looked up at the looming hotels with their many shaded windows. The wait was immense and I busied myself by finding the best photograph I'd taken of her still on our flash card. The tables around us shifted in their chairs with an overexerted attempt at silence. It seemed hours until I watched the friendliest looking police officer carrying my small child in his arms towards me. I leapt out of my chair and wrapped her up into my arms while we both began to blubber anew. She unfolded her end of the story which, combined with the police version, involve her wandering quite a distance down the boardwalk until a "big man who made the food" found her crying. He took her into the restaurant and fed her french fries with ketchup (her preferred meal) and told her that he was going to call the police ("but they weren't going to put you in jail he told me"). Supposedly the man who found her said he was the giant in the princess story and that seemed to endear him into her heart. She told the police officers all of our names ("and middle names too but I couldn't remember mommy and daddy's"), but failed to mention our last name. They'd asked her where she lived and she told them Minnesota. We all had a hearty laugh over this which was sorely needed. They'd asked her what language her mommy and daddy spoke and she replied "English" which was the first time she'd spoken English in the duration of her rescue. Once done recalling the highlights of her ordeal she looked up out of tear-stained eyes and replied, "But, Mommy, I really need to go potty still." I gladly escorted her to the toilet room this time and even joined her in the stall.

I wish I could end at this paragraph, but as my dear husband and father of my children stated, "Everything that could possibly happen to you as a mother happened to you on this one Mother's Day alone." I will rest the poor grandparents hearts who have made it this far and tell them that, no, we did not visit the hospital. Instead we experienced something that one could only experience in Europe.

After finally finishing our cold meal we packed up our beach things and headed to the tram platform to catch tram 9 back to Den Haag Central. Unfortunately it seems the rest of the beach decided to pack up at the same time as us. Clusters of humans littered the platform and I found a pocket which fit our family comfortably as close to the front and track-side as possible. As luck would have it the tram pulled up and opened one of its doors right in front of us but the rest of the clusters on either side were not so willing to give up the chance and pressed their way through the doors simultaneously. In an effort to keep the family together I pushed Amara into her fathers legs and yelled to her to hang on as he was washed into the tram with the rest of the wave. Again, a stroke of fortune slapped Amara across the face with a bag and she let out the most convincing howl of pain we couldn't have dragged out of her if we'd tried. Suddenly the onslaught of humans became aware of this precious little person in their midst and echoes of sympathy spread throughout the crowd to make way for the kleine kind (little child). And all it took for me from the back of the next wave was to say something to the effect of "hey, that's my kid" and I was pushed in along with our remaining offspring. Once crammed into the old tram like a pack of sardines the old woman who had whacked my kid across the brow with her purse took it upon herself to caudle my eldest who had been swept a bit further from me while the tram jumbled along towards our next step of the journey. People made an effort to ease the families needs and kicked a 20-something-cute-thing-in-a-bikini out of one of the few seats so I could sit down with the "baby" at which point I rescued my eldest from the smothering arms of the kindly grandma. She then looks up at me with a pale face and tells me her tummy isn't feeling so good and I immediately began looking for possible spots to deposit her stomach contents other than my lap or on her little sister and pointed out a spot just behind her which only had thonged feet (easily washable was my thought). The hot and packed tram continued to jostle this way and that down the tracks all the while I'm trying to convince her she's going to be just fine and blowing on the nape of her neck. Shortly before arriving at the station my daughter turns rapidly aft and leans over hesitating just long enough for me to yell out a warning to those who might be the owners of the thonged feet. Retching and splattering where soon followed by sounds of gagging and screaming as the passengers flung themselves from the vicinity of the vomiting child. What space was barely capable of containing the crowd it had originated with was now vacant and held enough space for 10 more. What happened to those extra ten I'm not sure, but I half wonder if they flung themselves out the open windows in an effort to escape the warm wafts drifting through the entire tram. Her own father, a distance from us now, was amid the panicked throng of escapees and admits to a feeling of trying to blend in with the offended rather than admit he was related to the perpetrator of the disaster. The final stop couldn't come soon enough and when the doors opened mass exodus ensued. We retreated with the rest of the crowd undoubtedly leaving a very unhappy tram driver and his tram out of commission for the better half of and hour. The child was approached by a nice young man who sympathized with her briefly, but her only concern was for her own sandals which had been splattered along with the rest. Oh well, easily cleaned, right? Along our path from tram to the train back to Amsterdam people pointed and stared at the family they'd welcomed onto that fateful tram who had spewed sickness along its aisles as a token of thanks in return.

When all was said and done we returned home much worse for the wear around 11pm and all hopped in the shower before crashing into our pillows to fall asleep from shear exhaustion and severed nerves.

Scheveningen. That name will never bring me to recall the same peaceful images again. In fact, my creative husband has decided we can one-up the Dutch pronunciation of the difficult word by adding a particular hurly-burly sound at the end: ScheveningEEEECH!

Recycling Day

2008-04-15T09:21:00.001+02:00

No this is not the entry where I will recycle old material. It just happens to be one of my many days out of the month that I will load my bicycle full of plastic bags (those bags which are so hard to come by in the Netherlands) and rattle my way down the brick paved streets to the various recycling points along my journey. You may be wondering if the Dutch do not have roadside recycling service and I will assure you that they do, but it is not like that in the United States. We have two different garbage bins that get set out on a weekly or biweekly basis. The green bin is for all organic materials or anything that comes out of your garden. Why this would include trellises or wiring is beyond my comprehension, but if I can dump something in the green bin I will as anything I put into the black bin I have to pay for in weight. That is, I have to pay the regular fee for them to come and pick it up every other week and then extra for how much it weighs. So, the amount in which we throw out I try to monitor with the strictness of a German nun. Try to keep the amount in which a family of five can produce in two weeks into the compact size of a single garbage can in America and I will reward you with one of my sacred plastic grocery bags.

The other roadside service that we get is for boxes/paper and plastic bag materials (including but not limited to the wrapping around your toilet paper in or your multi-pack 2-liter bottles). These things are picked up two Saturdays out of the month, but why they choose to pick them up on two Saturdays in a row is beyond me. Believe me, the piles of folded up boxes and papers are towering by the time that first Saturday rolls around and you can trust me when I say that by the time that second Saturday arrives I find I have not used up a single box of cereal or even had a pizza night. How we make up for it in the three weeks after that last Saturday pick up is beyond me.

On another note, there are quarterly (or somewhere there abouts) dates that you can set out your old furniture or appliances and they will pick them up for you. If you can transport them yourself you can drop them off at centers on certain dates and times of the week as well. Strangely enough, you do not have to pay for your appliances because they've already charged you the disposal fee at the time you purchased it new.

All dates in between these roadside service days find me hauling our other garbage to the Retourette (a cute little recycling center equipped with coin deposit rides for the kids) and the diaper drop. Stunning? Yes. They have devised the unbelievable and recycle disposable diapers here! And if you've never hauled a single plastic garbage bag of used diapers around let me just tell you am I ever glad I don't have to pay the price per pound on those babies! As it is I have a hard time lifting the huge metal garbage container lid with one hand and flinging the bag of smelly nasties into it with the other. And the Retourette takes the rest: all colors of things glass, aluminum, paper, cartons, shoes, plastics, and will pay you for beer bottles/cans and the liter - 2 liter bottles of drinks. The way they pay you for this is to give you a coupon which you can cash in with your next purchase at the affiliated store, but it's money nonetheless.

Though I think America has taken the best from all of it's ancestral cultures this is one thing which I am afraid they have lagged behind. Though I do not much appreciate hauling my trash around by bike several times a week, I do appreciate that almost everything our family disposes of can be recycled. That black bin can sometimes get set out with only one garbage bag in it and boy are they ever as light as I can make them. So . . . now you know all my dirty little details. Have a happy trash free day my dear American friends.

A Pirates Life Fer Me!

2008-03-28T17:32:00.001+01:00

This last week I have been sailing the high seas, hoisting the Jolly Roger and pillaging with a crew of rowdy mateys. I was just mindin' me own business and going about me daily routines until I went to track me 15lbs of weightloss on Spark People and a brilliant marketeer grabbed me by the wrist and drug me into the land of pirates and me haven't come back out since. Me free time be spent rounding up pieces of eight and sword fighting, drinking games, and pillaging.

My girls have their own Club Penguin memberships and I figured that to be a luxury. Often I will hop on their accounts and waddle around with their penguins, sometimes even redecorating my youngest's igloo (her idea of decor is something atrocious). I found it such great fun that I was willing to give Puzzle Pirates a try. I was a little reluctant only because I noticed on their front page that you could pick up Puzzle Pirate cards at any Target store. Bells started going off in my head that this is yet another internet money-grabber, but the games looked like all the similar games I used to love to play when I had the free time before my three little monkeys started swingin' the vines. I love it! My monkey man loves it! When I am away he takes over (ssshhh, don't tell anyone I let me man pretend to be a sexy and daring lassie) and he even keeps up with my level of expertise. I guess that is the real clincher: it isn't just the same game over and over again. It's full of all the favorites (a pirate variety of them anyway), but the level gets harder as you progress. Besides I can buy me own ships too! In one week I've gone from a stowaway on the navy to an Officer of a Dutch crew ;) I know these are not fine excuses to have been away for so long, but when does a pirate maiden ever need excuses anyway?

Where's the Golden Smurf?

2008-03-14T08:50:00.001+01:00

We've got a Dutch store that really knows their marketing strategies! Albert Hein is in constant competition with the other grocery stores and have been accused of having too high of prices in years past. In an effort to draw more customers they've tried to prove that their just as thrifty-priced as the next guy by having cheap sales with special little gadgets to draw you in. The year before we came Albert Hein created a sensation with the little fuzz balls with sticky feet, plastic eyes, and antennae. For the life of me I cannot remember what they or even us call them. If I were here during the craze I'm sure it would be a name I would never forget. We've all played with them at one point in our lives, but the Dutch grocery store promotion took it to a whole new level. With every euro you spent you got closer to receiving a free fuzz ball from the store and if you spent over a certain amount you could get this overgrown critter that was almost too big to put on your dashboard. From what I hear people were putting them up for sale on the internet starting at 50 euros!

The latest craze has not only reached the adult population but also the children. I've seen children waiting at the end of each aisle begging the customers leaving for a piece of the pie. And I've also seen grandmas grab their cherished prize to their chest and deny these innocent little faces the joy of the game. The Belgian created Smurfs are celebrating their 50th anniversary and now every Dutch person knows about it! With every 15 euros spent the cashier hands you over a little package with a toy smurf hidden inside. They've got all the most popular smurfs and you can "collect them all"! With each package you get a zegel (coupon) which you can paste onto a form. After filling in the total spaces with your zegels you can purchase a nice-sized stuffed smurf for the total of 4 euros. Zegels or air miles are nothing new for the Dutch, as it is something you are asked every time you check out. If you are one of the many people who collect these sticky squares you'll let them know you'd like them and they'll add it onto your final total and hand them over to you with your receipt for you to post into coupon books. Once filled the books are returned for discounted prices or tickets for various museums or amusement parks.

In America I clipped coupons, but would not be distracted towards an item which wasn't on my shopping list just because I had a coupon for it. I have never bought a lottery ticket in my life. But the smurfs have captured me! I've already gotten three stuffed Smurfettes for my girls to put in their Easter basket and they have collected every available tiny toy smurf except Gargamel's cat, Azrael (see, I can remember all these names from Brilsmurf (Brainy) to Smurfin (Smurfette), but Albert Hein was genius and planted 50 golden smurfs in those bags of smurfs. They will not say what you'll get if you open up one of these packages and happen to find a golden smurf, but it's got to be good! I'm thinking as good as a free year of groceries or a even 50% off for a year. This delusion actually puts excuses into my mind to do shopping at Albert Hein rather than my regular and cheaper store, Dirk van de Broek. I have found sales which my menu just happens to fit around at Albert Hein and I find myself lingering between cash registers debating which line is most likely to dish out a golden smurf! I've gone blueming mad! I know my chances are very slim when they've put out 27 million of the little blue buggers, but for some reason I can vividly imagine watching my kids tear into one of those packages to reveal a shiny golden smurf. Genius, I tell you . . . genius!

Cultural Design

2008-03-13T14:11:00.001+01:00

Something about my perception has recently changed. Within the first year of this cultural journey I went from viewing the Dutch culture out of something similar to amazed alien eyes to the drastic difference of seeing it through a sophisticated know-it-all American's eyes. Somehow it went from innocent amazement to criticism of a Cro-Magnon civilization. Personally I think it was more an instinctive self-preservation reaction than a judgmental one, but nonetheless it wasn't pretty and it didn't feel right. There were moments when it seemed I was being judged by individuals around every corner and at some point I decided to turn the finger on them, innocent or not. It is hard to explain the adjustments which I've gone through during this international transition, the good ones or the bad, but I've once again reached another corner.

You know it when you pass by a non familiar bridge standing steady over the lapping water of a small canal and get a sudden urge to snap a photo just because you know one day you'll miss it. And instead of seeking out the store with the limited supply of American pudding mixes you pick up a different carton of vla just to see if it happens to be different from the last failed attempt. Even better is when you realize that you actually like the concept of buying pudding in a carton and being able to pour it into a bowl . . . or even liking the taste.

For so long I'd concentrated on what I was missing from the states, how things tasted differently, and why would anyone want to do this or that differently. Like the time I finally tracked down cheddar cheese and it only came in a 6oz paper wrapped package and I almost cursed the best cheese makers on planet earth for not stocking my cheese. Just how was I going to garnish my tacos now?!? Strangely, what I thought was an open-mindedness mentality began to reveal it's layers upon layers of discrimination. I grudgingly shredded young Belgian cheese over my tacos and, over time, put away the thought of making tacos before someday returning to the states and began relishing the different variety of dishes I could make with this limited amount of glorious cheese.

It is still amazing to me to see a culture of people who look so much like us but do things so differently. "Different" is a word I've used often since our move and I've used it in (pardon the overuse) different ways. But once I stopped accusing the differences as being absurd and started looking for their purpose I found I could look at this world around me in a new light. Yes, there are still things which I think the Americans have perfected, but I have also figured out that not all which is different is wrong.

It has been a while since I've shared stories about the Dutch, their customs and country. It probably stopped about the time the newness rubbed off and started tearing at me with its jagged edges. There are several things I'd like to introduce my non-Dutch readers to. I hope you'll see the differences from the weather-worn expatriates' view and not the cynical better-than-you Americans'.

Good morning! How ya doin'?

2008-03-06T11:55:00.001+01:00

"Hoe gaat het?"

Literal Translation: "How goes it?"

Translation: Let me hear everything that's been going on in your life since the last time we had a chat.

Very much unlike the American way of acknowledging one another (Q: "How are you doing?" A: "Great!") the Dutch are actually quite honest with one another. We learned early on not ask a Dutch person how they are doing unless we had several minutes to share in conversation with them. My husband often got strange looks when he'd pass by a coworkers desk in the morning using our standard polite way of greeting, "Goedemorgen! Hoe gaat het?" (Good morning! How ya doin'?) The coworker would stop what he was doing and stare at my husband with a bewildered look on his face wondering just what he was after. Surely he didn't want to hear what was up first thing in the morning and why would he be so rude as to interrupt him when he could tell he was in the middle of something? In America the coworker may not even look away from his monitor and simply reply, "Great!" Not only that, but you would expect the same reply if the person had just had the best date of their lives the night before or if they'd just come back from their mothers funeral. Well, yesterday I got a Dutch response.

"Hoe gaat het?" I asked a woman I don't often chat with but she seemed interested in a little chit chat while we waited.

"Het gaat." (It goes.) I could actually hear the period plunk down at the end of her sentence. My instinctive response, raising of the eyebrows, was enough to open the gates and with another resounding plunk she slid out the simple statement, "My husband and I are getting a divorce."

I wondered if I again proved myself American after having winced at hearing a statement like that but continued into the murky waters I'd stirred up. What followed was disturbing as anything surrounding the "D-word" naturally is. Only she didn't seem to detail the information with the slightest hint at being disturbed. (This could have been the most disturbing.) My husband and I both went through our parents divorces as children and will not be so evasive with our thoughts as to say it didn't affect us. Our chests tighten and our minds bring up years of distorted memories and disturbing discussions whenever we hear of a child being put through the wringer of a parents divorce and yet we "understand" when things are . . . "necessary". We've spent our lives learning that role so I found it easy to put the face on again while I listened to her reasoning, though I couldn't help but squirm or flinch inside when I heard these two statements: "He just said he wasn't happy," and "It'll be better for us and the kids."

My husband and I have made it our goal from the beginning of our marriage (13 years this summer!) never to mention the "D-word" and work on our marriage at all costs to keep well away from those troubled waters. Along our life journey we felt the calling into Marriage Ministries and, as fate is used to doing, we were attacked in that very area of our lives. Pull out of it we did, but through the process I also heard the statement "I'm not happy," and I also felt it echo through the walls of my own soul. And though it hurts terribly I feel I have to suggest that it isn't just a last ditch effort to get your spouse to boot you out the door and hopefully into greener pastures but a cry for help? For love? Oh, my heart weeps for this couple and their children. Sigh . . . I feel I have digressed from the point of this entry by traveling a path my heart is sensitive towards.

So . . . "Hoe gaat het" you ask? Though I am still in the American frame of mind and normally respond, "Goed, en jij?" (Good, and you?) there are a few moments when I break down the daily episodes of our own General Hospital series.

Jungle Dad had surgery last Wednesday to put in a couple screws to hold the bone together, so we loaded the kids up into the car our friends had loaned us for the occasion by 7am in the morning! We wheeled Dad into the hospital, gave him a few kisses and waved goodbye before they wheeled him into the surgery room. The girls picked out a pink flower just for Daddy and ate at the only source of food near the hospital, McDonalds! Though they'd warned us he'd probably be staying the night, since he was the first operation of the morning he was released that very afternoon. Still, we did not hear the report we'd wanted to hear. Earlier we'd been told he would have surgery, get a cast, and have to keep his leg up for two weeks but could walk on it for the last four weeks. Instead he came out of the surgery with no cast and has to keep it up for two weeks and cannot walk on it during the following four weeks.

He's been steadily chipping away at projects at work from home, but misses all the other work he could be getting done if he was in the office but he does not see any way he can get himself to the bus stop, from the bus to the metro, from the metro to another bus stop for an hour and a half each way twice a day to do it. So, for the next 5 weeks he'll be at home healing and using the computer for most of the day everyday. Meaning? Don't be surprised if I'm not hanging around the land of blog for the next 5 weeks :) While we're still hanging out around the marriage bandwagon I'd like to state that I'd never quite comprehended the weight of the "in sickness and in health" part of the marriage vows until this last month. It was hard seeing my husband injured so badly he couldn't take care of himself. It is also hard taking care of three young children and a husband all day long one day after another. But I'm getting used to the change in routine and I'm not so prone to bouts of grumpiness as was in the beginning. Catherine has began to take on a few extra responsibilities and even Li'l Lillian is often seen grabbing a kitchen towel off the rack and wiping up her own little spills now without having been asked!

Before I close up there is one more little thing I must leave you with. Daddy's situation seemed to have gone unnoticed by our youngest for weeks until one day she happened by his bare leg, eyes height with the long black line from the incision and its thick black stitches holding it together. Recoiling instantly she cried out, "Owee, Daddy!" She took a few steps back and with a wrinkled up nose and yet somehow portraying a look of innocent concern she pointed at the ugly blemish and asked sincerely, "Kitty . . . scratch . . . you?" As if the worst possible injury she can imagine is from that cat. (I'd have hated to run into the cat that left a scratch like that!) After several days of having been asked the same question Daddy ended up telling her "the doctor did it". Great! Now I'm never getting her into the doctors office again! But she also hasn't manhandled the cat lately either . . .

Headline News: "Jungle Has Declared Disaster"

2008-02-24T13:10:00.002+01:00

Just when the family thought 2008 had dealt out it's worst February decided it had a few things up it's sleeve as well. Friday, the 15th, started like any other day in the household of monkeys, but the end would be anything but normal. The family was wrapping up Valentine's holiday and had planned for a badly needed date night. The children were thrilled to have a babysitter/friend come over watch them and the parents were abuzz with whatever adventures the night would reward them with in Amsterdam. Jungle Mama began the day with an early shopping trip as the rest of the day entailed baking and decorating a cake on order for Saturday morning. She'd just walked through the door when in stumbled Jungle Dad with white face and a look of apology. Though said household member has given consent to the publishing of this article he refused to comment and instead just lowered and shook his head from side to side in a look of self reproach. It has been reported that the man was seen attempting to keep up with the Hell's Angel's on his speedy scooter, but upon the approach of a badly angled corner spectators witnessed only a screaming streak which ended in a broken and bloody mess of a monkey. "He made a few calls, picked up his scooter, wobbled a bit and began back the way he'd come."

Authorities were not reported to, but those who have heard the story say he was fortunate to have been wearing his new motorcycle suit or the damage would certainly have been more severe. The health authorities were contacted, but as conditions in the Netherlands are less than efficient (Report on Netherlands Healthcare, see upcoming editions of The Blooming Jungle Bulletin) an appointment was made for mid-afternoon, which led to an appointment with radiology at the hospital, a trip to the ER waiting room, resulting in a crude cast and dire outlook for the next 6 weeks (special thanks to the support of family friends who loaned out their spare car for the journey).

The Jungle had thought it has seen the worst of 2008, but it is now facing it's worst disaster of the decade: a lame father. The Squirrel Monkey commented on the situation by stating, "My Daddy has a broken leg. I don't want to have a daddy who is broken." Though the family has not made any arrangements for a replacement as yet, we have already seen the impact it has had on their ecosystem. They have resorted to a supply of fast food as the mother is busy running around the house at the speed of two normal adults. The updates to the rest of the outside world and communication between family and friends have ceased due to a constant demand of the lump on the log needing to communicate to his workstation at the lab via the families main mode of outside communications. Tempers are running as high as a contagious fever between the house and couch bound, but this could in part be due to the second round of attack on the household.

Just as the family had settled down from the major event of the day (not the date night), the father laying in bed with leg propped high, mother laying aside her troubled mind beginning to drift into the pleasanter part of sleep, and the children supposedly sleeping peacefully the jungle was awoken by the haunting noises of retching and screeching from the youngest. What one would have hoped to have been a single purge due to an overdose of Valentine's candy (the evidence was very incriminating) was proven false when the child continued to need the assistance of a bucket and washcloth every 10 minutes . . . from dusk 'til following midday. The random bodily ejections continued from that fateful Friday through the following Tuesday. As an effect from the lack of sleep, the two week vacation from school, and the father with deadlines to try and keep up with at work from home, the family has declared disaster.

Some relief aid was given from afore mentioned friends of the jungle who took all able bodied monkeys to the zoo for a bonding experience. While the smallest of the clan ran off her frustrations by chasing after the butterflies in the butterfly room in an attempt to capture or maim any who crossed her outstretched arms and clapping hands of death, the eldest skulked in the wake of the group with signs and symptoms of the most recent household illness while at the same time proving to enjoying herself. Always cheerful Squirrel Monkey ran from cage to cage oblivious to any other world but the animals who enchanted her and the mother wandered oblivious to any other world but that of her beautiful children enjoying what would likely be the only day out of the house during their entire two-week vacation: a therapy for her proven to be more effective than photography or writing.

Jungle Buzzing

2008-02-11T15:24:00.001+01:00

My daughters have just recently started their own individual quests for the answers all birds and bees know. It is my job to respond . . . without laughing.

Amara ~ "When a girl and boy dance then they will have a baby." Long pause while mother stifles any inappropriate emotions, "Well, after a long time then the baby will come out."

We've been having springtime weather these last few days and it provided us the chance to bring the girls over to the park. The two youngest joined in a game with several of the other children in the gazebo over the water. Each of them had their own individual stick gathered from underneath the nearby trees and proceeded to bat at the water watching the mud stir up from the bottom of the pool or the droplets of water splatter across the reflection of the clear blue sky. All was calm until I realized my toddlers mouth had once again formed itself around another innocent word into another obscenity. Really, people, I don't know why it is this child which has to fill the family record book with obscene mispronunciations, but she's become very proficient at it. When a little boy grabbed a nearby stick that she'd had her eye on she waved her hands through the air and yelled out, "No! I want big dick!" From that moment on I could not help but cringe or giggle each time she'd talk about her "dicks". I'm sure you can imagine all the scenarios a child could think of to admire her precious treasures. Thankfully the Dutch children were oblivious to the faux pas.

On the other side of the fence, my 8-year-old has her ears wide open to the topic. I have found a particular program on tv that I rather enjoy: Gilmore Girls. I would love to have that relationship with my teenage daughters. Anyway, every once in a while Catherine will sit down with me to watch it and I normally find no harm in the fact that she's watching a fairly descent mother-daughter relationship when she does. This particular episode was dealing with the most popular teenage issue and peer pressure. Through these two girl friends rapid speed discussion about how one had "done it" and didn't know how to feel about having done it without thinking ahead while the other girl remained pure and level-headed through two long relationships the s-e-x word never occurred. Leading you through the conversation so you'll follow my daughters line of questioning, the mother was downstairs and eavesdropping on the conversation and, relieved to confirm her suspicions that her daughter had refrained from doing something, she let out a triumphant whisper, "I've got the good girl!" Immediately, Catherine matter-of-factly faces me and asks, "Why did she say 'I've got the girl'? Is it because she didn't have sex?" Jaw drops open here. My daughter just brought up the "s" word and had figured it out only through context and slang. So, my first response was one that I consider a good one: "So," slightly swaggering from side to side in my seat, "how do you happen to know the word . . . sex?" After learning that she has heard several kids in school talk about the word we delved into the issue with a little mother-to-daughter talk with her in the lead. Thankfully there were more simple questions which came up but now I am preparing myself for the real battle field. I knew it was coming . . . I just didn't know how soon.

Birthday Bash

2008-02-06T17:19:00.001+01:00

After I'd finally wandered out from my fever dream-skewed reality and back onto a normal plain of existence I made it up to my daughter by finally throwing her that party she'd been asking for. Unlike Amara, Catherine had it all planned out from the cake down to the theme and what she'd like her guests to wear. I love it when I don't have to do a lot of guess work! She picked a dress-up party and asked all of her friends to come dressed up. I was a little worried that the 8-year-olds going on 30's might not be so thrilled with the idea as my own daughter, but they all showed up with smiles, giggles and colorful outfits.

As intimidated as I was by all these little girls who would require clear Dutch instructions to play all the games we had planned it all went off rather smoothly. My wonderful husband took over most of it while I was in charge of keeping to the timeline and pushing food out of the kitchen and into their hungry mouths. There were only a couple of times the girls had something to say to me that I needed them to repeat and I only had to ask my fluent daughter twice for a word translation.

After many games, prizes, a fashion show, and their own personalized cake they left with big smiles and a few new additions to their dress up collections. I skipped the balloon popping race and was grateful I did because I was feeling very dizzy and exhausted afterwards. I may have been on antibiotics for two days, but I was still not quite up for a marathon. Still, my daughter got the birthday party she'd asked for without another hitch in the plans. I can't believe she's 8 . . .

Confessions of an Invalid

2008-02-04T14:12:00.001+01:00

Though my crime may not be so serious as to warrant a confession under the concealed camera of a sunroof while smoking a joint, I nevertheless have found myself in a bit of a mess. I never thought of myself as a sickly type of person until January of 2008 when I seemed to have acquired every serious virus a person could expect out of the year 2008. Thrice ill in one month? I can no longer ignore the signs staring at me from behind the mirror.

I confess, I should have listened to my stomach that cold winter night when it asked me not to eat the dinner staring up at me from the plate. But my husband had slaved over this meal with such conviction that it would be something to remember. It was. When it later landed in his outstretched shirt/puke bucket. The rest of the night was spent writhing in pain with my stomach twisting itself up into raw and gnawing knots and my body sweating as it tried to writhe in sync. My body ached for days from the muscle spasms and I wondered how I'd survived that night and wished it on not even my worst enemy.

Again, I confess that I was stupid to think the aches and pains pulsing through my back and every major joint and muscle were the result of the days jog and late night pilates workout. I went to bed trying to convince myself that the sudden onset was nothing more than the hot steaming shower giving my body a swift kick into pre muscle aches. When I awoke shortly thereafter in a damp swamp of a bed and uncontrollably shaking from head to foot I knew I was dealing with another malicious bug. Over the next two days I pampered myself and told myself it was just a really nasty cold . . . that started in the lungs . . . that happened to create such bad body aches I needed to double up on Advil and Tylenol together to make it through the days. Then I woke up on the third day. I told myself I could get out of bed and get the breakfast on the table, but once I got into the shower I crumpled onto the cold hard tiles and laid there until I could regain enough energy to pull myself up and drag myself back to bed (thank Europe for a never ending supply of hot water). There I remained the rest of the day in a delirium thinking my husband was attuned to me enough to know that he needed to take care of the three kids and had stayed home. About the time I realized I was out of Advil and the rest was downstairs and knew I couldn't make it that far and the only one who responded to my cries was my most reliable Catherine Daughter Dear did I realize I'd been abandoned. The flu had taken all my energy and any mental capabilities I'd ever had to begin with and all I could think about was getting my husband home so he could get my Advil and take our kids away from the sight of my misery. Somehow my daughter found my cell phone and called Daddy and he was giving her instructions to find the Advil, get mommy water, and he'd be home as soon as he could. But not before Lillian began throwing up all over the downstairs. I confess that I asked Catherine to clean it up and took little pity on her when she cried and said it was too gross and she didn't want to get any on her dress. I begged her to just get her sister in her bath. But as the cries from below became more distressed my mothering instinct kicked in and I dragged those wobbling legs and spinning head down the stairs, stripped the baby of her puke covered pj's and plopped her into a bathtub leaving her sister to watch and clean her while I slipped into another delirium in my own swampy bed.

I confess that because of this illness I was forced to cancel my daughters 8th birthday party. My wonderful husband had to call each and every one of those girls and tell their parents not to bring them because, "Catherine's mom is sick." How horrible this made me feel! The next week when I showed up to pick the girls up I held my head low in shame. It was not only for the fear of facing those mothers who would look at me and wonder what a wimp I must have been, but that they would always think of me as some invalid. It was only just a week ago my husband had to bring the girls to class while I slept off my night of torture. And, trust me, they notice when a mother misses this particular duty. Especially when the kids are dropped off with serious bed head.

I confess I will eventually forgive myself for my actions during those delirious days of the flu, but will my family forgive me for failing to recover from that dreadful flu? They've seen enough of a sick mother and a worn out father. I was beginning to recover from the flu albeit still making a swamp of the bed every night and a persistent aching throat. I just kept telling myself it was going to get better soon, but I admit to lying. Before long that ache in my throat was preventing me from drinking fluids or eating food and when it kept me awake all night because my body seemed to think it needed to keep me conscious just so I could breath I knew the next day would find me sitting in a cold doctors office. I confessed my whole previous 11 days of misery, opened my mouth the tiny slit that I could and told him, "You're the doctor. Fix it." He did! He sent me straight to the pharmacy where a prescription to cure my tonsillitis was awaiting me. The moment I got home I downed one of those things, wincing and smiling at the same time. Three days of those pills and I'm already able to open my mouth again and swallow without breaking a sweat.

Now that I've confessed can I have my life back? I've caught everything that I could have possible become infected with for the year 2008, right? If not, just turn this house into a hospital and send over Mary Poppins. I'll surrender peacefully and claim my rightful status as an invalid unfit for human contact. . . . Nah! I've got a bit more fighting in me still, but I'm not begging for you to test me, so all you sickies STAY AWAY!

Kitten's Adventures In the Big Outdoors

2008-01-24T10:03:00.001+01:00

We've let Antje run free in the big wide world. From the time she was just this little fur ball she's been begging to enter that big beautiful world. We've held off as long as we can so she'll be big enough to defend herself from all those other territorial cats in the neighborhood. Even our neighbors have let us know that their cat will gladly shred any other feline to pieces if it steps in their yard. I figured once she learned how to hop on the counters she was headed out the door. You know, let her burn off her energy out there instead of digging through the remnants of dinner in the kitchen sink while we put the kids to bed. As it turns out this new freedom seems to have loosened her previously held beliefs regarding our cat rules. She runs in from outside and instantly goes for the table or the counters. All it takes is one wrong look from "mom" and she's finding a hiding spot, but she still seems to think nothing of the rules each time she comes back home.

It began the other day after I'd come home from jogging in the park with Lilly I opened the backdoor to start unloading some groceries I'd picked up along the way and Antje timidly came outside to greet us. I knew we were going to be putting her outdoors and this beautiful blue day was one which called to all species so I let her roam the back garden while I unpacked and put everything away. She didn't wander far and eventually begged to come back inside. But after picking up the girls from school we opened the door once again she bolted past each of us and out the still open back gate. Amara, not knowing Antje had already had an experience in the big world, began screaming and crying out after her. She chased the loosed animal down the back alleyway and around the corner with tears streaming down her eyes and a look of terror that her precious` kitten would never return home. By the time I had caught up to them the kitten was being chased to and fro between two gates and another bewildered cat. Who should that cat have been but our little friend who started this whole fiasco. He's a big fat cat now and full of mischief. We've watched him walk along the second story eves and pop through the open windows of the houses. In one window out another and who knows what he's knocked over or eaten while he visited. Hopefully Antje will stay out of his presence and remain a good girl while she's out.

As it is she's already met with resistance. After the girls learned she was free to roam they gladly joined her, but there remained a few places they couldn't follow. Like under the gates of our neighbors. They came home reporting that one woman, upon spotting our small cat in her garden began throwing things out the door at her and yelling at her. So, my ever so spicy girls, took it upon themselves to defend their kitten and began yelling back. They entered the back yard and shooed their kitten out of the offended persons yard and into another.

I know that if you read anything on the internet about how/when to let your cat outside their is always some cat fanatic telling you that cats should never be let outside. Yes, they'll run into dogs with big teeth, cats with bad tempers, and crazy housewives that will throw things at them, but that's just part of a cats life. That and running after mice or climbing trees in pursuit of the birds. I am not so mean as to keep my cat cooped up inside and miss out on the good life just for fear she won't be able to handle the normal issues in it. She is equipped with a new collar, a bell (for scaring away those birdies), and a little metal pill containing our number and address. I haven't owned a pet in the states since I was kid, but I'd never have guesses that these little pills where a place to store the pets information. If I hadn't been in the market for something of this nature I would never had guessed and probably would have overlooked it on a lost animal.

You're finally free to roam, Antje. Now behave yourself!

Winter Ball Outcome

2008-01-22T17:18:00.001+01:00

This year the ball (disco) turned out much better than the last. I have to admit that we succumbed to Amara's pleading and let her go. She'd gotten a good nap and seemed quite chipper, but like last year she didn't make it off the floor without a relapse. The parents were allowed to come in and watch the final 10 minutes of the dance and just as I walked in I watched my little flower wilt. Suddenly her knees went week and she dragged down the rest of the "ring around the posie" dancers. She searched the crowd of faces until she found her familiar one and lifted her little arms out to me. As her teacher picked her up off the dance floor she begged for "Mama" and I gladly reached over the railing, wrapped her in my coat, and walked her home in a bundle. Obviously, this photo taken just shortly after we walked through the door, she was none the worse for the wear but I have to admit I was a little nervous.

Catherine on the other hand was all thrills to be the best dressed in her class. As soon as she walked in the room the crowd gasped in awe and she received compliments from anyone close enough to whisper it in her ear. I don't know if we started an "American trend" last year or not because I was shocked to see so many children (even the girls) dressed in jeans. Last year my child was the only on the dance floor without pearls and diamonds and this year I'm afraid I may have ruined the beautiful tradition. I know I'm being vain in this assumption, but it is obvious the other children have a tendency to look to "the American sisters" with some sort of reverent admiration.

It was so fun to watch the boys swoon over my girls in the beginning. Naturally, the novelty wore off, but there must be something in the back of their minds that is still attracted to the foreign girls. Just this week two boys were fighting over who got to take Amara home for lunch with him. I had a fleeting laugh as I looked up into the faces of their parents and we settled the argument for them. Tomorrow she has another date with one of the boys who missed her birthday party after school. I know that she is not interested in these boys in any romantic sort of way, but it did shock me to realize that she'd already received her "first kiss". I hadn't thought of the playful kiss at her birthday party in that light until my husband who had witnessed it aimed the light a little closer to the spot. The heart throb of her class and her favorite crush had gladly adorned the roll of Prince Charming and kissed the Sleeping Beauty awake in the most romantic setting of our winter garden. Latter we'd all laughed as he announced to his mother that he'd given out a lot of kisses at the party. We laughed again when two of the other mothers asked their girls if they'd been the recipient of any of these kisses and we watched them bow their head in a blush and shake their heads. No, I believe that my own daughter who's part time job is living out the daily life of Sleeping Beauty took as many as she could feign needing.

Too Many Titles

2008-01-18T09:47:00.001+01:00

Lately I've been busy setting up my new SparkPeople page and getting myself on track to loose those creeping pounds. I had joined SparkPeople shortly after it was started while I was trying to loose weight after giving birth to Lillian. It was inspiring and easy to use. I soon learned how to manage my calories and get an idea how many calories I was burning by entering in daily exercise and food eaten in the online trackers. Even though the move and all it's preparations took over my life and I had to drop the program I was still able to keep in mind the things I had learned from the experience. Little as I would like to admit I need a swift kick of a reminder on how to do this, I signed up for it again anyway. No, I will not bore you with the details of my weight loss program (SparkPeople gave me my own extra blog for that; just what I need right: another blog), but I am going to advocate this program here for any of you who feel like getting that bikini bod by summer or who want to loose those 50 lbs that crept up on you over the last several years. I know you're out there. Did you realize that America has reached a startling new milestone? For the first time in decades the life expectancy of our new generation is shorter than the last. It scares me to think that my children may live a shorter life than I. With a few changes instilled in our routine it has become my goal to ensure my children a long life and a proper outlook on health and habits.

Amara has been ill since yesterday and in her delirious mutterings she has come back to her favorite fear: that her mommy and daddy might die before her. I have explained to her that with all likelihood we will die before her, but it won't be until she is old and gray herself. She is still not fond of the idea and so at the same time I encourage her wishes for a simultaneous family death. Morbid, I know, but sweet at the same time. I feel fortunate to have a daughter who thinks ahead and wishes never to be permanently separated from her family. Maybe she won't be the kid who runs off to Europe with our grandchildren ;)

This morning a construction crew in the process of putting up a new building dug into an unexploded bomb and had to evacuate 100-150 people from the surrounding area while they carefully removed it. It is strange to think that we are living in an area which is still unearthing relics of the World Wars from their very own soil. We've been watching Season 6 of the 24 series (yes, we've always been a bit behind on these things) and the thought of a nuclear bomb exploding on US soil has been haunting my dreams. To awake this morning and realize we're living in a country which still carries not only the earthly scars of the wars, but also the emotional scars, I can now comprehend how fortunate the United States citizens have been. The Twin Towers was our first real taste of destruction on our soil. Now I even more sincerely hope we will not see more destruction on either a greater or lesser scale.

Speaking of watching the tube, we can't seem to watch anything anymore without the kitten attacking gesticulating hands or dangling earrings. The second she hears the TV warming up she runs over and, standing on her hind legs, puts her paws up on the ledge to nose the screen. When it's just too interesting to resist she'll wander around the edges to try and get a better advantage of whatever it is tantalizing her from behind the screen. When that fails to produce she hops on top of the TV and haunches over the edge of it determined to catch whichever target may present itself. What is most fun to watch though is when she finds a particularly interesting pray which walks off stage left or stage right and she follows it off the screen only to discover thin air.

Tonight is the "disco"! If you remember what happened last year I assure you I will not let the incident happen again. Unfortunately, I am unsure if Amara will be in a dancing mood by tonight. I didn't think her teacher would be too excited to see her walk through the classroom threshold this morning after she'd thrown up all over the playground at recess and several more times all over the classroom yesterday afternoon, but was surprised to find she expected to see the little one walking with me when I came to report her current status. Amazingly, her teacher has encouraged me to bring her this evening if she's feeling up to it. Last year she had an illness at this time as well. The morning of the dance she went to school, but her teacher had called me back to the classroom to pick her up (the first of the only two calls I've received) because she was feeling ill. We both looked at her and didn't know what to think because she went from healthy to unhappy in a matter of minutes. By the time of the dance she was doing back flips so I sent her anyway. That time her teacher gave me a look like I was one of the most irresponsible parents she'd ever laid eyes on. I suppose she was probably right because Amara only lasted through the dance and on the way home practically collapsed in my arms. Upon returning home I discovered she'd developed a fever and was laid to rest for the entire following weekend. Last night she continually woke up crying and so was not in happy mood this morning, still taking comfort in having her puke bucket follow her down the stairs. Maybe if she gets some real sleep we'll let her go to her school dance, but at the moment she's still listless on the couch beside me.

Signing out . . . I've got a dance to prepare for and kid to take care of.

Cussing Critter

2008-01-15T11:32:00.001+01:00

Our little one has started creating disturbances with her latest vocabulary ventures. With every new word that she forms out comes one more profanity. At first we thought it was cute. Like the time she learned from her sisters that yelling out the name "Lilly!" in frustrated tones was how they cursed every time something was broken, stepped on, or had been abused beyond repair in their absence. For weeks we giggled every time she'd yell out her own name when her toy stopped working or the puzzle piece just wouldn't fit. Then it moved on to the Fork incident. This was funny for a while too until we were so embarrassed by the mispronunciation that we decided not to provide any utensils at the last birthday party for fear we'd have serious cases of irresponsible parenting brought against us after the other children went home and started telling their parents what a fork is called in the Jungle household.

Lately she's taken an interest in Sleeping Beauty. This is no wonder to us as her older sister seems to live in the fantasy at least 8 hours of every day, so much so that Lilly no longer calls for Amara by her given name but by "Beauty". Again, very cute, but the fascination took on a whole new dimension when she began pointing out the finer points of a favorite Sleeping Beauty puzzle to one of our friends the other day. She enthusiastically pointed out each of the puzzles finer points including a "rinse", a "whore", and an "assole". The "rinse" could easily be interpreted as the prince, but the "whore" could likely have been the hussy holding a basket of berries and selling herself out to the man who only likes her for her voice, and the "assole" . . . well, maybe that's the name Daddy gives the guy who thinks he can come back the very same evening and marry the child of 16 who hasn't spent a day with her real family ever. I don't know . . . maybe she wasn't really thinking along such simple terms such as the horse hiding behind the tree or the castle looming over the distant horizon. What do you think?

Whatever the case may be I'm thinking we may need to have a bar of soap handy in the coming years if this keeps up. I know learning two languages at once can create a few extra learning errors, but this is getting ridiculous.

Same Ol' Resolution For the First Time

2008-01-12T17:08:00.001+01:00

When I spoke of making changes for the new year, I was not only talking about moving my blog to a better format or finally getting rid of that old, junk mail cluttered e-mail address. I know my resolution will not sound surprising as it is probably the most common of them all: lose weight. For me it is not so common, as I have regularly exercised for many years and felt no need to put any extra pressure on myself except to go a higher level or remind myself to push myself a little harder through those crunches. But since moving and losing my position in our cooperative as the fitness facilitator I have completely slacked on the practice of exercise. Bluntly, I don't even have the will to lift an exercise DVD out of it's box and slip it into the player. It has been sad feeling this way. Normally I have more will than is probably good for me, so for me not to have the will to do something sends alarms ringing in all quadrants of my brain. But there was a wee bit of will left in me still, enough to ignore those alarms as long as I possibly could. What made those bells ring loud enough earplugs couldn't shut out the din, you ask?

My daughter. My dear, precious Catherine Girl. She has lately been consumed with fears of being overweight. Okay, again very bluntly: FAT! My daughters are the farthest thing from fat, even though the two smallest of them are sitting along or below the 0th percentile for height and somewhere between the 50th & 75th percentile for weight. (The doctors took one look at them, shook their head and claimed they'd never seen the like of it before, but they certainly didn't have a weight problem.) I, on the other hand, have dealt with weight issues since I was a child. Exercise has been a part of my living routine since the first time my father and step-mother bought me a cute little tennis outfit, took me a sunny California tennis court, and taught me how to play a game which would burn off those little round areas beginning to develop on my pre-teen body, leaving me amazed.

Over the last year I've attempted to establish a routine . . . NOT! I've put on my cloths, pulled out the mat, and gotten about 3/4's of the way through one of my favorite DVD's . . . once. I began training to run through the big park near here by walking everyday the route I would run by pushing my jogger with screaming toddler inside. You'd think just that would push me into a brisk jog, but instead I put the jogger back in the shed and the kid back into her morning nap routines.

I'd discussed with Catherine going jogging with her on the weekends because it would give her a sense that she's also doing something to control her weight (not that I'd put it that way because she should not feel the need to do something about it at this age, especially when it is not an issue), but have yet to implement it. Today it was a drizzly day threatening to downpour so the DVD came out, in front of my girls.

The first thing they noticed was, "It's all girls. Why is it all girls?"

Jungle Mama ~ "Well, it's an exercise routine made specially for women."

Jungle Girls ~ "They're all so skinny and pretty. Why are they all so skinny and pretty?"

Jungle Mama ~ "Because they exercise several times every day and it's their job to look toned and beautiful so that you'll feel like you can look as good as them when you do the same exercise as them."

Jungle Girls ~ "Why are they all smiling?"

Jungle Mama (reminding herself to put a smile on her face) ~ "Because they need to make it look like they're having a really great time so you'll remember you're having a really great time and you'll keep coming back to exercise with them."

Catherine Girl ~ "Mom, if you exercise with them will you also look like them," not hesitating in the least, "even if you look like that?" (pointing a straight finger towards my jiggling belly)

By this point I was breathing hard enough I could almost feign being too out of breath to respond, but I managed to put on my best poker face and say, ". . . Possibly." It's settled, I'm dusting off all those DVD's, polishing my jogging shoes, and pulling out the exercise cloths. This year I'm working on those big jiggly areas developing around my middle-aged middle . . . minus the cute little tennis outfit.

Disastrous Christmas

2008-01-10T11:20:00.001+01:00

When you think of Christmas morning visions of twinkling Christmas lights, freshly wrapped presents under the tree, and the pitter patter of smiling little children tromping into the room. Instead ours began with the clatter of a sleep-deprived mother bouncing down the stairs at 6am. In too much pain to breath I lay on the bottom step in silence, only it wasn't the silence of the regular Christmas night. My husband arose with shouts of fear and visions of twisted and unconscious wife laying crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. Battered and bruised he helped me back up the stairs to see if we could get another wink or two in, but the children were awoken by the noise and the day began.

The presents were opened with eagerness and the kitten delighted in all the tossed aside ribbons and bows while the children played with each new gift. The Christmas frittata I had planned for breakfast decided to wait and instead we had a quick breakfast so we could get back to our second round of unwrapping. Somewhere in the midst of this I began dinner preparations. Do you know how hard it is to find a turkey in the Netherlands? Well, I had to go to a German store to find it and was grateful that I had, though it was rather small in comparison to the ones we find in America. Still, we had no extra family members to feed but ourselves, so size really didn't matter. I had a special stuffing I had made from the English Christmas magazine given by Sinterklaas and though I don't normally stuff the turkey, this year would be an exception. When pulling out the package of innards a thought of inspiration came to mind. I knew we were not going to use them for gravy as I had something else planned, but we now had a cat who loved fresh meat. We'd read up on what was acceptable to give to your cat so knew a little liver couldn't hurt. I took a small portion of the already small liver and put it in her bowl, much to her excitement. The kitten ceased to leave the bowl for the length of time it took me to stuff and insert the turkey into the oven.

The kids were now playing with the next round of toys and I began my own next round of preparations for Christmas dinner. I was so proud of myself for having made ahead almost everything that could be. Still, things needed to be thawed, reheated, or topped off. In the midst of preparations I heard the cat give a sudden cry of help which isn't uncommon when the poor thing has three little girls who love to smother it with love at even the most inopportune of times (imagine loves in a litter box - not the Aerosmith version either). I quickly stuck my head out of the kitchen to scold whichever child was once again torturing the unfortunate cat, only to see three pairs of innocent eyes peering up at me amidst the piles of toys and wrapping paper. The cats crying plea soon turned into a yowl of garbled torture and I began to assume the worst. Did one of the children have the cat trapped in a box, were they sitting on the poor thing without so much as a single look of guilt on their face, or did it find a way to strangle itself with the Christmas ribbons and bows? Gargling yowls and pitiful cries soon intermingled with my own stern motherly voice demanding to know, "WHAT have you done with the cat!?" It didn't take long before my ears began to detect the location of the resounding feline moans and deduce that it was nowhere near the three sets of bewildered faces peering up at me. Instead I found it shivering in the corner behind the curtains huddled over a pile of freshly digested turkey liver. Yup, my bad. Sorry girls. Still, you'd think the cat would have learned. She still begged endlessly for a scrap of that turkey when it came out of the oven. I suppose it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that it had feasted on the discarded carcass of the Thanksgiving turkey in France unbeknownst to us could it? I am sure it will never beg for liver again though . . . right?

New Year Brings New Changes

2008-01-08T14:31:00.001+01:00

Our Christmas vacation was full of fun and good times. We were busy baking and partying from start to finish. The girls were tickled pink that Santa again made a stop in the Netherlands just for them. The stockings were filled with goodies from both lands which did slightly confuse them, but they soon understood that Santa knew a good thing when he saw them and collected the best of both worlds when choosing the items for their stockings. We did not have a white Christmas as we'd thought we might. The ice soon began to melt, but not before the girls could get out and walk on some ice. I wish it had been thick enough to get out our skates, but it was just too risky. Besides, there was a deadline to meet: Christmas. As you may have already read, our finances were stretched to the last thread during the most critical month of the year and so when the paycheck finally came in we made a last and final mad rush along with the rest of the last minute shoppers in Amsterdam.

To put a little rest into our busy shopping day we took the girls to the English Reformed church in the middle of the begijnhof just to the north of the Spui for their Christmas Choir service. Sitting in the middle of this sanctuary sheltered from the hustle and bustle of the streets and crowds we were welcomed into the English speaking church and enjoyed an hour of Christmas songs and a simple Christmas service. The girls did remarkably well for not having attended a church service for over a year and we left with warm hearts and general feeling of Christmas cheer. It didn't take long to finish our Christmas shopping and we were headed home to our lonely kitten and sparkling tree.

I had meal upon meal planned so we feasted all Christmas on this recipe or that with a few Christmas cocktails thrown in for a little extra warmth during the cold nights. Luckily the liquor lasted to ease our nerves after the frenzied birthday party with 14 children running through our house as well as to help us sleep through the neighbors drunken New Years Eve party. Though, I am glad we have run low as it is now time to say farewell to the holidays and approach the New Year. It is always hardest to say goodbye to this particular holiday. Summer vacation is shrugged off with knowledge that you'll still have several remaining weekends with sun and beaches before the cold fall winds began to blow, but the Christmas/New Year vacation ends abruptly leaving you with only cold and dreary weather to look forward to for the next several months. Still, it has left us with many a happy memory.

Amara turned 5 in a blur of all things pink and princess and has chosen to stay just as cute as she ever was with a little extra sparkle. As tradition would have it we gave her the choice to get her ears pierced or not and she braved the many stores which rejected to pierce a child so young and the many clerks who tried to scare her into thinking it was "too much pain" to finally find a store and clerk willing to give the child what she so desired. (More on this Dutch attitude later.) She walked out with beautiful red earrings and huge smile on her face. We did go ice skating, though not on the canals it was just as fun as we were in the company with friends who we hadn't spent enough time with over the last several months. Friends and fun have filled our holidays this year and we will remember each event with happiness.

Though I feel like we walk out of those happy holidays into an empty year, I am also looking forward to a new year. I have never been one to put much stock into New Year's resolutions, but this year I have a few things in mind for the betterment of my soul and my family. There will be some changes in our routine and the way we live from day to day. Things have gotten a bit slack in the last couple of years due to so many changes and we seem to have lost our focus or headed in the wrong direction here or there. While change can be a stimulating experience I prefer not too much to change, so I'm on a mission to redirect our path to find some of those treasured walks we miss to much in little family.

Christmas Chaos

2007-12-20T14:53:00.001+01:00

Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . .

We've been suffering through freezing temperatures this last week. Actually, it's just the Dutch who have been suffering. I've been suffering only for a lack of snow and ice, but I'm hanging on to the hope that the chill will last just long enough to put a couple more inches of ice on the tops of the canals so we can go ice skating for Christmas or New Year. Nobody here wants to hang on to that hope, even though they each count back how many years it's been since the last time they were able to have ice skating parties. It's a big deal when the canals freeze over; they set up hot cocoa stands along the ice and rent out ice skates. I couldn't really tell you in detail as I've only heard the stories. You'd think by the Christmas card images you see of the Dutch canals frozen over and people skating on them with the windmills in the background that it is a regular occurrence, but in reality it has been somewhere between 10 and 13 since the last time the Dutch people have been able to ice skate. That they can't seem to remember how many years it actually has been is testament to the fact that it has been too long. I suppose global warming has reached even the lowlands. Still, each time I see the ice on the water and the cluster of ducks hanging out in the little spot left open in the middle I get a little thrill that we might just have shipped our ice skates with us for a reason.

In the meantime I've been preparing for several celebrations. Martha and I know each other on a first name basis now. We've consulted each other on many a project over the last week and I think I've convinced her to change several recipes and even some of her templates. As a result my projects have turned out a considerable higher quality from hers as I'm sure you're bound to agree when you see the provided photos (yes, I'm begging for compliments).

Last night was the children's winter gala. Every age gets dressed as if heading out for an evening at the prom with sparkles and glitter and gems. Even the gents put on coat tails and hair gel. Unlike America there is no Christmas program. Instead the children enjoy a candlelit dinner in their decorated classrooms and only at the end of their fun-filled evening do the parents "happen" to hear them singing carols when they show up about 10 minutes early to pick them up. The parents provide the delicacies for the Christmas dinner and so this is what I contributed.

The children wouldn't eat it either because there were Christmas cookies to be eaten instead, or because it had red spots, but the teachers claimed to love it. It didn't hurt us to finish it off after the children were sound asleep in their beds either.

Seeing that it is Squirrel Monkey's birthday during the holidays we decided to celebrate it at school beforehand. Again, a whole different set of traditions happen for school children here on their birthdays. For one, the first half hour is dedicated to celebrating his/her birthday and we, the parents and non-school-aged siblings, were encouraged to sit in. Songs are sung, games are played, and candles are blown out. The child then takes one friend, a large card, and sweets from classroom to classroom for signatures and stickers and well wishes from each of the teachers. And instead of bringing a box of Safeway cupcakes, the children bring something of the equivalent of party favors (bags full of candy and little toys) to pass out to each of their classmates at the end of the day. My child picked a special little gift box off Martha's website and I was more than happy to oblige . . . until it came to putting the boxes together. The cookies to fill them were fun to make, but then to find 3" square boxes to fit them into? Impossible. I spent days searching store to store for them, only to fail. So, I chose to do something even more impossible: redesign Martha's print-out template to create a box, instead of the intended slip cover for the impossible to find 3" square box. After several hours of fiddling on Paint.NET and finally printing them out on heavy weight paper came the hours of tedious cutting and gluing. I have not used a glue stick since I was in grade school and I tell you now, don't go back to those days!! It's a mess and a horrible frustration. Did you know you have to hold those edges together until they dry? Each and every wall of those 20 little houses!?! The outcome was beautiful and my daughter was enchanted with them, but I will NEVER do this again. Well, maybe if I wasn't passing them out to 20 little kindergartners. Perhaps when their parents help hang them on the Christmas tree I'll get a little deserved recognition, but that isn't why I did it, did I? No, I did it to see my little girl jump up and down with giggles and twinkles in her eye when she saw the tray of canal houses waiting for her on the morn of her birthday celebration.

Now I just have to keep my mind off of the ball I'm throwing for my little 5-year-old the weekend after Christmas and concentrate on Christmas itself. I've got very little time to prepare for the dinner itself, let alone the stocking stuffers and extra little items to stuff under the tree on Christmas morn. I still haven't wrapped those presents their grandma shipped over almost a month ago now. We'll be heading to Kalverstraat on Saturday for some of those last minute items and then I'll be ready to settle in for Christmas. I've got lots of ideas from a Sinterklaas gift, a BBC cooking magazine, so I'll be cooking up Jamie and Gordon's best dishes. Jungle Dad has requested there be 12 days of Christmas this year after he's seen all the recipes I've been pouring over so I'll do my best to accommodate his appetite.

This will likely be my last blog until after Christmas so "Merry Christmas" to all! Spend it in good cheer and with lots of love and hugs for the family members you can hold close to you this year.

We Favor Rejects

2007-12-14T10:47:00.001+01:00

As a child we've each had our favorite stuffed animal from time to time. Not unlike the rest of us, our babies have each happened to fall in love with bunnies, but not just any bunnies. Please let me explain my bewildered state of mind over their choice in childhood loves.

The first animal my daughter, Spider Monkey, fell in love with was a scrawny pink bunny my mother had sent as an extra little something in an Easter-themed gift box. I loved everything in the box, but that ugly cheap bunny. It wasn't your really soft and cuddly top of the line version of a stuffed animal and came attached with wires in its ears to keep them positioned straight up in the air. She had so many other really lovely and expensive stuffed animals already that I admit I was very tempted to throw the scraggly thing out, but I never got the chance. She grabbed onto those ears and didn't let got for years. In almost every picture of her from that time until the age of 4 or 5 she's dragging that bunny around behind her. The wires gave out and ended up in balls at the base of the ears closest to the head, the color is faded after many many a wash but is still recognizable as pink, though I can't say that for the ribbon around her neck except that it hasn't been lost, and the fur is just as scraggly as it was the first day we got it but hasn't sustained any rips or bare spots. This bunny has lost it's "favorite" position in her long line of stuffed animals, but has a prime position on her bed every night none the less.

When Squirrel Monkey was just and infant we were invited over to a professors house who had two girls and a basement stacked to the ceiling with boxes of cloths. She littered her living room floor with box after box of cloths and even though we left with bags of clothing I failed to make a noticeable dent in her collection. In a last attempt to create some space in her home she pulled out a box of baby toys as we were opening the door to leave. Already a house who had seen one baby and knowing there were more baby toys than I, myself, could store awaiting me at my own home I tried to pry the rest of my family away from the box. If you think it's hard prying a 3-year-old away from a box of toys, try prying a grown man away from one. He was set on bringing home a large connectivity set with marbles and things and last, but not least, a white and pink bunny with an elastic strap on its head that squeaked sweetly when bounced up and down. I laugh at myself when I recall the fight I put up over this tiny addition to our family. Again, my thought was the space in my tiny student-sized house and the many other possibilities of stuffed animals already existing at our house that in time she could fall in love with. It is rare that my man will put his oar in with regards to anything baby, so I relented and stuffed the thing in one of the bags in exchange for leaving the clutter of maze pieces and marbles behind. Once home he dug through those bags and pulled out the stuffed bunny enchanting her into a long relationship with the bunny. This bunny remains her favorite stuffed animal and sleeps in her arms every night to this day. It was once forgotten at her grandparents lake cabin in Montana and the adventure is etched in the annals of our family. The elastic strap used to bounce her up and down still serves its purpose even though it has given up its elastic abilities, the squeaker still squeaks just as pleasantly as the first time we heard it, though the thin fabric encasing it and its sea of beads is threadbare and almost see-through and the soft face has been kissed so many times on its nose that all the softness has disappeared leaving a bare patch of fabric which is still kissed long and hard regardless.

With the knowledge that my babies each had an affinity for bunnies I was determined not to let my third choose her own undesirable version. I was 9-months pregnant and on a mission to find a beautiful stuffed bunny for my baby to attach herself to. I waddled the mall up and down with tot, Squirrel Monkey, in tow. For hours I wandered from one store to the next in search of the perfect bunny for my baby until I found a snuggly soft white Ty bunny. The bunny came to the hospital with us and snuggled her from birth, but as the months wore on she showed no particular interest in the softness or the sweetness of this hard sought after bunny. Still, we brought the bunny with us to the Netherlands and I continued my efforts. Our new friends here began donating bags of toys and clothing (accepted gratefully since we came with only a few suitcases of cloths for our whole family) and after I let the children sift through and play with everything I started pulling aside the toys they didn't seem to take an interest in. One of the items I tucked away into a reject box was a small yellow bunny with an ugly plaid bow, but wouldn't you know that would be the one item all three of my children lamented over when it went missing. The big sisters scavenged the house until they found my hidden reject box and pulled that bunny right back out and presented it to the littlest of our monkeys, who welcomed it back with open and eager arms. They've been inseparable since. And my beautiful and soft white bunny? I have not given up complete hope. She tends to sleep with both in her arms, but when she cries out in tears, "Bunny!!!", we all know she's calling for the little yellow one. I foresee the short rough fur taking a beating in the washing machine for many years to come without affect and possibly the ugly plaid bow will eventually fade into something more becoming or happen to get lost somewhere between washing machine and baby arms . . .

Old-Time Fudge

2007-12-14T09:46:00.001+01:00

Prep: 20 minutes

Cook: 20 minutes

Ingredients

2 cups sugar
3/4 cup milk
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, cut up
1 teaspoon light-colored corn syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup chopped nuts (optional)
2 tablespoons butter

Directions

1. Line a 9x5x3-inch loaf pan with foil, extending foil over edges of pan. Butter foil; set pan aside.

2. Butter the sides of a heavy 2-quart saucepan. In saucepan combine sugar, milk, chocolate, and corn syrup. Cook and stir over medium-high heat until mixture boils. Clip a candy thermometer to side of pan. Reduce heat to medium-low; continue boiling at a moderate, steady rate, stirring frequently, until thermometer registers 234 degrees F, soft-ball stage (20 to 25 minutes).

3. Remove saucepan from heat. Add butter and vanilla, but do not stir. Cool, without stirring, to 110 degrees F (about 55 minutes).

4. Remove thermometer from saucepan. Beat mixture vigorously with a wooden spoon until fudge just begins to thicken. If desired, add nuts. Continue beating until the fudge becomes very thick and just starts to lose its gloss (about 10 minutes total).

5. Immediately spread fudge in the prepared pan. Score into squares while warm. When fudge is firm, use foil to lift it out of pan. Cut fudge into squares. Store tightly covered. Makes about 1-1/4 pounds (32 pieces).

Make-Ahead Tip: Up to 2 weeks ahead, prepare fudge. Store as directed.

Decking the Halls + Best Puke Day Yet

2007-12-10T16:08:00.000+01:00

Just call me Martha! I haven't been posting this last week because I've been up to my ears in creativity. I finished off a few final Christmas gifts which I'm leaving undisclosed for the moment due to certain readers. Suffice it to say it was the equivalent of writing, illustrating, and printing two books. The work that went into them can't be fully appreciated and I doubt I will ever take up the hobby full time because it was such a disappointment to have to do it all alone. There are several groups for this type of hobby back in the states and now I know why people get together to do this. Much like quilting, it's better with company. Otherwise it was just me with a mess spreading across the table and three rambunctious children screaming wildly through the house uninhibited.

My second project was to use up a bag full of beads which I had purchased last year for a project I never got around to. I had bought several varieties and brought them home to match up with the colors in our bedroom intending on returning the rejects. I was still learning and the lesson from this experience was that sale items were not returnable, even if you actually returned them within the one week deadline stated on the receipt. I was so disappointed at having to spent 70 euros for beads I'd only use a quarter of that the whole project became a sore in the back of my mind best left completely alone.) While looking through some original ideas for Christmas ornament projects I could do with the girls I ran across this one. I envisioned myself wrapping up tassels, stringing them to the end of wire, passing them one by one to my children and watching them create one beautiful icicle after another. Little did I know how impossible it would be to, one, figure out how to create a tiny tassel and, two, interpret Martha's 4-step tassel how-to with a tiny photo of the four steps not any bigger than the tassel I was attempting to make. Here I was, so proud of myself for having purchased the extra materials while the kids were in school and had all my supplies on hand by the time they were done with their after school snack to sit down together and create, but I failed to realize there was a flaw in my plan. It didn't take long for the kids to figure out they wouldn't be stringing beads onto provided wire in a jiffy after mom threw a temper tantrum or two and banished them to the attic while I tried to figure out the instructions within the comfortable confines of silence. I think it was too late, I'd already muddled my brain as to how I thought my fingers should proceed and it was an hour and a half later that I'd actually created a complete and beautiful tassel. Sigh . . . It didn't take too long after that to get four strings made, ready and waiting at the abandoned posts, and I was soon keeping up with their fast demand. I made as many strings out of as much rope I had bought to tassel with and we'd still only used a quarter of those beads. Still, I'm a happier person now that I've created a Christmas masterpiece (mind you, even with moments of peace) with my children.

My next project was old-fashioned fudge which was meant to replace our "traditional" marshmallow mixture fudge. Not having access to the jars of marshmallow here in the Netherlands I took my new candy thermometer and ventured into the world of "real" fudge. I was intimidated. My mother scorned me in recent years saying her new fiance could make "real fudge, not that fake marshmallow kind" and I've since been dared to achieve it and, simultaneously, scared to fail. The chance presented itself this weekend and I pounced with determination. I succeeded and my husband has since begged me to trash all other recipes for this melt-in-your-mouth fudge. I set aside the best pieces for a dinner party we were invited to and saved the scruffy edges for our tree decorating evening.

My neuroscientist husband had a rat to take care of this weekend so we didn't see much of him. I was very disappointed that we did not have time to get a Christmas tree on Saturday and by Sunday I'd given up on the whole idea and figured all that fudge would be eaten throughout the rest of the week without the Christmas tree tradition. Then, around 5:30 Sunday evening, my man came tromping in through the back gate with a Christmas tree over his shoulders. He'd found the last one in a the next town over and walked with it the entire way home. I'd say he made up for missing the family outing last year. Hmmmmm . . . it seems I have left it out of the blog last year probably because of the heart breaking effect it had on me. I suppose you'll want a recap:

I'd learned of the places I could find a Christmas tree from a new friend, although she didn't realize we had only our bikes to get us to and from and the place she entioned was not easily found via bike. Still, I was willing to attempt the process with the reward being great activities and concessions to be found and the kids were guaranteed to love it. I'd planned the day out starting with traveling to pick up the tree, bringing it home, eating sweets, and decorating it with the few items we'd picked up here and there during our holiday shopping. The key to this day was actually having my husband come home from the office at a prearranged time. The girls and I waited hour upon hour for him to come home and we could wait no longer. The table was set with sweets, the floor was cleared for the tree, and yet there was no father to take us on the excursion. They were in tears and I gave them the option: wait for another day when dad can join us or head out on the bike right now to pick up a tree on our own. They have proven to be as impulsive as I and so I was not surprised at their immediate answer. We headed out into the cold and rainy night to find our tree. Because we only had an hour left before the stores closed I only visited the nursery down the road. We bagged the tree and went in search of a stand with no luck. I reached the conclusion that nowhere near had a stand for purchase and, determined to put the tree up that night, I stopped by said friends house and begged to use a spare stand in promise of eventually purchasing them a new one whenever I found a place that sold them. So off I went in tears through the rain with wet kids and tree piled in between them in the stroller behind my bike. We returned home to find the man of the house waiting for us. He'd chosen to spend 50 euros on a taxi to try and get home before the stores closed, but missed us anyway. It was one of the most miserable nights I remember of last winter. The tree was hacked into a pencil shape to fit into the borrowed stand and decorated in strange silence.

This year was just the opposite. Everyone was so thrilled to see a Christmas tree come through the door with Dad. Nobody was disappointed that it wasn't obtained in our traditional family adventure, but then you can hardly call picking up a pre-cut Christmas tree at a store the kind of outing we're used to. The table was quickly adorned with the home-made fudge, candy canes shipped from Grandma and Grandpa in America, hot chocolate with whipped cream on top and hot buttered rum for mom and dad. The tree was adorned with the newly made icicles and topped with the angel we brought with us from the states that my mother had made. The evening was perfect aside from the fact that Squirrel Monkey was ill.

She had taken ill suddenly upon arriving at our friends place for dinner the night before and we ended up leaving early because she was hovering over the toilet expecting the worst. She slept through the night, but awoke with a fever and aches in the morning. Literally, just as Dad walked out the door for work she threw up. I have learned not to take her bought's with puke days lightly as they normally result in a hospital stay for rehydration so I stepped up my efforts to keep her hydrated. I thoroughly expected her to fill the bucket every 5 to 10 minutes as usual, but instead the times she threw up could be counted on one hand from the time her father walked out the door to the entrance of the Christmas tree. Still, she lay limp and listless through the evening only peaking out of the slit of an eye to watch the decorating process, though she did partake in a candy cane as we thought the sugar and peppermint may do her some good.

At the time I am writing this blog she is eating her first full meal of oatmeal and apple and only running a low grade fever of 100.8 F. You've no idea how happy I am not to have ended up in the hospital again. That right there is something to be thankful for this Christmas.

"Fork, please."

2007-12-04T09:06:00.000+01:00

Continued . . .

The latest in a series of Screech Monkey antics just so happened to make quite a scene in front of the entire Sinterklaas party. We all know that the jungle brings with it it's own amusement where ever it goes and Screech was determined that this party should be no exception.

Lately our little two-year-old has had a fascination with forks and requires the use of one whatever the meal in front of her consists of. If she finds her place setting void of one of these required elements she will let the household know of the mistake by yelling out, "Oh, f__k!" as that is her best attempt at forming her little mouth around the word. Usually the incident occurs within our earshot only and we giggle it off, even as she repeats the word in utter frustration if we take too long in fishing one out of the silverware drawer, "F . . . ck! Fu . . . k! F. . . ck!". It made several giggles during Thanksgiving with family and friends durning which she was so happy to have received an adult size fork resulting in, "Look! Big fu . . . k!" Or maybe you can imagine the times when she drops it on the floor and while longingly reaching out for it exclaims with an long, drawn out "F . . . . k!"

This continued to be pronunciation disaster even into yesterday. As mentioned, she's fascinated with the particular utensil and not only requires one for eating, but refuses to let it go even when she's done. Not restrained to her usual highchair at the party, she took to running off her sugar high in circles around the room with her favorite "f__k" between bites while I desperately chased her down and either stole the said item out of her grasp or returned her to her plate. In the process of reaching for the dangerous utensil during one of these attempts one of my flailing appendages strait-armed her in mid stride. My other hand thankfully acquired its target before the child was flung flat on her back onto the hardwood floor. The damage was more shock than pain and would have been forgotten if she hadn't realized her beloved "f__k" was MIA. Amongst her screeches of pain she began mourning the sudden loss by reproachfully calling out for her lost implement . . . over and over again in the midst of concerned onlookers, including Grandma. If you can imagine the sight my swearing child made at that moment than you've got an acute sense of humor and are worthy of reading the adventures and scrapes Our Blooming Jungle can get itself into. A mispronunciation for the baby book indeed.

For the record: we are working on correcting this obscene behavior, it's just taking a bit of time.

Weekend With Sinterklaas

2007-12-03T16:35:00.000+01:00

Sinterklaas and his Piets arrived in the Netherlands several weeks ago and we were among the crowds to greet him when he dropped anchor in our own little port just the other side of the town center. Boat loads of Black Pete's (Zwarte Piets) pulled up first and flooded the banks showering the awaiting crowds with tiny treats. Sinterklaas surprised us this year by rounding the corner in a car instead of taking the boat. We figured he's had enough of sailing since he'd come all the way from Spain and wanted to get his land legs back. We may have heard his explanation if Squirrel Monkey hadn't decided she could no longer hold her potty in and began crying in fetal position on the wet lawn. We were forced to exit the crowded park and find the nearest toilet which was many blocks away. By this time the family was ready to call it a day and we left disappointed in not having had the pleasure to hear Sinterklaas speak. He's paid us regular visits anyway dropping off chocolate letters, little cookies, and various little toys in our shoes if we remember to line them up at night and sing a song for him to hear. Actually, he's taken it easy on us as we're still so new to this region and he'll drop things in our shoes if we forget to sing, which we seem to have a problem remembering to do. He's leaving the Netherlands in a day or two and is making his final rounds and saying goodbye to all the little children and their grown parents, so we've seen a lot of him lately.

He stopped by the local Albert Hein on Saturday afternoon to fill a few shoes with goodies so we met him there while we picked up the kids' shoes. This was something Spider Monkey had been hesitant to do from the beginning. The week before his expected visit we were riding over with a shoe in each basket we stopped along the way to drop off a bag of dirty diapers in the diaper recycling bin she called me to a halt. "Mom, do we really have to go to Albert Hein? I mean, where are we going to put our shoes there? I feel kind of funny about this . . . do the Dutch people leave their shoes at the grocery store for Sinterklaas?" I laughed and assured her that if we didn't leave our shoes at the grocery store for Sinterklaas they'd certainly guess we weren't Dutch. Still a bit wary and reluctant to walk into the store with an old shoe in hand, she walked in to find a large table front and center overflowing with children's shoes. Each one of these children showed up on Saturday to claim their shoes and a rightful position on Sinterklaas's lap for a photo op and a bag of Albert Hein goodies from Zwarte Piet.

After returning home the girls could not keep their hands out of these bags and began devouring bags of chips, chocolate letters, skittles, yogurt juice boxes, and oranges with their new Zwarte Piet hats on. We were just in time to welcome good friends, Daphne and Bob, to our home. They must have run into Sinterklaas on their way over because he'd given them a few presents to give to the girls which he hadn't had time to slip into their shoes the night before. The girls delighted over their new toys and things while the adults spread out a table of all the season's goodies: candy, cookies, chocolate, and more. The evening progressed appropriately with handfuls of sweets and a dinner of powdered sugar covered poffertjes until we got to the hot chocolate. Between what happened next and our guests dreadful fear of cats I doubt they'll ever spend another evening in the Jackson Jungle.

First, we dished out the warm chocolate milk topped with whipped cream something which we have each done at one time or another happened, but for Squirrel Monkey it was her first time. She couldn't resist the hot chocolate and took a big sip of the scalding hot liquid and promptly spewed it all out over her pj's which resulted in a blistering mouth and bright red and burning legs. The scream which resulted is still reverberating through the house. We were just getting our hearing back and our nerves settled when the second incident occurred. Everyone was finishing their final sips of the delicious Dutch chocolate milk and Screech Monkey sat at the end of the table licking her lips. I was relishing the peace of the moment, for there had been few this evening. A momentary look of concern crossed her face and we watched as she did the cute little baby thing of pulling up her shirt and looking at her tummy. Just as I was about to comment on that big round tummy full of yummies she looked up and emptied them all onto herself and the floor. As I said, it was a date set up to be wonderful and yet determined to be full of the regular ruckus.

Sunday we attempted another get together with our adopted family, the Brinkhuijsen's. It is customary for families to get together and celebrate Sinterklaas on the day of his departure from the Netherlands to his "retirement" home in Spain. It is difficult to explain the traditional gift giving ritual as it is very quirky and while trying to explain this among other traditions they just settled on inviting us into their family circle for the celebration. It was a memory never to be forgotten. Sinterklaas paid us a visit bringing along a few Zwarte Piets and even discussing each of our habits or bits of daily life he takes a particular interest in with us. Each child got a chance to sit on his lap and talk with him about the things he was most interested about in their life. The girls were still talking about their close encounter with the fatherly figure as they tucked under the covers for bed. He left behind a series of clues and games to help find several bags of wrapped presents for the family which the kids undertook with skill. Each family member took turns opening their gift and picking a present out for the next family member until the bag was empty, as well as our stomachs. As the day progressed we ate food and and followed clues and opened gifts at intervals until the grand finale: the adult presents. This is when it gets a little tricky to describe, so think quirky thoughts (No, Dad, not those kind of adult presents!). This family does as we sometimes do for Christmas and they draw names to pick who is going to give a gift to whom. The person who you pick will likely have something unique about them and that is what you have to work with. It can be something to make fun of or it can be their hobby or about some recent incident which happened with them. So, you pick your "surprise" (pronounced in the French way), gag or good, and "wrap it" in something fitting. I say "wrap" rather loosely because this is the word which threw me off. The gift themselves are actually wrapped in wrapping paper, but the wrapped gift is encased in some form of the present which represents the gift and/or the person whom it is meant for. Example: My gifts were related to my cake decorating and were inside two boxes created to look like a staked cake, even with the candles on top! Along with each gift the present giver must make a Dutch rhyme/poem (Sinterklaasgedicht) about the gift and it is usually quite funny. These little ditties have to be read aloud to the room, of course. I have a feeling I still did not portray this exchange of gifts properly, but imagine an even more creative white elephant party with assigned gifts to fit each personality. It really was fun and the gifts really did fit each person.

An event took place at this final farewell party which brings up a topic worthy of it's own blog.

To be continued . . .

Learning to Ride

2007-11-29T17:13:00.000+01:00

Shortly after our arrival home after our huge European Vacation we decided our 4-year-old was well past the age to be learning how to ride a bike without her training wheels. The kids in the Netherlands seem to be riding their bikes before they can walk. Granted, you see the few who still have training wheels, but it always amazes me to see these kids who are no taller than their bikes who are riding right alongside their parents. I don't know how they do it, but I think the Dutch were just born to ride their bikes. Some friends who came up a month ago or so were amazed to see the rows and rows of bikes and lines of bike traffic weaving in an out of the auto and foot traffic. It is often likely to find one or two of these small fry being escorted alongside one of their parents.

I am afraid to say that Squirrel Monkey did not attain Dutch citizenship this day. She gave up after a few failed attempts and preferred to pose for the camera in front of the slide leaving her father let down and exhausted after his workout. After a month or so of renewed attempts he resigned defeated and put the training wheels back on, albeit a little lopsided just for some extra encouragement.

Now I've got a "real Dutch person" teaching her on a smaller bike and with a little peer pressure as one of her little boyfriends learned how to ride just last week without training wheels (his mom volunteered for the task). Still . . . she'd rather look all cutsie than show off on two wheels.

What a little stinker! Think she'll ever learn? Sure, but not on the Regular Dutch Standard Timeline.

Loving Baby Time

2007-11-29T16:37:00.000+01:00

A few of my baby's favorite things.

This morning we went for a walk, my baby and I. A girlfriend informed me of a bad throat ache so I took it upon myself to bring her some of Grandma's famous cure-all tea. It gave me a chance to walk with my girl without the usual rush involved in transporting the other girls to and from school. We met some friendly puppies along the way and investigated dropped rose hips all mushy on the ground. She informed me in her baby Dutch language that they were "bahx", that last part being a lovely guttural "g". She's progressing about the way I did: I turned everything from "ck" to "ch" into a guttural "g" in my journey to incorporate it into my regular vocal sounds.

I began the process of teaching her the difference in paths, a vital survival skill here in the Netherlands. She has a tendency to wander freely between foot path, bike path, and auto path and there is no better time than now to start the training as to which path her own two feet belong. As we walked down these paths and I repeatedly pulled her off of the red-paved bike path and either scolded her, scared her, or explained the differences in colors and their meaning I watched the grandmas walking their dogs eye me in curiosity. Actually, I understood their look quite clearly (as you may remember all emotions are betrayed quite clearly on the faces of the Dutch women, good or bad); they were giving me the look which said, "Oh, I remember those days . . . if only they had lasted a little longer." And for once I was not looking back at them challengingly and wishfully thinking they could trade places with me any moment they chose to step in. No, I was thoroughly enjoying every moment with my little toddler. She'll likely be my last and I am not going to let these little moments slip out from between my fingers so easily. Likely, no matter how hard I try to hang on to them I'll always be one of those grandmothers walking her dog on the frosty morns gazing at a young mother and wishing time hadn't run away with me so fast anyway.

Last night after I gave her a hug and kiss before turning out the light and closing the door she held her bunny (pictured above) up to me to land a goodnight kiss onto as well. When I gladly bestowed a precious mother's kiss on her bunny she held up her other favored bunny for another. After I'd kissed them both she delightedly tucked each under her arms and prepared to sleep with a huge smile on her face. I am glad those simplicities still mean so much to her. The older girls were just as charming in the things which gave them a smile before sleep, but these were more mature. Spider Monkey felt happiness with a bit of pride over the breakthrough of actually liking school and her school work. Squirrel Monkey was just thrilled that her dress that Grandma Nett made for her still fits and a new discovery was made: when sitting on the floor with it on she can spread it out in a large and beautiful circle of satin around her. Both of these are precious, but there is something so sweet about a baby taking joy in the mother's shared kisses with her snugglies.

Conveniences

2007-11-28T16:42:00.000+01:00

1. Our toddler, Screech Monkey, discovered how to open the doors just after we bought a kitten whom we'd prefer to trap inside and on the first level of the house only.

Why is it that when I really wanted her to learn how to open the doors she would not? Rather, she would scream and throw a temper tantrum the minute she got to the door dividing our lower level to the entryway/stairs regardless if I was standing right on the other side or not. Suddenly, the moment we get a kitten and actually had a need for that door she can open it multiple times a minute out of sheer pleasure of the accomplishment, unfazed by the frantic yells and screams as I try and keep the kitten caged. Just as this new accomplishment is getting old she discovers the backdoor works the same way. This is actually convenient because . . .

2. Squirrel Monkey has suddenly formed a sleep walking habit.

We heard the girl wake up and walk downstairs in the middle of our peaceful sleep. We often joke about her because it never seems to fail; the minute we drift off she will awake and let out this long and dreadful whimper as she pitter patters as fast as her little feet will take her down to the toilet. This happens almost like clockwork every night and it normally gives us a giggle. This last time was void of the accompanying whimper, but upon her return to bed the whimper began in an additional state of panic. She'd returned to bed and couldn't find her blanket and worst of all, she had to go pee. Hmm . . . something just didn't add up. While she went to the toilet we searched the house for her blanket which was hanging out around the open first level door. Upon further inspection she'd also moved around some of the furniture (the cat slept through it, even when she was sleeping on the same chair which was moved) So, we'll be keeping those doors locked now. But this is not the only way she has amazed us lately.

3. It just so happened that the day my diaper dumping toddler decided to use her toilet training it was in the presence of her big sister, Squirrel Monkey.

This is what we heard exclaimed from the lips of our overjoyed child after the incident. Somehow the youngest let it be known that she required the use of her training toilet and the older thought it best to remove all lower articles of clothing along with the diaper. What to her surprise, her little sister sat on that provided toilet and used it for more than just the liquid excrements. She then proceeded to let the little sister run loose as she disposed of the little extras into the toilet, wiped it clean with toilet paper, and flushed. Then they both proceeded to storm the room with huge smiles expecting cheers from the stands. I knew I was putting off training that kid for a reason . . .

Battle Lines Drawn for Nothing

2007-11-16T17:10:00.000+01:00

Continued . . .

So we've experienced the long period of expectation and let down concerning the addition of a little kitten into our already bungled jungle, but this was all for nothing. As it turns out my man had already waved his white flag in the air, just where none of us could see it. He knew the minute he walked through the door that night and saw the kitten in the house that we all needed a little cuddly kitten. He's a very smart man, you've got to hand it to him. I personally think he just wanted to see the lengths I would go to get a kitten because he has not been particularly happy with the cleanliness of the house the past few months and maybe wanted to see if any of us would or could forget about the little joys a kitten/cat could bring. At some point in this train of events he began the secret hunt of a kitten to no success. He had not put as much effort into the search as I had silently behind his back and did not know you could rarely find kittens in a pet shop and if you could everyone here knows you just don't get them from there because they are usually infested with all ranges of illnesses. He unceremoniously confessed his failure in the search and gave me leave to take over for him. He only requested to be able to pick up the kitten and present him/her to the family as a surprise on his way home from work so that was my aim.

I had a girlfriend help me with marktplaats.nl (the Netherlands version of eBay which I do not particularly get along with) to see if there were any remaining litters of little kitten in the Netherlands. To my utter surprise there were several "nests" within biking range giving me my choice of leads to follow up on. It all happened rather quickly because I did not want to miss out on any of these last chance offers, so after we arranged a viewing ASAP. My man had only one request: striped and friendly demeanor. The baby and I were assigned to the project.

The trip wound its way along canals and past old country homes and pastures of cows and sheep. When we arrived at the address a typical Dutch farm house awaited us with large barns surrounded by large pastures, a pen of geese and ducks in the front yard and a rambunctious puppy to jump up and kiss our faces in welcome. It very much reminded me of my childhood home . . . just another countries version of the same. I never had luck taming the wild kittens born on my childhood ranch, but I was certain the farm breed was the best there was to find. The kittens were born and raised in the farmhouse kitchen and a few greeted us by running to the door as we opened it and licked our hands. I made note of these who showed the obvious signs of preferred social behavior and the first one to the door had caught my eye particularly. I followed her back to her siblings and picked her up to see how she'd respond. She purred and curled up in my arms long enough for me to become convinced I'd better put her down if I wanted to ever consider another kitten. The kittens were of all colors and temperaments and I was particularly tempted in a beautiful white cat with blue spots, but was disenchanted with her shy temperament. The dominant male of the litter was fat and happy and rolled over to let me rub his belly without so much as a nibble, but when I was informed he was actually the most feisty of the bunch and woke everyone up in the house with his howls at 6am I had to reconsider. Screech Monkey was taken with every striped red male she could grab, but I did not want another cat which looked so much like my favorite childhood kitten so ignored her interests. Then she found the kitten I had first laid eyes on and quickly nabbed her up by the tail. Anyone in his right mind would have quickly grabbed the helpless kitten from the godzilla of a child, but both adults in the room held back their instinctual impulses to observe the outcome. The kitten didn't resist a single bit and instead limply succumbed to the abuse while hung upside down by it's tail in the hands of this little monster of a child. It was settled. She was the cat for our household. Mother cat cuddled her rescued kitten, the monster was reprimanded, a deal was made, and I left knowing I had gotten the pick of the litter. Even the owner admitted she was most smitten with the very kitten I'd had my eyes on during the intercourse of the viewing. Now I only needed to wait an extra week for the rest of the weaning to take it's course and my man could pick up the surprise.

I was all atwitter for the entire week of waiting and could barely keep my joy a secret from the children. I dreamt of the kitten every night and could barely keep the smile off my face. I secretly went to our friends pet shop, bought the supplies, and hid them. We arranged the date to pick up the kitten but Mr. Monkey seemed shocked when I refused to let him carry the kitten in his jacket for the trip home. Not only did I think neither he nor the kitten would survive the ordeal, but I'd gone and bought a carrier just for the purpose. We do not have a car, but we have a bike cart; one that he couldn't reason into dragging behind him all the way to work and back when we could meet him at the farm after work. It just so happens that the day we'd arranged to pick her up was the coldest, wettest, and windiest day we'd seen in the Netherlands all fall. To convince the little monkey's the trip was worth it I told them we were going somewhere where a surprise was waiting for them. They'd falsely assumed we were headed towards a theme park or indoor playground and at the sight of a farm at the end of our long and cold journey they were in no mood to be excited. Our little adventure only charmed the Squirrel Monkey and she joined me in entering the farmhouse where a few remaining kittens lay in a box awaiting their new owners. My precious dream of a kitten hopped into my arms and purred and my little daughter jumped up and down in excitement upon realization of a dream come true. We tucked her away into the carrier and returned the long cold journey home. I have to admit I was a little unsure that the long and cold trip was worth it after such an anticlimactic end, but once we were home and the man and his children were acquainting themselves with the newest addition to our family with smiles and giggles all doubts were forgotten.

Welcome home, Antje!

Six weeks old

The Long and Silent Battle

2007-11-15T17:08:00.000+01:00

Continued . . .

The war began when he blurted I win every argument we ever have. The object was no longer about a cat, it was the fact that he could pinpoint one of my major human flaws. He was right. I do normally win every battle there is to fight in our relationship, but for the most part he can manipulate me into thinking his way is just another avenue to get my way. I set out to prove to him that I would not fight with him, because I really didn't want to be proven once again to get my way. Did I want a cat? Yes, but I did not want a cat at the expense of our relationship. I'd much rather have a happy husband than a cuddly cat. Did I secretly hope he'd love me enough to go out and steal my little kitty back from the afore mentioned undeserving household he originally came from or find another little kitten? Yes, but I also knew there were other issues to be dealt with first.

As it turned out, he had begun a cold the night he stepped through the door, saw the kitten, and sneezed. So it was still unclear as to the status of his allergies. I did some research and found out you can drastically reduce the symptoms by cleaning daily and using special HEPA filters via vacuum or air purifiers. We did not have anything HEPA but I looked into them (along with the prices of return tickets to the states, the cost of shots, food, litter, and passport). I also began the routine of daily cleaning according the standards it would take to keep the allergens down to minimum. All this I did in silence. Though I have to admit I hoped he'd notice the cleaning. He did and when he asked I mentioned the fact that I'd looked up how to keep allergens to a min. He said nothing more. At some point I became ill and, satisfied that I could keep to the rigorous cleaning schedule and that he was no longer interested in my attempts, I stopped. Why clean so hard when you don't actually have the allergens to deal with in the first place?

The kids were set on a kitten though and brought up the topic repeatedly. They also were rebuked by their father and soon they held their heads as low as mine, but I would often hear them mumbling amongst themselves solemnly, "we can't get a cat because daddy is allergic." I refused to encourage them and started bracing myself, like them, never to have a cat. Okay, so I wasn't completely silent about the issue. At one time I do remember mentioning something along the lines of "I will never have a cat, at least not until you die or I'm stuck in a nursing home." But surely he understood that as an irrational outburst during an overdue heated conversation about this silent issue, right?

I refused to blame him for our lonely circumstance. He had not shown signs of allergy to cats after he'd been taking the allergy shots for a while, but you never know if the trick worked until you've tested it after having not had the shots for a while. He also had experienced the same wild and obnoxious trailer park cats and certainly that memory still weighed heavily on the side against getting a cat. He was also reasonable to consider the cost of a cat and the difficulties it could bring in finding a place to live once we get back into the states. Though ,after talking with a friend back in the states who has two cats of her own, I had my friend have her husband send my husband an email detailing their easy experiences with finding an apartment. Surely it was just happenstance that we broached this topic and upon hearing my yearning desires nothing could keep her from forcing her husband to write this letter . . .

Maintain my silence I did. I kept quiet until I was quite certain the time of kittens was long gone and even if he did want to surprise us he would never be able to find a kitten until next summer. All hope was lost and I began my silent mourning. It was painful to know I would never have a kitten, but I would not let him know. I would only let my tears fall silently down my cheeks in hopes that he would~~n't~~ see. He did and mentioned that he'd even considered getting us our own kitty, but that I didn't seem to be able to keep the house clean. Maybe a normal wife would have gotten on her knees, begged, and promised to keep the house clean if only she could get a precious little kitty. Instead I took quite an offense at this and seeing as the time of kittens had already passed I opened the floodgates and began the argument anew.

"I will not barter to get a kitten. I will not promise to keep the house spotless in return for payment of a kitten. And why keep the house spotless when the house is barren of kitten presence anyway?"

Famous last words . . .

A Cat For a Day

2007-11-14T17:06:00.000+01:00

As you know, I had been dealing with emotional up's and down's as the honeymoon phase with the beautiful Netherlands wears off. There have been instances in my life when I experienced mood swings or bouts of insecurity, but I never felt the need for anything extra to help me cope. No, I will never be dependant on anything else to make me happy because I am a happy person and will fight my way through any circumstance life my throw at me, although I would consider a natural element proven to calm the distressed soul and smooth the moods: a cat. I'd grown up with cats and loved them until we'd lived in a trailer park overrun with senior citizens and their armies of unkept cats. The experience left me disgusted at the thought of ever owning a cat but, as fate would have it, something recently happened which made me reconsider the possibility.

Vacation was over, the man was back in work, the kids were back in school, and I was settling back into my routine days. We were preparing for bed and, as I am always the first one done with the evening hygiene routines (my man can take longer than a teenage girl in the bathroom) I lingered next to the bedroom window for some brief reflections while looking out into the dark backyards before tucking under the covers. While I was observing the quiet neighborhood I heard the tiny cry of a kitten and I thought to myself that one of the neighbors must have gotten a new kitten while we were away. I waited to hear the response of the happy owners back door opening to let the little thing in but it never came. The kitten continued to cry and I couldn't shake the feeling that the cry was coming from our own backyard. So strongly did this haunting me that I snuck downstairs, peeked my head out the door and gave a quiet "here kitty, kitty, kitty" call. After no response I shook my head and returned to warm the covers, but was awoken early the next morning with the same small cry. I do not pull myself out from under those warm covers easily, but for this little cry I did. Again I peeked out the window and saw nothing.

The morning progressed as normal. My man ate and ran out the backdoor to hop on his bike for a long ride to work. My children ate and I rushed them out the door to get into their classes on time. I returned and loaded my littlest onto the bike and off we went to stock up on the daily groceries. Upon return I again heard that small cry. I was sure it was only wishful thinking that the kitten was in my own yard and continued to unload the groceries, again waiting to hear the kittens owners respond with the opening of a backdoor. There was no response and I couldn't ignore the cry any longer. I started digging through the jungle of a backyard garden that we have and grew increasingly certain that the kitten was indeed somewhere in my very own yard. The bushes were thick and I had a hard time digging through them, but deep in the center of the thickest growth was a beautiful and terrified kitten. Once the way was opened for him he bolted into our home via the open backdoor.

This kitten received all the sympathy any abandoned kitten could have wished for. He got pampered and loved and fed and naturally made himself at home. He was a smart cat and responded to "nee" (no) and loved to snuggle. I knew I couldn't get too attached because we might find his owner, but he really was a great cat. We got our neighbors involved in the search for his owners and at the sight of him even they wanted to keep him. The kids knocked on doors to no avail. The kitten would stay with us until we were sure it's owners wanted him back. Or until the master of the house returned from work . . .

He has many allergies, one of them being cats. When he had his allergies tested the cat allergy did not show up as one of his most severe, but he got shots for the allergy along with the rest just so he could enter a friends house who owned cats without going into fits of sneezing. He's been off the shot treatments since we moved to the Netherlands and we have not had a chance to see if they've stuck, but we've always resigned ourselves to the fact that we'll be a household which will never have a cat. This was again confirmed when he walked through the door, witnessed a kitten in our house, sneezed, and tossed it out the door into the rain. I had promised my neighbor that I would be a proper caregiver of the cat, more specifically, I would not put the kitten out into the predicted evening rain. I begged my man not to leave the kitten out in the cold rain and he proceeded to accuse me of always getting my way in any argument, which immediately turned a little cat spat into a full blown argument.

While were were bickering about anything within the range of "will we ever be able to have a cat" to "why can't we pull the poor kitten out of the rain" my neighbor heard the pitiful cries of the rain-soaked kitten and took him in herself. They debated themselves whether or not to could keep the perfectly cute little kitten until a call was made to their own man of the house who knew of a neighbor who recently had a litter of kittens. She took the drenched kitten to this house where a man opened the door, unfeelingly admitted to be the owner of said cat and took him back. She reported to me later that she felt bad giving the poor kitten back to such a house which didn't even seem concerned at the loss of him.

To be continued . . .

Blogging Backwards

2007-11-01T17:04:00.000+01:00

This is one of those entries which has been written and rewritten several times over. How do you begin to write about normal life again after all those exciting entries of a glorious European vacation? Not that our normal life is anything close to boring, as you know it never is, but there are still those remaining feelings of let-down. I wish I could say it was just that. Let me be frank at this point and say that in each and every blog I've written to capture our "normality" has began with humor and smiles and ended in oozing with words from the pits of despair. No matter how hard I try or how smiley I am in the first paragraphs it always comes back to the same ol' depressing lines at which point I follow a wandering trail of rants until I can no longer listen to my pitiful cries and I walk away from the computer to finish another day. This time I am trying a new approach; I'll work backwards. Let's see if it works shall we?

We passed the day which marked our one year anniversary of our move to the Netherlands without mention or celebration. It slipped by in a frenzy of days which were jumbled together and unworthy of a backwards glance. It was just over a year ago that I found myself frustrated with the family, friends, and even strangers who would look at me with pity etched on their faces upon the announcement that I'd be taking my young girls and following my husband along his career path into a foreign country. The remark was almost verbatim from one person to the next: "And how are you with that?" I was irritated and angered at the thought that they should consider me some little wife who takes no part in the household decisions. We discussed our options together and made the decision together. Yes, I was the one who took the opposing position of the argument for months or weeks, I cannot remember which, but I was convinced of reason by the end and welcomed the inevitable adventure with open arms, just as I had our last assignment in life. (History Note: After graduating from undergrad with Cum Laud with a double major in Physics and Physics Engineering my husband was offered a very prestigious and high-paying position at the local Hewlett Packard and I was more than happy to settle down in a house with a back yard and a few kids right where we were; he was not. The position offered him little enthusiasm and he claimed he'd either be bored out of his mind in 5 years or have been laid off only to have to find some position who knows where, so I followed his dream of becoming a neuroscientist under the premise that it was only four more years of school and he'd have his dream job. Not long after arriving at said school person after person laughed in our face when we mentioned the nice round number of four years; the program may have said four, but nobody actually made it out that early and "haven't you ever heard of post-docs before?" He graduated with his doctorate after six years in the program and we're off to finish the first of his 2-3 post-doc positions, the first of which we decided to do in the Netherlands, and I'm still dreaming of the house with a backyard, a minivan, a cat and a dog; the kids have passed from dream to reality and wait with me in the cue.)

So, how am I with that? If I've never confessed to having a tendency of naivety before this, I will here and now. What I should have taken as a warning from those friends, family, and strangers I took as fuel for burning tenacity. Unfortunately, that fuel has run out and I find myself sitting in a foreign country with no self-esteem and even less will power. Those friends and family seem like a mirage I don't even have the courage to look back over my shoulder at, but I've no lack of strangers and they're of a finer breed than what you can get in the states. These strangers come from a culture which doesn't know the meaning of "zip your lips". I was once confident in myself and sure of my steps, I knew how I wanted to parent and if I didn't I had the resources to find the answers. I also knew what I wanted to do in my life and how I wanted to get there. Suddenly I don't know any of that any more. A strangers slightest reprimand or disapproving look sends me shaking back into the dark and deep cavern I peaked out of. How did I transform into an unstable freak from the confident young woman I once was? I wish it could be summed up in one little paragraph, but try as I might the experiences and feelings which got me here cannot be contained in such a defined and simple space. If you read through these blogs over the last year you may find some of the veins that this corrupted blood has traveled, but likelier than not you'll just see the smiling mask we so like to hold up for the common passerby to see. I wrote a blog somewhat along these same heart-felt lines not too long ago and, other than the few brief comments, I got an email from one friend back in the states. This should encourage me but rather I only remember her advice that I should take some time for myself (us mothers know how easy that is) and instead of writing my heart into a blog maybe I should "just keep these things more private" and start writing in a journal. How come that last part bothers me so much? This is all I can say, I did not began this blog just so passersby could return a smile towards my mask. If you come here looking for the life of an expat you'll not be tricked into the assumption that all is rosy; you're going to get the truth here and if that means you'll bump into the few rocks we've hit, so be it.

I am now over the illusion that I can achieve the status of perfect parent, perfect spouse, perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect neighbor, perfect friend, perfect anything. Did it take screwing up? Nope, it took realizing there are forces out there even I cannot compete with. I came here under the assumption I could catch whatever the adventure could throw at me, but here I stand with a couple black eyes and a shattered soul. As bad and lonely and depressing as that sounds, it is not, for I know my eyes will not be sealed shut forever and I will glue that soul back together with the darkened cracks to show what I have learned and to remind myself that I can pull myself together again and get through the few rough spots one can encounter in life. Even the ones I've thrown myself headlong into with full knowledge of what I could be getting myself into, because it is not the unexpected mishaps which bother me the most. It is the situations I expected to encounter and fully expected to conquer. I expected to walk away from this with a life defining moment or two, I just didn't fully grasp what it would take to get those results. Here I sit in the midst of that moment, the confidence is gone, only blind faith keeps me getting out of bed in the mornings and some clearer definition is awaiting me at some point down the path of my future. I hope it does not take too long as I've began to realize I cannot keep myself stable in the shadow of this valley. My children will attest to that and my husband will confirm with a rolling of the eyes and any number of peculiar antics to recall, but out of it that blind faith will lead me and I'll probably tell the next young couple I meet, just as any veteran mother might tell an expecting girl that the pain of labor is worth it, that the experience of moving overseas is an experience one should never omit in a life. Though, if you'd ask me at this very moment I'd have a list of reasons to stay home. Wanna hear 'em? I'd list them, but like me you'd probably shrug your shoulders, say something like "'tis to be expected", and board the plane anyway. Much like labor, you never can know until you've lived through it yourself. I could relate the transitional periods, the moments when you want to drop your bag of groceries, grab your kids and run the the 5 kilometers to the next flight home without stopping, the time you'll give up on ever speaking the language and swear you'll never utter another word of it your entire life, the time you delude yourself that the friends you've made have each become your enemies over night because one of them has turned a shoulder away for a moments breath away from your pain, or the time you yell at your children for stupid childish antics only because of your own frustration at life and then yell at yourself in the mirror for stooping so low below your own firmly set moral standards. I could list the bureaucratic loop-holes and the daily irritations which steal time and sanity from your deluded sense of order, but they'll remain unexplainable to maintain my current state of remaining sanity. Besides, you'd only laugh at me and tell me it's just all part of the game anyway. Some will even recall their own expat experiences in an attempt to relate or bring me a sense of cheer and prove to me that you can live through it and exit the other side with enough sanity left to remain seen as a normal human being, but like the woman in the midst of her labor I can only see two things: the pain of my current circumstances and the desired end to it all. These pains a friend could not comfort as not even my husbands valiant efforts have succeeded, it is a battle within the walls of my own limitations which only I can end. It takes a great amount of effort and strength to pull ones self out of their own weakness, but I think I've got hold of the rim. Just don't let one of the strangers or, worse yet, a friend come and give me a kick because the slightest insult could send me spiraling again. How degrading this has been. I admit not all expats could be in for the same experience as this may have just been the time in life for my own reclamation, and no better of a time could it have picked.

There are those days when I peek over the rim and see the sunshine and blooming paths of my future jungle and it gives me hope through those days when even trying to reach the rim seems impossible. Fortunately, I have many more days with views of bright paths and even the warmth of rays which reach my cheeks and it is those moments which I will focus on from here. If I slip into another reverie of despair just know that it is all part of the process and something which needs to be looked into to ensure I am not stepping into a false reality. So, onward ho! We will march across those rosy fields and seed some sunshine from where once it shone, because it has warmed the paths of this family on many more than one occasion since our return.

Here's to turning head and gazing in the direction of the son instead.

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Day Thirteen & Fourteen: Our Journey Ends

2007-10-09T17:00:00.000+02:00

Mission:

"Home, James!"

We left with hand-written directions to the Heidelberg military PX where we would stock up on some missed and needed American goods. Grandma is a military mom who could grant us entrance and buy us food. We were more than willing to go along in the game and finding the PX was just that, a game. The directions were clear, but like so many other adventures in our Tour Bus, the way was all an illusion. First we found the base where they helped us turn around and head towards the PX which was several blocks away. Once we found this PX they made us get out of the van, took each of our passports, and searched the van as we stood in a line along the wall. I was impressed at how thorough they were and thankful at the same time. I felt a bit of pride as I watched our countrymen at work.

As soon as we pulled into the PX it was like stepping over heavens threshold. I had to restrain myself from kneeling and kissing the paved "American" parking lot. A car lot sold the latest American cars, even a couple used ones. Fast food was congregated in one corner of the mini-America, dry cleaners and shoe store on the other. There was a bookstore which was tempting to rummage through, but we chose the store next to it as it was the largest and we assumed we'd find our foods there. It was like stepping into a Wal-Mart back in the states. It amazed me to see people pulling American dollars out of their wallets to pay for things. You've no idea how long it's been since I've held a twenty dollar bill in my hand. I actually felt the urge to grab one out of their hand and give it a good rub. We loaded up on all sorts of amazing things we'd forgotten about or never knew about and went in search of the food items.

Fearless Leader had surveyed the layout of the place and determined there was no food to be had behind this military fence so we'd have to search for the other location, but while we were here Taco Bell was calling our names . . . quite loudly. You never know how good Taco Bell really is until you've missed it. We waited in that line and ordered twice the amount of food we'd be able to eat and savored every little bite we got. The left overs joined us for the rest of the ride home and even if we never got to eat them we'd at least live off of the lovely aroma they'd fill the van with.

Upon finding the other PX location half way around Heidelberg, we parked outside the gates as we'd not signed ourselves in properly at the last stop. Only Army mom and pop could enter the gates and gather the goods. I made a quick list of the items we'd been missing most and those things which were heavy or impossible to ship from the states and sat in the van disappointed that I wouldn't be able to wander the aisles myself and live the experience of an American supermarket again, but when they returned with overflowing grocery carts I couldn't help but be pleased with the experience as it ended. By the time we'd found a spot for every packed paper bag (you can tell you're hopeless when just the sight of a paper bag makes you leap for joy) the van was filled to every last crook and cranny it could yield and we cruised on down the road.

We almost missed our dinner due to some communication errors. You see, some of us still had some sight-seeing in mind, while others only had road on the brain. We did eat and we ate at a city known for its beautiful cathedral, Koln, Germany. The city is lovely. I can tell you this because we had to drive down practically every one of it's main streets and across each of its bridges to find a spot to eat next to the cathedral towers. By the time we did the sun was setting on them, but the atmosphere made up for the lack of sun. A group of street musicians stopped in front of our sidewalk table to play us a few tunes while we ate our South American meal. I cannot say it was even South American, but it was supposed to have been inspired from somewhere on that continent. It was tasty, nonetheless. Even though we only got to see the towers from a distance, the experience was still one to remember and closed our tour of Europe properly.

The road led us home and we pulled into our familiar street sometime after midnight. The children were laid asleep into their own beds for the first time in two weeks and I wondered if their dreams would be sweeter. We adults unpacked the van as speedily as we could and clambered into our own beds to prepare for the day of departure.

Day Fourteen was just that; a day of departure. It was a haze of packing and running from room to room preparing for the inevitable goodbyes. Even as we all piled back into the Tour Bus without ceremony for the last time there was a buzz of emotion which clouded what was really being felt. The van was parked, the lines were wound, the bags were checked, and the plane beckoned it's last few passengers. As they pushed their way through security the grandchildren waved goodbye with tears and Screech Monkey called after them by name accompanied with loud cries of abandonment and the pain of loss. I had not seen this emotion in her ever before and I felt sorry that she could not experience the parting of ways with her grandparents more frequently. Eventually we turned our backs and parted our separate ways with a let down so severe it seemed as if we'd been dropped into a dream . . . or could it have been out of a dream?

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Day Twelve: Heidelberg, Germany

2007-10-02T16:58:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Tour the old walled city, even if the shops are closed on a Sunday
Find the path up to the castle on the hill
Make our way across the famous old bridge
Once across find one of the paths leading to the road with a view, Philosopher's Way
This is the night I've been waiting for. I will walk with my husband in the castle gardens at night and enjoy a touch of romance.

Somehow we were now in the stride of vacationing life and got out of the hotel in the morning and began walking the streets before most of the other tourists arrived. It was a Sunday and the shops were all closed except for a few that opened later to cater towards the tourists. The cathedral in the center of town was also closed, but you could hear the pipe organ playing from blocks around it's center. Like every other city street we've walked during this trip there was enough to distract us, making each block take a half hour to walk. A small fruit stand on the side of the road, a view of the mountains through a side street lined with multi-colored three story brick buildings, each bedecked with verandas or windows dangling with colorful vines and flowers.

Over time we found ourselves at the base of the castle. A long and steep cobblestone road led up to the gates and from there we wound our way through the various stages of walls and barricades. The castle never saw a single victory and with each capture the new inhabitants rebuilt or added on so the walls and ways were as confusing as numerous. But the view from the hill was lovely. The town consisted of orange roofs and river running along its side. The historical arched bridge crossed the river to where a hill covered in various fields overlooked the town. I knew this would be our next adventure, but for now we enjoyed the castle and its gardens.

High above the city the gardens terraced themselves along the hill behind the castle. Artists came to entertain the tourists with their enchanting music here and many people either stood along the wall to stare out at the view, lazed on the green grass, or walked the enchanted lanes. We chose the later. I drew my daughter into my own fantasies, encouraging her to imagine the time when princes and princesses walked the gardens alone. Together we walked and everyone else vanished. The only sound was our own footfall and the splashing of water from the fountain in the middle of the pool at the end of our shady lane. Where another lane merged a prince bumped into us unannounced and asked to join us in our midday walk. Shyly she took his offered arm and he escorted us to the pool. He left us there to dream away our fantasies while looking into the waters and mingling with the modern crowds. The spell was broken, but I trust it was a time and place that will forever remain in her dreams.

We found what remained of the rooms of the castle, even what was hidden below: a huge beer barrel. Huge just does not describe it's size. There were stairs to get to the platform on the top of it. It was here we tasted our first ice wine. A bottle cost 50 euros, so we took the tasting first. It was the most glorious wine! I would easily be able to live off of the wine itself, but would likely have to sell my children and spouse to afford it (a thought which sometimes passes my mind). Our parents left with a bottle and upon remembering how hard my father looked for a bottle of this when we were last in Germany we picked them up a bottle as well. My mouth waters at the thought of this delicacy.

By now our tummies were rumbling and we took it upon ourselves to find the coziest place (for some reason "cozy" just doesn't describe the atmosphere as well as the Dutch word "gezellig"). Fearless Leader had spotted a pub with character along the main road in the old city earlier that morning so we headed towards it. Sure enough, the inside was full of charm and it only got better as you walked further into its various chambers. Before long we found ourselves on the back patio which was covered to form an extra room minus a wall or two. Subtle trickling sounds from the fountains set the mood and we relaxed for a delicious linner. The food was great and the beer was better.

We left the pub wishing we could have lingered a little longer, but our tummies could hold no more. It was tempting to make up an excuse to come back later. Instead we turned towards the river and crossed the arched bridge. She was beautifully made and as we found out later, she also used to be completely covered. Amazing it must have been.

Somewhere on the other side of the bridge was a path which supposedly met up with the Philosophers Way, a walking road which gave a phenomenal view of the city. We spotted the narrow entrance into what appeared to be an alleyway lined with tall brick walls covered in green moss and overhanging ivy. It was like a maze without the extra corridors and I soon found myself racing up the path behind my daughter who insisted the others were chasing us and we needed to get away from them as fast as possible. With each turn we were sure to lose them. Who's fantasy were we living now? We ran all the way until we reached a terrace with a view and I forced her to stop for a breather. I've never been a runner (for long, at least) and the steep uphill run was getting the better of my sea-level lungs. The others caught up to us and I realized there was an issue I had not witnessed first hand in my escape. The men were now carrying the double stroller and its charges up the hill as there were too many steps to get it up and at odd intervals. They'd already dismissed turning back as they had no way of letting the two escapees know of a change of plans, so on we went up the hill. Up and up it went with tiny switchbacks and narrow turns. The men had sweat drenching their shirts and all of us were puffing, but the view from The Way was worth it all (or so they claimed). There were many views along the path down and at each we took a few moments to take in the beauty of them. The sun was now beginning to set and gave a spectacular glow to the city.

It was arranged somewhere along the way down that we would get our date night tonight. There was a pool at the hotel which had to be used at least once during our stay and the grandparents thought it an appropriate diversion for our crew of kids. Isn't it funny that if you get a hotel with a pool you never have time to use it, but feel guilty if you don't? I wonder if it is more stress to get a hotel with a pool and constantly worry about how to fit in enough time to use it, or if you should just get a hotel without a pool and take in the sights instead. I suppose the moment you did that you'd find yourself with a huge chunk of time on your hands and nowhere to spend it.

We rushed out of the hotel and into our freedom. The city was not as active as it had been when we entered it on Saturday night, but we were not out for the night life. We were out just to be . . . free. We walked the streets at our own pace, stopped when we wanted to stop, peed when we had to pee, and laughed . . . a lot. We found a restaurant tucked into a candlelit square just off the main footpath. In the center of the garden square was a lit fountain and we seated ourselves at one of the tables placed around its rim. We were late enough that most of the other couples were slowly trickling out of the gates by the time our food hit the table. We didn't need much as we'd had our late dinner in the pub. In fact, we'd originally set out for ice cream, but who could refuse this scene. We ordered a pizza to share and chocolate desserts instead. It was wonderful to sit at a table and not have to talk over the numbing chatter of children or their constant interruptions. We could pick whatever topic we wanted without worry about little wondering ears, well maybe for the ears at the next table, but I think they were more interested in our English than the actual conversation. We sat by the fountain and laughed together until all the other tables had been cleared and ours was the only remaining candle lit. The air began to bring with it a slight chill and we took our cue to exit the garden gates and make the walk up the hillside to the castle gardens. The gardens and castle walls were lit and on every other bench sat lovers, some by candlelight with wine, others in a remote dark corner. What was this couple doing? Well, seeing that we'd forgotten the candles and the wine, had a bed waiting for us in an empty room back at the hotel, and had just had the best time talking since the ocean, we got out the camera and the tripod and set to work trying to capture some night shots of the castle. I suppose this may have been more for my own pleasure as my man would likely have chosen a dark corner if I'd really given him that option, but we were both happy with our chosen entertainment anyway. We captured angle after angle and soon the clock struck midnight and most all lights went out in the gardens. The security team made their rounds and we packed up the tripod and the camera for our journey back to the hotel.

The return journey was longer than I'd anticipated; it always takes at least twice as long to make as the original. My feet were killing me and I found walking along the cobblestones in my bare feet was preferable to the ache from my worn shoes. I refused to put them on even for our ritzy hotel and snuck across the marble floor as quiet as a mouse so as not to be detected without the proper attire. Once we made it back to the room I inspected the shoes and realized I'd worn a huge crack across the middle of the sole like a hungry mouth munching on the bottom of my foot with each step. Gladly, I threw them in the trash. Now I was stuck with my smelly Keens. I bought the Keens when they first arrived on the market and they have been great shoes with the common drawback that most sandals come with: odor. Although, these came with a special sole that if you placed them in the sun they'd descent themselves. Unfortunately, the weather this summer has not been sunny and I cannot say if their magic has worn off or if I have not been able to be as diligent as previous summers to keep them from getting a scent, but they've stunk out a number of victims this summer. Sorry to all of you had to come across their path. Dare I throw those handy, expensive, yet smelly things away? I haven't yet. Smelly though they may be I cannot bare to part with them, even if I cannot bare to wear them.

W.C. Report:

What is it with the places in Europe and toilet paper? Even in that classy pub we ate at they were all out of toilet paper. When I entered the ladies room I spotted a group of women dividing the last of their kleenex to share and took it upon myself to do something about it. I went to the bar and informed them there were several ladies in the WC without toilet paper and I was concerned for them. At least they got right on the issue and ran with a stack towards the room. Knowing the disaster which awaited in that room I took my chances with the toilet in the front room. Know what? No toilet paper. But I was getting used to the routine and checked before I even thought of establishing my position upon the thrown.

Tragedy Report:

We did not leave the town with souvenirs, we did not get ourselves a bottle of ice wine, and we did not get a coo-coo clock. And I left with worry over whether or not I stored or gave away the candle nativity carousel that our German-Dutch friends gave to us when they moved, as the same ones being sold here were several hundred of euros each. I loved it then, but did I find it worth the space it would take up in my in-laws basement at the time? I fear I may have let it go as my friends did, but like so many of my belongings left behind in the states, I cannot remember where it may have ended up. I hope it found a better home than Goodwill if it is not waiting for us in the basement.

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Day Eleven: Welcome to Reims . . . France!

2007-10-01T16:55:00.000+02:00

Welcome to Reims

We awoke and packed hurriedly to get out of the hotel and find ourselves a nice little French cafe where we knew a tasty French breakfast awaited us. Fearless Leader had taken the chance to jog around the city before any of us awoke, found the cathedral, and spotted those few little places were we might find parking and place to eat. We picked the cafe with display windows in the front and a long stretch of tables spilling out over the cobblestone square and settled in for our first and last French breakfast. Most of our company ordered the usual croissants, bread, and coffee, but I took the chance to bring my daughters up the display window and let them pick out one item of choice. I, naturally, picked out one of the largest and most delicious looking things to share with everyone. When my mother-in-law went to pick it up at the window they asked if we would like it boxed to eat it as dessert that evening. Ha! By evening we'd be in Germany and the air or atmosphere across the border would not do a French pastry the justice it deserved. We'd live lavishly this morning and eat according to our hearts content. The meal was the best I've ever had and I will not forget it in this lifetime. I imagined myself sitting in under the umbrella in the middle of the square all day long eating one after another of the various pastries at the slightest rumble of my tummy. But the tour must move on and we walked the streets towards Reims Notre Dame.

At this Notre Dame the kings of France celebrated their coronation ceremonies and lining the walls were the various kings which had entered commonly royal and left with a crown upon their head. This cathedral has witnessed many a great day. The building which stands today was built in the late 13th century to replace a destroyed basilica which had been the baptismal place of Clovis, who was the first to start the tradition. It was full of stained glass windows and statues and pews and the like and I could have found myself bored with yet another cathedral if it weren't for the history which its walls had witnessed. I never liked history in school, but now that I get a chance to live it I am fascinated to the point of loosing myself to wander with the halls with ghosts of the past. I envisioned Joan of Arc escorting her king, Charles VII, through the doors and into victory by means of a coronation in the only church able to perform such an honorary feat. I had to force myself to rightly envision her at a young seventeen? She died burned at the stake only two years later. This church also saw the coronation of the youngest king, Louis XIV, at the age of 4. What would possess a nation to crown a four-year-old king? I can only imagine the uncertainty and forced national pride that filled the aisles on that day. Leave my daydreams I must, for there was a date we could not miss a second time.

Reims is known in the champagne region for the chalk pits which house the champagne as it ages. As a result we were given the choice of a variety of different wineries to choose from all in the same vicinity. I took it upon myself to make reservations with the one house which was recommended above all others and one of the only which required a reservation. I figured if we had time for any of the others we could travel to them as well, but by this time in our trip we began to grasp what goals were within realities grasp. One tour would be enough for the day before we'd be back on the road heading towards the German border. I also choose the Pommery estate because it was established by a woman, Madame Pommery, after her husband died leaving her the beginnings of a winery. She turned it into her own taste and design and found her own abandoned Roman chalk pit which she turned into underground tunnels to house her champagne. I felt it might do my family of girls some good to see all that a single woman could accomplish. She was a lover of art so, to this day, the tunnels are filled with various forms of art. Originally she had hired a sculptor which she sent into the caves to carve elaborate masterpieces along the walls. He worked non-stop for five years in the tunnels, carving by candle light, until he went blind. We've been having issues with our new reader lately; she can't seem to put books down even to sleep now and we often find her reading well into the dark night. I've told her we love her to read and she can read before she falls asleep, but she must only read a short while before it gets dark otherwise her eyes will suffer. Thankfully the fateful tale of the artist supported my argument and she has stopped reading into the darkness since.

Though the tunnels are not as full as they once were there were still several alleys which were piled rack upon rack as far as the flash could penetrate and further. Bottles of reserve lay collecting dust from each year behind bars. The previous means of transporting bottles by an overhead pulley system still wound its way through and around walls. It was amazing to tour the caves, but the girls were chilly and frightened in the low-lit passages. We were glad to get back above ground and to our wine-tasting, which warmed us up enough to move on to the next country.

Once we crossed the border we stopped in a little German town and found the local pub. The locals all gave us a look as if we'd just beamed down from an alien ship, but let us pass after some minimum inspection. The food was wonderful, it was refreshing being back in a familiar atmosphere and language. The girls were anxious for schnitzel again and scarfed it down like it was going out of style. Likely, it was. We would only have a few days to enjoy Germany once again. After the girls were done eating I took it upon myself to escort them out the door once more as they had energy to burn and noise to make which did not go together comfortably with the older generation of Germans seated nearby. Once out the door I noticed a little back street which called to my inner sense of adventure. I knew the rest of the family would come looking after the bill was paid, but if they didn't find us waiting at the Tour Bus this little road would surely be the next best place to look, right? When we rounded the corner we bumped into the town playground which was full of play equipment the girls had never dreamed of before. This country must not worry about lawsuits as the toys were marvelously fun! My favorite was the tiered mountain of rocks and grass which you had to climb to reach the top of the slide. And a tunnel ran underneath just big enough for a small child to crouch through. The girls tried out each to burn off some of their pent up energy and we had blast. I made sure the ruckus was loud and the laughter plentiful so the rest of our party could find us. Eventually they did, but not after much worry and wonder, and when they did it was all fun and games started anew. Even the adults took the toys for a spin. Some of the locals joined us before long and it ended in exchanging directions towards Heidelberg. All we really wanted to know was if we could get back onto the interstate going the right direction from this little town or not, but he began a long and ominous report about how we'd be up for a long and difficult drive trying to find our way to the elusive Heidelberg, which he wasn't even sure he'd be able to find himself. Very reassuring. I wonder if he'd ever really left his village.

Heidelberg was easy to find. The hotel was not. We did arrive late, as he'd predicted, but once we got to the street the hotel was supposed to be on we drove circle after circle without ever passing it's number. And whoever said men don't ask directions? This time, instead of Burger King, it was Subway which saved the day. No, we wouldn't let her out of her seatbelt because we were sure the hotel was just around the corner, and once the local Burger King gave us the proper direction, it was. From this point on it is all a blur. Something about parking the bus and elevators and hallways leading to nowhere and cards which wouldn't work in the doors and a bed.

WC Report:

All is as normal as it ought to be. Either that or we are getting used to it ;)

Tragedy Report:

While touring the cathedral Squirrel Monkey chose a border rope to take a seat on. If I could have seen the thought pass in the space between her ears I may have had the available split second to prevent the accident, but my mind was not within those borders at the moment of her decision. The second her feet left the floor her butt slipped off, feet flew into air, and her head cracked itself not on the stone floor but upon the edge of one of the centuries worn stone steps to the altar. By the sound that it made I knew we were in for a howler and by the time I could get her up in my arms the screams were echoing off the walls and between the rafters of the ancient church. I knew her daddy could not miss the call where ever in the church he may be, but I sent my eldest off to guide him to the correct source of the reverberating din. You know you've been through this scenario one too many times when you can go through the list of tests, signs, and symptoms with the speed and accuracy of an emergency room nurse. She had an instant hematoma, but it was soft, which is actually a good sign. You'd think soft should be bad, right? I imagine my finger pressing into a hole in the skull, but in reality if there were a leakage from a break in the skull the hematoma would be firm and would steadily grow. She had a headache for the rest of the day, but it got better as the day went on and soon the only reminder of her fall was hidden under her hair and only mentioned when it was time to brush her hair or she received a bump in the wrong location. I do not need to tell you that she was not a happy camper for at least a couple hours regardless.

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Day Ten: Our Own "Terminal"

2007-09-27T16:53:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Catch the plane to Paris
Drive to Reims in time for our 3:30pm winery tour

The morning was spent packing what remained of our laundered and folded clothing and cleaning the apartment for inspection. Our bags must be packed and ready to be stacked into the taxis when they arrived which would closely correspond with the inspection. As it would happen both the taxi's and the inspector would arrive at the same time, early, just before we had every suitcase zipped and the counters wiped down. And just as we're about to walk out the door what would happen but one of us would not be able to find a passport. What is it with the passports wandering away without us on this vacation anyway? What could have been an easy and relaxing departure when true to tradition, the whole family running around like chickens with their heads cut off chasing after the children, the trail of run away belongings, and riffling through the recently packed bags.

Eventually we made it to the airport and this time, without the worry of parking spaces, we got to the checkout counter and terminal on time only to find out . . . the flight departure was delayed. Or was it delayed? How did we all misread the depart time on our schedule? We not only got their early, but now we found ourselves stuck in an airport for several hours and running late for our appointment in France. Hungry, we all found a cafe and seated ourselves in front of a tv showing cartoons. Once we'd eaten each set off in one direction or another to stretch their legs while a few took shifts with the children who were glued to the tube. We found the souvenir items we'd wanted to buy along the way, or actually we got the cheap, but pricey, airport items instead. I found a new pair of cloths for Screech Monkey as she had completely soiled what she was wearing already and was quite proud of myself for finding a dress for only 2 euros.

Upon discovering our fate at the airport we had to call ahead to the Pommery House to reschedule our tour. The only available opening left was for the next day at 2pm. This was about the time we'd wanted to get to Heidelberg, Germany, but we settled for the change in plans like we've done with all the past rearrangements. Now we were forced to do nothing but wait for a plane to escort us back to Paris where our Tour Bus waited for us at the end of the mile-long parking ramp. The flight was uneventful and once we got on the road out of Paris towards Reims everybody was feeling relaxed and settled in for a non-adventurous day.

There really is nothing to say for the day. I am not sure why I am even writing about this day except to say we made it to Reims where terrible service awaited us at the hotel. When I'd reserved two of their largest rooms, each with one cot for the girls, we were given keys to very small and dirty carpeted rooms with fold-up baby cribs in each. After arguing with the front desk for better accommodations and different room keys we determined for ourselves that they had actually set us up with the best they had to offer. The girls pretended to be baby's for the night and we were grateful they could still fit in the overlong European baby cribs. We were also thankful we could fit all three of the cribs side by side in the larger of the rooms with enough space for our bags and a couple places to step in between to reach the bed ourselves.

True to French courtesy, their service in the hotel restaurant was atrocious. We had to ask for plates for our bread, utensils to eat with, and it seemed the waitresses avoided our table at all costs and if they couldn't fake missing our waves would come to the table barely managing to mask their sneer. The food was great, but the service ruined the entire experience for me. As soon as the children were done I left with them like a nanny to tuck them in bed while the rest of the adults enjoyed the quiet room we left behind. I completely enjoyed those free moments alone with my children while they got ready for bed. We told stories and sang songs and I found myself drifting off to sleep on the bed while their own eyelids fluttered shut in the baby cribs in the corner. The rest of our party aroused me from my dreams to plan another night with wine and cheese and talk in the other hotel room, but I had to be the party-pooper and decline. I could tell it was a disappointment to the adults who had just had a good adult time together down in the emptying restaurant, but I just couldn't do it. Sleep was calling to me.

W.C. Report:

The bathroom in the hotel was so small you could barely sit on the toilet and close or open the door at the same time. At least there was a bathtub, but I dared not use it for the kids. I had heard that the French hotels are notoriously bad, but when I had reserved this one the English had said it was much better than others they had stayed in so I thought we'd find comfort and cleanliness at least. I will be better prepared the next time we hunt for a French hotel.

Tragedy Report:

We made sure we got all of the littlest members of our troop off the plane this time, so there is no tragedy to report today.

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Day Nine: The Final Full Day in Barcelona, Spain

2007-09-25T16:49:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Hit the Beach
Make it to Parc Guell
We have to see Sagrada Familia
Do we get a night out?

We had luck today; the God's decided they had given Barcelona its yearly allotment of rain and so we were allowed to venture onto the beach for a soak in it's lovely blue waters and warm sun. We were early enough to pick out a pretty spot and pull up a few chairs under one of the umbrellas (20 euros, so you'd better enjoy them). The beach was not a shallow and gradual beach like some, but a little steep with a drop-off just a few steps from the waters edge so keeping a close eye on the younger ones became even more vigilent. They had great fun in the sand and water though and kept themselves busy in the waves. Eventually we blew up the floats and pulled them away from the sand for a while. The older two could stay afloat in the salty water reasonably well and enjoyed "swimming" between mom and dad. Even mom and dad had an easy time staying afloat and after we swam far enough out not to be able to touch enjoyed a good half hour treading water without the kids. It was the first time we were awake enough and alone enough to actually catch up on each other during the trip. Oh, rubbish, the first time in months.

We overstayed our visit on the beach and left mid-afternoon with red marks across our bodies and an appetite. We were planning a visit to Parc Guell and Sagrada Familia and both of them being a distance from the city center we had to plan our route. The park has given its fair share of tourists a sporting chase so we double checked the bus numbers and street names. Lo and behold we hopped on the right bus, just heading the wrong direction. No biggy, we just got to see the other side of Barcelona before backtracking again. Once we had arrived at the park the sun was on it's last rays so we walked the winding paths and with a brisk step in order to see all that it had to offer. Dinner was on high demand and there were signs leading us to a restaurant, but following them as best we could, we never ran across a single one. Instead we enjoyed what we could of the unique Gaudi design, took lots of photos (including one which I had , and once the sun was down wandered down the long hill towards the nearest metro stop. We past so many shops with great looking gifts, but each one yelled at us that they were closing the minute we tried to step over the threshold. Okay, so we weren't meant to bring home souvenirs for anybody.

Still we were starving! We were at one of those awkward moments again when everybody wants to make a decision, but nobody actually wants to follow through. Ah, the joys of traveling in a foreign country on an empty stomach in a state of serious lack of sleep. We convinced ourselves to follow the metro line back down towards the center of town where there was an abundance of restaurants on La Rambla, skipping the famous Gaudi church. Sure, we'd end up eating at some touristy place most likely, but at least it wouldn't be a pizza shop. Fearless Leader led us over to what looked like at decent looking place serving a variety of tapas and sidewalk seating. After the trip through the steamy and hot metro tunnels we were ready for some fresh air. There was no seating left for 7 of us on the sidewalk, but when I looked up and saw a dreamy looking view from the second level Fearless Leader convinced them to let us up. It was a glorious restaurant with top notch service. The kids were doing well on very little food and actually let us eat our meal without too much interruption and the food was amazing. I don't care if they cater more towards the tourists, it was amazing. They served me a fish with it's head still on. Coming from a state that pulls a fish straight out of the river, puts it on the stick still wiggling, and cooks it over the fire for dinner, I wasn't too shocked, but the waiter politely cut the head off for me after he placed the plate in front of me. He really was the nicest guy. I don't know if all the tales he told were true, but he sure was fun to listen to nonetheless.

We eventually made it out the door and walked back to the stuffy metro line to catch our ride home. The girls were now exhausted and so were we. The late nights were finally catching up on us and everybody was talking of bed. Once into the apartment our first mission was to get the girls into their pj's and tucked under the sheets, which Grammy and Daddy seemed to have well under control. Pa slipped into their bedroom and I slipped back out the front door. I needed some alone time. Tensions tend to start running high during "vacations". I know they're meant to relax you, but there are moments when trying to fit that part of the equation in can create more nerve racking then you'd experience on a normal day. I wish I could say I'm the type of person who lets things roll away like water off a ducks back, but for some reason those genes evaded my pool. Instead I let the steam build up like a boulder atop a volcano and if I don't let that steam out when and where it's appropriate it tends to make a big fuss at just the wrong moments in ones life. So, to the beach I wandered in the late summer evening.

This part of town was quiet and the only cars on the road were lines of taxis or an occasional police car. The lights were still switching their signals, but there was rarely a car to respond. When I got to the beach it was cold and dark. There was a group of people using the patio tables and chairs of a closed snack bar, but their din was distant compared to the rhythmic sound of waves upon sand. I sat on the beach and watched the lights of boats out at sea blink and cross the horizon and demanded of myself some time to consider all those scrambling thoughts which bounced around my mind. The last year has been a whirlwind and the emotions and thoughts which were caught in it haven't seem to have settled back to their normal pace yet. There have been decisions I've made and actions I've taken which would have led to other outcomes if I'd made one small step in the other direction. I allowed myself to consider what life I would have been leading if I'd taken those missed steps and compared the two versions. It's easy to see the road not taken lined with roses and dappled with sunlight, but in the end you have to find those patches of sun and sweet fragrances along the path you're walking and realize the correct choice is to keep walking and plant the seeds or clear the weeds along the way. I laid on the sand and looked at the stars long enough to empty my mind of the most confusing thoughts to the point that I could actually take in my surroundings with a clarity I had not experienced for what seemed a decade. The majestic view of the heavens was expansive, the sound of the ocean surrounded my body and yet lay inches from my feet, and the coolness of the sand I lay in soaked into my senses which were no longer too crowded to acknowledge another intrusion of sense. When I'd spent enough time in the forgotten sense of peace and pressed past it's uncomfortableness long enough to enjoy it, I picked myself up, said farewell to the sea, and walked the deserted streets back to the apartment. My husband had known I was leaving and had spent some reflective moments himself out on the balcony; we must have both had the same amount of chaos to sift through as we each entered the apartment from opposite doors at the same time. Did I want to tell him about all the thoughts I had sorted through? No, I would sleep in peace tonight.

W.C. Report:

Don't they believe in toilet paper? It seems every toilet we found didn't have toilet paper and no way of even paying for a square or two. In the park the toilets were stalls built into the side of a cave. The toilets were backed up probably by the various items used in place of toilet paper and the trash bins in the stalls were overflowing with the same. We were thankful for the few kleenex tissues we had on us. If ever traveling in Spain be sure to bring a roll of toilet paper with you.

Tragedy Report:

While on the beach we were running between the towels and sun bathers over the sand and just as we got close to the water Squirrel Monkey yelled out in pain and grabbed her foot. I was tempted to believe it was probably nothing and gave her a little tug to encourage her to pull out of it and jump in the waves with me, but she refused to budge. Dreading the worst I dropped down beside her and lifted her foot for inspection. The poor child was bleeding from two gaping cuts on the sole of her foot and she was letting the whole stretch of beach know about it too. There was sand mixed with blood and I knew it would need to be cleaned before we would know the whole extent of injuries so I handed her off to dad and returned to the scene to inspect what could have caused the injury. It was a well worn path towards the water and nothing visibly poked it's sharp head out of the sand, so I began running my hand over her trail. Just below the surface of the sand was a small block of worn wood with two rusty nails pointed up towards whoever was unfortunate enough to step on their hidden points. I was thankful I went back and found them, but sad it had to be our child who had to suffer their surprise attack. She complained after a long days walk on the foot and by the time we laid them down for bed the soars were red and swollen. Fortunately we had a nurse along who carries a bag full of goodies just for these sort of occasions and her wounds were properly attended to along with the knowledge we keep our children's vaccinations up to date.

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Day Eight: Barcelona in a Day

2007-09-20T16:45:00.000+02:00

Our mission today was to visit all the amazing sights of Barcelona. Well, at least that was my plan. I am rather ambitious and sometimes I forget that I am traveling with small children and other people who actually want to eat during the day. The day began with rain again and we decided on traveling to the old city and visit the Aquarium, Museums, or Cathedrals instead of beach or pool lounging. Our apartment was not in the center of town, but in a newly developed area just to the north a few blocks off the northern beaches, so to get into the main tourism area we needed to catch the metro. We found the metro was under construction so caught a lengthy ride in a bus to the end of the metro line which would take us the rest of the way. This entire trip was a little over a half hour, or should have been if it hadn't involved getting our two-day metro tickets and pulling out the maps to figure out just where in Barcelona we had ended up. My internal ticker was counting each minute wasted and checking off one sight or another from the many exciting places I knew awaited us throughout the city which we would now not be able to visit. I am not so unrealistic as to think we actually would make it to each of the sights, but the process of moving them to the unattainable side of my list was a hard realization to tackle.

As it turned out, by the time we had made it into the city the rain had stopped and we decided to pass by the aquarium and head towards the irresistible avenue of La Rambla. Barcelona has the bad reputation of pick-pockets and no other area has more than La Rambla. And though it is mentioned in every forum that the street is just a tourist trap and you'd be better off taking to the back streets to explore the inner beauty of the city, its infamous reputation still attracted us. We warmed ourselves up to the city by tracing its boardwalk towards the statue of Christopher Columbus pointing out to sea. While on the boardwalk we were rewarded with the wide spectrum of Barcelona's people; from the lovers to the loners.

La Rambla was not what I would have considered a tourist trap, though it did seem to be conveniently a central hub for the tourists. Cafe tables and chairs spilled out onto the overgrown street and peddlers or artists mingled in between. There was room enough for people to walk by or to linger in crowds circling one performer or another. As we wove through the mass of loitering tourists we kept our hands over our belongings and clasped tight the smaller hands of our family. We reserved our dinner and show at the acclaimed Flamenco hall situated in the heart of La Rambla and moved on towards the market. People were passing by with a variety of halved fruits and a spoon to dig out the tasty middles. One lady had a fruit with a bright pink flesh and I was set on finding one in the market. If I am going to taste the culture I feel it is a responsibility to take it literally at points. Sure, they were selling peaches and nectarines which I am sure were quite tasty, but why come all this way to buy something you can just as easily pick up at any grocery store. Instead, I purchased the exotic for myself and any other family member who was daring enough to join me in the adventure. It proved tasty and I yearned to try the other exotic fruits. Eventually, I figured we'd get to them. We stopped at a little Chinese owned tapas cafe (mistakenly pronounced "topless" by certain members of the family for the remainder of our trip leading to many questionable looks) and had a snack to tide us over until we could experience our dinner later in the evening. We fell victim to the rose peddler who handed me a rose and how could I refuse? Three euros for a single rose which would not see a vase in time to keep it; I bought two for my princesses who carried them until they began to droop, whereupon they were strategically placed in the stroller for decoration. The rest of the street led us past caged turtles, birds, and gophers for sale. Many a child was leaving the area with a pet cage and baby turtles. Not our children. Now if there had been any hermit crabs I may have indulged, but there were only the same animals at each stand that we passed.

We wound our way off of the main thoroughfare and into the Gothic Quarter where our guidebooks told us many treasures were waiting to be found. Every guide I'd read said to wander the winding streets and just keep your eyes out for all the details; from Roman ruins to tiny corner cafe's. The entrance we chose was through the old Roman walled city gates and past the only remaining arch of what was once a long road lined with them. Inside we realized we were walking the wall of an ancient Cathedral and stepped into it's corridors to explore its wonders without the aid of a guidebook. Would you be surprised to know I was enchanted with it's many monkey gargoyles (more shown in the photo album)? Or the stones marking the dead at every step? There was one intricate thing to see with every turn of the head and we soon had spread out to see each that interested us most. We had to drag ourselves out of the cathedral to make it in time for our 7 o'clock dinner and show. As we wound our way through the streets it was hard not to stop and marvel at one thing or another, but we made it to the dinner without one moment wasted.

The buffet was a spread like you could not imagine. Every traditional Catalonian dish was on the table along with several other international cuisines, and by the international crowd seated around us it was not difficult to see their reasoning. Wine and sangria were served in abundance and with an array of desserts that left not one unsampled. The service treated us like royalty, as well they should have as it emptied us of our entire supply of cash to pay for the dinner and show. Was it worth it? Yes! They gave us the best seats in the house for the show: a balcony seat with a table large enough for our drinks and enough chairs for us and the kids. The view of the stage was better than what the front row would have gotten. People began filing in from the street (those who had purchased show-only tickets) and were seated in the rows of chairs set up in the cozy room. I would say they were able to squeeze in about 75 before they closed the doors and dimmed the lights. The dance was more like an opera telling the story of a mother and her two daughters and their lovers. Between the singing and courting dances, each man won the mothers approval by giving us an emotional and physically challenging show of dance. Sweat sprayed the crowd from their tips of their drenched hair and you could see the marks down their shirts as they stripped their jacket off and left the stage. It was a beautiful and emotionally moving performance, but I doubt our girls gathered any meaning of it. The drumming of the shoes on the wooden stage beat into their ears without relief and the flashed of brilliantly lit dresses overwhelmed their senses. Soon they where hiding their sleepy heads in our laps and covering their ears. The baby didn't know which lap to sit in and cried for one or another continually around our tight group.

It was a great show, but by the end we were all ready to get the kids back out into the night air and onto the active Rambla which was just warming up for its nightlife. It was tempting to pass it all by and get back onto the metro to find our way back to the beds, but the crowds and shows drew us into their circles. We passed another couple of Flamenco dancers dancing on the cobblestones to music coming from a boom box. The scene may have been convincing if we had not just had the experience of our lives with the real thing. A group of break dancers kept us in their circle of onlookers for an entire show and as they packed up we continued our journey towards the port. There, a whole other set of nightlife awaited us. We watched a cruise ship leave for its nightly trip through the Mediterranean and the locals feed a school of frenzied fish off the dock. The children were getting thirsty and hungry again so we stopped and got them a midnight Slushy and Belgian waffle at a Chinese street vendor. It helped get them from street to metro to bus to bed. The adults indulged on their nightly portions of wine, beer, cheese, and bread in the living room while recalling the days events before hitting the sack. Another day in Barcelona awaited us in the morning.

W.C. Report:

Would you call it sacrilege to change a babies poopy diaper on a ledge in the middle of a Catholic sanctuary? Even if their only toilet was one which had been used for centuries in a tiny basement hole in the center of the courtyard garden?

Tragedy Report:

Nothing got stolen so we counted ourselves blessed beyond measure.

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Day Seven: Onward Ho! Barcelona here we come.

2007-09-17T17:18:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Catch airplane to Barcelona
Will we get our promised date night tonight?
Beach or City?

We may have awoke in the Disney hotel, but our thoughts were straining from wandering into the visions of wonder we experienced as in our dreams the day before. We had other sights ahead of us; ones which the travel books could hardly prepare us for. It was hard to pull ourselves out of the Disney world, but on the road we must and our Fearless Leader and Mr. Navigator lead us as fast as the Tour Bus could take us to the airport where we'd get a quick ride on a nobler steed to the Catalonian city of Barcelona. If only we could just find our way there. We've gotten lost in Paris before and this time was no different. Though they pulled us out of it, we were still running later than we had hoped. I was regretting making that last stop in the gift shop of the hotel for a few final reminders of our Disney experience. In the end it all came down to mere minutes.

Fearless Leader dropped us and the luggage off at the front doors while he went to park the Tour Bus and we wandered through the terminal looking for our check-in desk. Our eyes not having adjusted to our new surroundings, we simply asked for help at the nearest desk and followed her instructions to an out-of-the-way counter with a line of shady looking individuals who kept trying to cut in front of us. Something didn't seem right, but in our desperation to board our flight we stuck it out only to find that the line we'd stood in was for people to purchase last minute flights. So we made a mad dash to the correct line just to stand for an eternal wait. Have you any idea what it's like trying to keep excited children in reachable distance while there are mountains of luggage and dozens of legs to crawl around? Patience was running a bit thin, but its amazing how patience can run on vapors when it has to. Fearless Leader caught up to us all out of breath and gave us a few moments of conversation. He explained that he could not find a parking spot for the Tour Bus so he parked it illegally and would have to go back and try a different approach after he'd checked the bags. He seemed to be our lucky charm and the line started to move miraculously. Once we were at the front we checked his bags separately and as fast as the woman could handle them and off he ran again promising to meet up with us at the gate. As we walked the maze of terminals I wished I'd picked a few moonstones to drop on the ground to help speed up his search for the gate. We found the right terminal and made our way through security without any issues but once we entered the terminal there was no direction to our plane. We stood in a group of dazed foreigners all looking around aimlessly and hoping one or another would take the lead and direct us to the gate. A few strayed from the group in opposite directions hoping to catch a hidden sign with no luck. Finally a man who saw us desperate looking women with children and took it upon himself to grab us by the arm towards what the whole group hoped would be our plane. I am still not sure if it was luck or if he really did have an idea of inspiration, whatever the case we found our gate just as they were lining up and boarding. It was not assigned seating so we had been planning on getting there early to get first dibs on seating together. Instead we sat down and waited for Fearless Leader . . . until we were the last ones in the terminal. Thinking of a plan we sent Mr. Navigator running back to the security check point to help our Fearless Leader find the correct gate while the women and children clambered aboard the last flight of the day to Barcelona.

I cannot say whose error it was, but they had no record of Screech Monkey and no ticket for her. She was a lap baby, but they still needed confirmation she would be on the plane. If anything I was grateful that it was buying our men a little time, but if they didn't let the baby on what good would it have been anyway? They started checking the rosters and found 4 Jackson's on it and, our Man being nowhere in sight, we were allowed to board under the assumption that the baby was the 4th out of our families 5. I worried if this would be a problem later, but figured things really couldn't get much worse, right? We found seats for all us girls in one section of seating and waited to see the men walk into the plane. We waited until the stewards began making the calls and preparing to shut the door and I boldly approached to tell them we still had two men out there. They checked their watches and said we still had 5 minutes before they were supposed to take off so they'd wait that long. The whole plane sat and waited what seemed forever and finally a bold little stewardess came over and asked us if our final destination was Barcelona. When we replied yes she giggled, glanced at the rest of the passengers and asked, "Well, wouldn't you prefer to leave the men behind then?" My reply was as honest as I could make it, "Sure, if you could leave the kids behind as well."

Finally Mr. Navigator came bursting through the hatch breathing heavy and began exaggerated conversation with the stewards at the front. When he came walking back to us he explained that he waited at security as long as he felt he could and had to come back to the plane to keep it from taking off with them. They told him they'd wait a minute or so more and to take a seat and not worry. Not worry? Our Fearless Leader was out there somewhere in that terminal or, worse yet, still trying to park the beast of a Tour Bus. We began discussing our options: get off and catch the flight tomorrow, catch a flight on another airline, fly to Barcelona with no way to contact our rented apartment or Fearless Leader and hope that we meet up again sometime on the streets of Barcelona over the next few days? We were just getting out of our seats to grab our things when one of the stewards came towards us and explained security had just called and they had found our missing man. Ahhh . . . we sat back in our seats and settled in for the flight. The passengers were sitting patiently waiting for the taxi to begin when in runs this wild haired man and his carry-on. He had run a mile from the end of the parking lot and through the terminals, why stop on the plane? He ran to the very back of the plane until he realized he must be at the end of his destination; he passed us right by with the look of his mission in his eyes. Once he reached the end of the aisle we called out to him and he turned around with realization dawning on his face, enough to find the only seat left for him on the plane. Did the whole plane began clapping for him or was this just my overactive imagination playing a trick on me?

We flew, we landed, we gathered our luggage, and we hopped on the only taxi out of the two in Barcelona willing to pile in seven people at once to our awaiting apartment without any further issues, Once we got into the apartment we just wanted to crash on the beds and let out a sigh of relief. We'd made it. Now what? Food. It was now after 3pm and the last thing we'd had was some of that buffet food at the Disneyland hotel before we left around 8 or 9. We had an apartment with a full kitchen, we need to use it, right? We'd been told there was a shopping area just a few block in "that" direction, so we just needed to get there, right? Well, first is was a wandering discussion over whether or not we should eat out or eat in which led to a wandering discussion that if we ate out should we go to where the action is about a half our down the metro tracks or stick around here and enjoy the pool or the beach which led to the discussion that we were discussing too much on an empty stomach and we should just decide if we should eat in or out which lead to . . . yes, the whole conversation all over again. I am sure you all know the symptoms. Finally, Grammy made up a shopping list for dinner and the next days and we figured we'd go try to find the shopping center and if we found a place to eat along the way we would stop. Mirages appeared on all corners, but it was siesta time and most of the places would not serve us, at least the places we had discussed long enough to agree on wouldn't. Finally we picked a place that served at a pace slower than even a siesta. I was getting a bit grumpy, no, I had been grumpy; my patience had run on vapors long enough and had nothing to refuel itself with, not even the salty Barcelona air seemed able to do it. The kids were grumpy when we told them they had to leave the beds, they were grumpy when we told them we couldn't let them hop in the pool, and now they were grumpy to have to sit at a table to eat a food which didn't seem to want to ever make it to the table. The promise of ice cream afterwards held them in the seats, but not quietly. Every wiggle or grimace seemed to set my nerves on end. I just wanted to get moving: eat, hunt down food and a stroller, walk back briskly and hit the pool or the beach. But by the end of the meal even this seemed improbable. Bed? Movie? They even offered to give us our date night and it goes to show you how exhausted I really was when we had to turn it down. There was no way we were going to keep our sleepy brains awake long enough to make anything out of an evening.

Eventually we drug ourselves out of the quicksand of that tapas place, let the kids play in the fountain in the courtyard, and eventually found the grocery store in the middle of the mall where we stocked up on our beer, cheese, wine, bread, and snacks; all local. We also found a stroller as the airlines wouldn't let us bring anything on for the baby who didn't have a ticket, not even the crib came to Barcelona with us. We came with the bare minimum leaving everything else behind in the Tour Bus and it felt good to be carrying a little less than normal. The new fold-up stroller was a God-send. Thank you Grammy & Pa! The thing saw more mileage than it was meant for in just the three days of Barcelona, not to mention the rest of the trip.

On the way out of the mall it began to rain. Yup, it began to rain in Barcelona. It was just a drizzle so we began the walk back and when we got into a park where the rain turned into downpour. We all huddled under one of the sculptures and lived in the moment with really nowhere to go and no timeframe to stick to. We were in a new and wondrous city stuck under one of it's many artistic features just watching the rain. It was a beautiful moment. It didn't matter that the beach was now out of question for the rest of the day, in fact, it just made the moment a little more relaxed. When we finally wandered back into the apartment we were all soaked and in need of dry cloths. We tucked the children into bed together and pulled out the cheese and beers. We sat on the couch and planned out our next adventure and watched a slide show of all the photos we'd taken so far on our trip. (I'm updating the photo albums to the right as I go, so feel free to look through them yourself as well.)

W.C. Report:

Considering the awful French toilets, the Spanish do a pretty good job with their toilets, though I was surprised that the restaurant we ate at shared their toilet with the next restaurant over. They seem to be just as easy to find as in any American mall. It was a welcome change.

Tragedy Report:

Shortly after leaving the plane the girls began to take stock of their backpacks full of books and toys. They'd taken out their most precious items during the short flight to play with them, some of those being the tiny Polly Pocket-style Princesses that they'd gotten in Disneyland. Squirrel Monkey let out a shriek as we walked towards Baggage Claim when she realized Sleeping Beauties tiny squirrel was MIA. I momentarily considered making my way back to the plane to collect the toy, but with everyone trying to get on with the journey as quickly as possible I had to tell her I was sorry but Squirrel would have to stay on the plane for more adventures elsewhere. She howled all the way to Baggage Claim and beyond.

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Day Six: Euro Disney

2007-09-14T17:21:00.000+02:00

For some reason I had in my mind that the day would start similar to Christmas morning. The kids didn't wake us up at 6am; I believe this was evidence enough that the trip was beginning to exhaust us all. I had an appointment to catch at 8:15 in the morning with The Little Book of Man and had been dreading the venture. I needed to capture a photograph which would inspire humankind not to drop another bomb within the fifteenth minute after 8 o'clock in the morning. Having only arrived the night before I had no idea what kind of photographic moment my present itself, but I was taking my obligation seriously. Spider Monkey awoke while I was gathering my camera so she and her grandfather wandered down to the pond out back with me while the rest of the family lingered under the sheets. They made a pretty picture in the French countryside sunrise with their arms around each other. I cannot say the moment was not void of some previous forethought, but what was captured was produced all of their own doing; I let them lead the way and followed with my angled view.

The doors to the Wonderful World of Disney do not open until 10am so it was not surprising that we were among a few select early risers in the breakfast room. Again, the buffet was nothing like you may expect in France, but we lived off it. The stragglers of the family joined us in time to snarf enough down and pack our daily belongings to catch a shuttle bus towards the front gates. Entering the park was just as exciting as it was in my childhood, only now I had enough excitement for all seven members of the family. The only thing which could have dampened my spirits at all would have been the droplets of rain which seemed to be increasing their tempo. We raced past the stores on Main Street to where the action awaited. As we stood in the center of the different entrances to the lands our mind was made by the little princesses in our midst. From somewhere around our middles came the cries "The castle!!" We walked the castle path, over the drawbridge, and into Sleeping Beauty's castle. You could not imagine the delight on little Squirrel Monkey's face as she walked past scene after scene of her favorite movie. In her eyes the spinning wheel was real and the fairies in the stained glass windows would flutter into the air between blinks. The band drew us out onto the balcony and eventually our search for rides which were out of the rain was underway. The men were sent ahead to gather Fast Passes, tickets which you could get ahead of time so we didn't have to stand in line, and the women huddled the children under eves where the view was just as lovely.

Disneyland . . . what can be said to describe the magic of a day in Disneyland? I can tell you of the various rides we were able to experience and the looks of joy on our children's faces, but it would not compare with experience. Bring yourselves back to those moments of wonder and magic when you were a child and that was the level of feeling we maintained throughout the day. For some magical reason we were able to find a spot to rest or a show to watch at all the right times, keeping the children from getting too tired or the parents too grumpy. The lines were comfortable and the weather soon became pleasant. The bright yellow ponchos we purchased after or first ride were folded and tucked away for another day.

Before we knew it our tummies were rumbling and we looked down at our watches to see it had passed midday. Pulling out the maps to get a feel for the locale, we decided on a French restaurant which was supposed to be in our current land. I guess we figured if we were in France we may as well eat French. We didn't want some quick hamburger joint as our minds needed something a little slower. We turned around and there was the very place we'd picked out on the map resting just a few steps away. Upon entering this restaurant it became apparent that we were in for a real treat. When it said there were often surprise visits from the princes and princesses they were not far off. It seems the royal couples hang out all day just to hop from one table to another giving each their undivided attention (in whatever language that table may be speaking). The girls were enchanted seeing their idols walking in human form among the commoners, though were less excited when they were approached themselves. I still cannot place their reason for withdrawal at the approach of the beauties; was it jealousy, unbelief, or simply shyness? I am leaning towards jealousy over the role as they opened up quite easily to the princes attentions. Rightfully so, our little princesses were heirs of the princes' flirtations. They would tuck their chins and look up through their batting eyelashes at them and put on a believable shy act when the prince asked for their hand. After pictures were taken and conversation grew thin the couples moved on to the other tables and the girls could observe the princesses with awe once more. Maybe they were gleaning from their royal demeanor to better their own attempts. Whatever the case the girls were at home in the spacious banquet halls. When our waitress addressed Squirrel Monkey and asked her where she lived her response will remain eternally memorable: "In Disneyland." Naturally . . .

Grammy and Pa bestowed the princesses with their very own gowns off the racks sitting in the shadow of the castle. Each was set on a particular gown so there was no worry of indecision, just cause for concern when Ariel's wedding gown didn't come in Spider Monkey's size. We called each store in the land that carried them to learn none of them had her size. What was the luck or magic that the size 10 actually fit her petite 7 like a glove? Who would Squirrel Monkey be? Sleeping Beauty, of course; in pink (blue on the days she feels a little off). They danced through the rest of the day in their gowns and captured glances from those with a true eye for beauty. One teen went so far as to bestow a matching headband on our little Sleeping Beauty who wore it with love until it was lost, presumably having slipped off with the headphones when we needed translations during the Art of Disney Animation tour. It did not keep her tears long enough to keep her from the drawing room where the girls caught the last lesson. They both walked away with very interesting versions of Winnie the Pooh.

We seemed to miss just about everything that drew us into the Studios Park, but at least the girls got a chance to do their artwork, get rejected from the Nemo ride, and be terrified in the Armageddon set (I am still amazed they will watch a Star Trek show with us since). Fast Passes in Discoveryland awaited us and we found ourselves on yet another starcruiser in battle with the evil Zurg. Each had their lasers at the ready and blasted the aliens with an extra sense of purpose.

The adults felt the need for a little pampering, themselves, and got Fast Passes for Space Mountain. While we waited we hit another watering hole with tables sitting in stadium seating over a stage. Though the stage was not in use the kids were easily distracted by the many screens showing classic silent Disney films (It was nice not to have to worry about the 20 different translations or so). While our break lasted the adults took their turns to slip out of the dark theater and over to the next star ride. Grandma and Grandpa went first and came back with big smiles and assurances that we would have fun. Are you kidding? We remembered the ride from the time we were kids and looked forward to it with mouths watering. If we would have read the map a little closer we would have seen that it was not just Space Mountain, it was Space Mountain: Mission II . . . Wow! I cannot lie, the fast pass line was so short we went back through it for a second ride before the grandparents(parents) could question where we were going. Turns out the play had started in the theater and the kids and grandparents alike were enjoying another spin off of The Lion King. Disneyland has its perks. Ha ha ha . . . ah, I have to share another one of them with you that my mother-in-law pointed out. This was our first visit to a . . . um civilized city on their trip, evident by her passing remark. It went something like this. "Isn't it nice to be able to walk down the streets and not worry about what you see in the windows? I mean, even in a nice town like Brugge they had mechanical penises right in the front windows on the street." Hmm, I wonder what she would have said if I told her they sell a collection of vibrators next to the lipstick in the grocery stores? Yes, we had certainly entered a different world.

By the time we exited the sun was setting and only a few moments remained for Fantasyland to be open so headed that direction to hop on It's a Small World which just could not be missed, could it? By now the girls were recharged and the lines were bare. We were able to zoom out of one and another ride making the most of our last few hours. I was amazed to walk through the maze the line would have normally weaved its way through one slow step at a time. Pirates of the Caribbean was especially entertaining and all the more so when you can wander through it at your own pace. After the ride we passed through Skull Rock into a new world of wonder. It was dark night now and we found ourselves creeping through underground caverns, overhanging wooden bridges, stepping stones over creepy bogs, and through the jungle paths to the Swiss Family Robinson house. Can you believe we had this whole island to ourselves? I will never venture into the island in daylight again. The candles and lamps were lit in the tree house and the passages in the caves were as eerie as they were meant to be. There was a view from the hanging bridge which would have been ideal to watch the fireworks with an overlarge view of the lit castle. I am glad the rest of the family talked me out of it as the fireworks display was not an ordinary pyrotechnics show; they used lasers to display amazing images across the face of the castle. It was mesmerizing to watch, but by the end of the show I felt like I had seen all there was for any fireworks display to offer. We filed out of the park with the rest of the mass exodus in a trance. The girls were piled into the Chariot and wheeled out to where the last shuttle of the night would take us to our beds. They didn't make it into their beds before they were off into their own magical dreamland.

WC Report:

The French toilets seem to either be dirty and unkept or pristine, there is nothing in between. Even while we were at the fancy French restaurant their bathroom was disgusting, missing essential pieces, no soap, and half-used toilet paper laying all over the place. They didn't even have a baby changing station, so I ended up laying Screech Monkey on the counter between two sinks which was pooled with water and no paper towels to mop it up with. Later we walked into some out of the way toilet between Fantasyland and Adventureland and were pleasantly surprised by a beautiful and clean bathroom. I can't say I picked up any rhyme or reason for their toilet madness.

Tragedy Report:

I wish that I could put we had no tragedy in Disneyland, but as fate would have it we left with a major tragedy: we did not get to go on every ride. There were so many places we wish could have been seen or experienced. The one ride Squirrel Monkey wanted to go on in the Studio Park, Crushes Coaster, did not allow her small size on. Although, to this day, if you ask her what her favorite ride was that she went on in Disneyland she'll say it was the Nemo ride. Well, I guess just being rejected at the front of the cue was enough of a memory for her.

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Day Five: We lingered in Brugge a while longer

2007-09-07T17:24:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Do we stay for a few more hours in Brugge before traveling to Disneyland Paris?
Or do we leave first thing so we can spend an evening in Disneyland?

We decided to try and compromise because we didn’t feel like we got the full experience of Brugge in just that one day. I believe it was after today we decided whichever place we were visiting we would always feel like staying longer, but would have to find a way to pull ourselves out of the city regardless of our desires. Naively, we agreed to stay a couple hours to see the Begijnhof which we had missed the night before and head out to Disneyland in time to visit the park that evening. We woke up early and spilled out into the cobblestone streets with the morning rays. We had opted to load the Tour Bus and park it closer to the center for a speedy getaway, but had not accounted for the trap which awaited us just beyond the parking garage steps. It was not so luring on our way into the city, but on the way back it would entwine us in its snare for more time than we would have allotted.

The city was quiet and we passed through the gates of the old hospital where the courtyards sat empty, missing the residents who used to sip their morning tea in their cozy atmosphere. Only a few of the ambitious tourists trickled in through the city gates with us leading us to anticipate a leisurely walk about. Because there were so few people around we thought we might be able to enter some of the tours quicker and investigated the church with the Michelangelo statue (closed for Sunday morning services) and the 17^th century dispensary (the nurse among us was not really all that interested in it after all) and so we headed down a few shortcuts through some skinny and winding alleyways to the Begijnhof.

The Benedictine nuns in their black and white habits were making their way across the silent grounds of lawn sprouting with stately trees into the ancient brick church for prayers, so we joined them. Inside the little church we silently viewed the art along the walls and watched the prayer candles flicker. The girls took an interest in the tombs encased in the floor (so much like their mother, they also seem to have a fascination with the dead) and it became an obsession to find the tombs in every church we entered during the rest of the trip. We were pleasantly surprised to witness one of the nuns enter the center of the church and ring the church bell for noon. It was done with an air of ritual and I remember the feeling of intrusion as she performed the duty. I believe it was these feelings which then lead us outside of the church to discuss the plan of action. I had thought there were gardens behind the gate of the Begijnhof but other than an skinny door at the end of the walkway and a line of houses towards the exit I could not determine where it must be and, sensing their desire to get on the road, I followed them out the exit. It wasn’t until afterwards that I saw the photographs of the quaint little garden which was just down one of the paths. We will be going back to Brugge!

Wandering down the streets in the direction of the parking garage we ran across a little eating hole. They served Pannekoeken and drinks and that was all we needed. The noon sun was starting to beat down on us and though the tables we sat at had umbrellas there were a few bare patches of sunlight. I sat in one of them and I could not take the heat long enough to wait for our orders. I decided to get a head start on the group and follow my instincts. Across a bridge there was a path which wound its way up a hill and between some trees and I had an inkling that it was a shortcut towards the Tour Bus. At any rate, it was in the shade and abandoned of tourists, so I excused myself and indulged on a lonely adventure (the best kind by the way). What awaited me when I exited the path was the parking garage building, but something rested between the path and the building. Do you remember that trap I had mentioned earlier? Well, it was reaching out its long tentacles to me now. A beautiful and lively flee market! I’ve always been a sucker for garage sales or estate sales and while sitting on the couch sulking during the first few months after moving here I ran across the BBC station where it became obvious the British have an even greater obsession with the antiquated. They have several daily programs on: Bargain Hunters, Under the Hammer, etc which I feel I have gleaned a bit of knowledge from, so I put my newfound skills to the test and began to rummage the various stands. I knew there were treasures to be found at this European market and find a few I did. First I found a stand with so many hats it was hard to choose which were the most beautiful. There was one I would have gladly bought for my oldest girl and several that I knew my mother-in-law would find interesting as well. Along down the way I found an interesting little glass piece that I had to have for our hermit crabs water hole. Glass has always fascinated me and this was a rare find, one I had never seen before; it was a hand-blown clear glass bird feeder. It hung like a tear drop with a lip coming out at the base where the water collected. It sits in our hermit crabs tanks as you read and, if I do say so myself, I think they love it just as much as I do ;)

I did pull myself away from the market long enough to join the family for lunch, but then pulled them back into the trap with me. Naturally, Grammy needed a sunhat like the rest of us, didn’t she? She did find one that looked lovely and we tried to pass each table as quickly as possible while winding our way toward the Tour Bus. Nothing else was purchased, but I think this made us want to explore the other avenues in search of those missing treasures. We left looking back at those missed tables with a look of longing. I think the guys were just happy to be turning their back on them finally.

The road to Disneyland was long. The weather was hot and the Tour Bus had no AC. With the windows rolled down it was impossible to hear each other speak so we kept to ourselves, the girls coloring, sleeping, or reading, and I finally got a chance to use my new cell phone as an MP3 player! Sweet music. Oh, did I mention that the Tour Bus only came with a tape deck? Who keeps tapes anymore?!?!

When we finally entered the wonderful world of Disney and found our hotel we were starving. The buffet they had at the hotel was filling but reeked of imitation American food. Still, we were all hungry enough we ate it. I think we all agreed the complimentary wine was all we really needed anyway. Having arrived later than planned (what’s new?) we decided it would not be worth the money to buy tickets for just a few hours in Disneyland so we opted for the SWIMMING POOL!

First I have to say that the French have no idea how to direct a person through their corridors. The girls and I got a head start on the rest of the family and headed towards the direction of the pool only to find dead ends, courtyards, and no signs. Finally I drug them barefoot and skimpily clad through a stony garden, past the dinner guests in the main courtyard, and under a hedge just to sneak into the backdoor of the pool. You know, even after exiting the pool from the proper door I still don’t think I would have been able to find it again on my own. It was a relaxing evening in the pool except for the time Squirrel Monkey decided she could go in the deep pool without consulting or bringing along an adult or the times Screech Monkey thought she could walk on water and stepped into the deep pool after a couple unseen escapes from the kiddy pool. Upon the final attempt to walk on water we packed it up and headed towards the “princess beds” where our children would sleep an everlasting sleep and the Belgian chocolate, wine, and beer waiting for the exhausted parents and grandparents.

Though it was mostly a travel day we still carved out our moments of fun and still retained enough energy to get us through the next day: Disneyland!

An additional treat, just for you: Murder in the Beguinage

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Day 4: Walking the Streets of Brugge, Belgium

2007-08-27T17:26:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Walking tour of Brugge including, but not limited to:
1. Belfry
2. Town Hall
3. Waffles
4. Blind Donkey Alley
5. Fisher's Market
6. Mussels
7. Find a particular bridge with fantastic view that I know is in a general vicinity, but not exactly sure how I’ll find it
8. Old hospital with a 15th century de . . .
9. View the only Michelangelo statue known to have left Italy during his lifetime in the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk
10. Chocolate
11. Enter the Begijnhof where the Benedictine nuns dwell
12. Wander their gardens around the Minnewater or “Love Lake”
13. Beer

Let me just begin by saying if there were one city in this whole trip that I wished we could have stayed a week in, it would have been this one. Any recollections from this day were each a treasure a will carry with me for the rest of my days.

We awoke for a wonderful breakfast in the front room of the Brugge mansion. The weather was ideal and we were all anxious to get on our feet and head towards the main attractions. I had found several suggestions via websites and tour books which outlined ideal walking tours of Brugge and I used these to make up my own. My "tour" started at the town square which I’d calculated to be a 5 minute walk from our hotel, but even though the walk did not consist of the “real” sites there were just too many things to see along the way turning 5 minutes into about an hour. We found ourselves posing in front of old churches and pointing out odd features of buildings. It seemed treasures were lurking around every corner or through every store window in this beautiful gothic city. One thing in particular peeked out at me and caught my attention through the open door of a little botique shop. Both Jungle Dad and I spotted it at the same time and answered its call by stepping into the store and trying it on. It was a beautiful little straw hat which had my name written all over it. When the shopkeeper came out of the back room she immediately reminded me of the prim and curt Dutch Dames; she simply stated its price as if I were waiting to ring up at the cash register. Her abruptness and the price tag of 40 euros was a bit too much for me to take in one bite, so I stated in my own matter-of-fact manner, "Forty euros? Oh, that is too much." Whereupon she began a long rant towards an invisible guest over the dismay that Europe could bring American workers over and not pay them enough to even buy a forty euro hat and ended the conversation by looking at me and stating, "Well, then you'll just have to go to the market if you want to buy a hat." Properly rebuffed, we left on our way for further adventure but my mind would scarcely leave the shop where my hat lay dejected and lost.

With every twist in the road my first site was closer in view and hung majestically over the array of buildings and with each of those turns in the road I had to take another snapshot. The one you see here is my very favorite shot of the historic Brugge Belfry. It just so happens to be one of the only bell towers in the world and was built around 1240. It actually used to have a wooden spire which crowned its top, but fire and lightening had burnt it to ashes twice. I am not sure if this was the same fire which burnt the city archives as well; being a genealogist this part grieves me more than the missing spire. We climbed the 366 stairs to the top of the tower while the grandparents watched the kids and found seating at one of the café-style restaurants surrounding the square for lunch. The walk up those narrow, steep, and ancient stairs was grueling but the view was amazing! Jungle Dad loved the bells and all their mechanisms and each time we heard them ring thereafter we were swaying with them at the top of the tower again.

At the café below the waiter assured us that we must try their lobster as that was their specialty and to assure us it was fresh he brought the little bugger out to meet us on a tray. The girls squirmed to think of the poor thing being killed just so his mother could eat him, but I held no similar convictions and we ate like proper Belgians: A liter of beer, a big pot of mussels, and freshly cooked lobster! It was a meal which could only compare with the French pastry breakfast we ate in Reims a week or so later.

It so happened that the rest of the family could not resist a visit to the top of the tower after hearing our raving reviews and we somehow convinced the grandparents that the two oldest girls could make the 366 steps along with them. I somehow forgot to mention the fact that by the time we had exited the bottom of the tower I loudly groaned upon realization I had yet to traverse the last flight of stairs (probably a whole 15) down into the market square. While they did this we went on a hunt for a cap for Jungle Dad's head. The first souvenir place we stopped found us a very attractive hat, but it was only four euros and I figured if we could find a cap for four euros mabye we could find the kind with the extra neck protection for ten, so off we went. We walked to the end of our time limit and found a sports store with a variety of those I'd been thinking of, so many that it took us out of our time limit to try them all on, only to realize he didn't like the look of any of them. Now we needed to book it back to our meeting place and I told him to run ahead so they knew we hadn't forgotten about them while I speed walked through a shortcut. I love shortcuts! I got there long before he did and we found ourselves all waiting for him to find us. Among the confusion of trying to figure out where one or another was we all ended up eating ice cream and presenting each other with our favorite hats! He was so sweet to have gone back to the store and purchased that forty euro hat that we both loved and I felt even better about it after he let me know the same ranting woman had not been in the shop at the time of the purchase. Phew!

So off we wandered with ice cream in hand, hats on our heads, and smiles on our faces through the meandering and wondrous streets of Brugge. The town was once a bustling port city and is now home to many gothic buildings and architecture. It is also lined with so many canals and where there are canals there are bridges. Like all the other streets in this part of the world they were made of cobblestones and as the lines of horse-drawn carriages passed by with their tourists the streets and squares were filled with the delightful sounds of hooves on stones. Along the main streets were people performing one art or another for a few coins in a hat and we obliged one who was passing out kisses on the hands of young maidens and picking flowers from the cobblestone street for those with an imagination enough to see. The girls didn’t know what to think of him but it was worth the few coins just to see them give him their furtive shy glances as they walked away.

Site upon site met our eyes and soon we were wandering with heads spinning. My map was in hand but suddenly everyone in our group had a different direction in mind. The afternoon sun had sapped us of all mental energy making it evident to each that we must find something to drink and snack on. The problem was that if one person would move it was towards the shaded lane headed down a dead end or back towards the hotel or to a spot of shade under a tree. It was one of those group moments where everyone seems to want the same thing but they each go about it their own way. I thought they understood that if we kept walking in the direction my map suggested we'd not only find shade along the treed marketplace, but we’d also likely find eats and drinks once we neared the next major tourist region close to the historic cathedral and ancient hospital. Unfortunately they only seemed to hear "trees" and "flea market" and gave up like a pack of lost mules on the side of the path ready to trot back towards home. I understand that the prospect of traveling another block or two was a very daunting task at the time because we’d been clocking about a block an hour due to all the amazing little things to look at and take photos of. But I knew if we kept our goal in mind and just moved trying to ignore all the beauty and ingenuity surrounding us I was sure we could make it, rather than walking the 20 blocks back to our hotel that didn't have a restaurant. I don't know how we did it, but the pack began to finally move down the trail again. Yes, we did get a little distracted in the flea market and the cathedral doors were open and calling to us and we did get a little disheartened when the water holes along the way would not let us drink at their tables without ordering an entire meal, but we eventually found ourselves following arrows pointing down a back alley toward "food and WC". It was down that alley that we found many empty tables at a restaurant which would let us order a waffle and waters. The restaurant sat in the courtyards of the Old Saint John's Hospital which had been run by nuns until 2001 (give or take a year; I can't quite remember quite which year they left it). Here there had been built a more modern building (dated 1855) where they'd turned the vacated open wards into restaurants and such. We sat just outside a beautiful courtyard with a single young tree in the middle of the lawn. In this courtyard the girls found a few plastic yard toys which they entertained themselves on while we rested. Here it seemed that the ancient Brugge met modern Brugge, although it was not so easily visible. They still make the houses with their tall peeked roofs and similar facades, but my eye was drawn to a strange absense of something. Much like the "doors to nowhere" in the Manchester Mansion in California I noticed a void in the middle of the skyline, a void which was half camouflaged by overgrown weeds. You must know that feeling when something is out of place and your mind keeps pulling your eyes back to try and place the puzzle pieces together. After my mind had tugged enough I finally decided to pay it some attention and discovered the large hole was the remains of a covered bridge which must have crossed over the canal at quite a high point. The people of Brugge must not have been able to decide what to do with the bridge after it had collapsed because it remained half looming over the canal crumbling away with weeds growing out of its brick laid street. It made my mind return to Minnesota for a while . . .

After our little rest we were ready to make our way to the gardens, but our attentions were distracted as always by a chocolate shop or laces or a pretty canal view and we arrived at the entrance to the Begijnhof just as the nuns quietly closed the doors. No matter, there were still plenty of roads to travel and buildings to admire, so we spent the rest of our evening meandering our way through the streets back towards the town square where we were determined to find some Belgian waffles for “dinner”. The attempt was successful and the rest of the road home was on a full belly and with happy spirits. Enough so that I was able to convince the group to head down a few of the roads less traveled on our way back to the hotel and I am so glad I did. If we had not have traveled just a few blocks out of the way I would never have gotten the beautiful photo which rests at the top of this entry. I cannot say for sure which is my all time favorite photograph of the trip, but this one would be up there in the top 5. It was taken while my husband and his mother purchased an evening snack to go with some of our wine after the kids had fallen asleep in the hotel room.

W.C. Report:

The toilet situation in Belgium seems to be the same as in the Netherlands, but once regular business hours had passed no public toilets were open either. The girls and grandma made a bee line run towards the WC sign only to slam into a locked door. This resulted in a scramble for the nearest toilet which was nowhere in sight. For some reason the search for a toilet always brought up the larger discussion as to which direction our meanderings should take, be it towards the hotel, dinner, north, west, east, or south? In the end I rushed the girls into some bushes while the men conversed in front of a map. I must say that having mapped out all of the sites throughout the city on Google ahead of time had prepared me enough not to let them convince us to walk through the residential part of town and rather through the remaining gardens, over a well known bridge, past a couple Roman columns, and back to the square for dinner. Still, there were no available toilets along the way and at some point while walking the trail through the gardens Spider Monkey let out a cry of concern, "Help! We lost grandma!" It seemed the eye of every person taking in the evening scene of the peaceful gardens was drawn towards our direction. Poor grandma! That’s all she needed was a search party organized to help track her down hidden behind a potty bush. I still wonder what the rest of the tourists thought as we shushed the child and rushed out of the garden without looking back for grandma.

Tragedy Report:

None really unless you count the fact that Jungle Dad and I spent the last hour before sleep in intense discussion over how to navigate a tired and thirsty family through a walking tour. In the end we determined it had all ended well, but that next time more communication might be better. Did the discussion as to how to lead a pack of people through crowded streets help later? I’m not so sure, but at least I never saw them huddled together within a tiny spot of shade ever again.

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Day Three: On the Road to Belgium

2007-08-21T17:29:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Pack for entire trip
Hop on The Tour Bus (our trusty(?) Ford 8-seater van) for a road trip to Brugge, Belgium
Stop by Madurodam on the way
Take an initial tour of Brugge upon arrival

Today was a lovely day and could have been that much more lovely if we could have just gotten packed and out of the house! It is normally my mother-in-law and her multiple bags of cosmetics, hair styling equipment, and drugs,vitamins, or first aid for any calamity which we may meet that keep us waiting in the idling van, but today it was the unprepared family who needed to sort through the freshly laundered piles of cloths and cloths which Grammy had brought over for everybody and get them either on the kids or in the suitcases. I ran from room to room grabbing things out of the hospital bag, from this drawer, from under the couch, from out of the toy box and shoving them into one suitcase or another. In all the confusion I found my passport, which I had fortunately remembered was in the pocket of my jacket, and ran it upstairs where I specifically remembered setting down next to my husband who was printing out all the trips maps and details for me and told him to put it with everybody else's passports because he had the special wallet we kept them in hidden somewhere in one of his many bags. Confused yet? I must have been because we were packed and loaded when we realized my passport was MIA. I again ran from room to room of the house searching, even went to far as to search the refrigerator and freezer. I felt so bad not knowing where I could have laid such an important document, but in the process I found even more important items we were forgetting: the baby crib, hats, swimsuits, sunscreen. I tell you, I've never been so unorganized for a trip in my life and here this was to be the trip of my lifetime. I had so drastically failed my own standards of order and timeliness that I began to wonder of the success of the entire trip. After someone found my passport packed in one of the bags I had packed (who knows which one because I packed them all) I leaped into the van and secretly wished for an Enterprise transporter room; I knew we probably could have already been to Madurodam by that time. It is of no coincidence that we named our captain Fearless Leader (aka Pa) as he always waited with the utmost patience next to our craft as each straggler came and went again with each days scramble to embark. He would calmly grab packed bags and load them into the back of the van as they arrived, his having been the first packed, and would give those who were lagging behind the nudge they needed to move a little faster to keep us on schedule, but never with the air of one who could wait no longer and threaten to leave them behind. I wish I had those qualities. Next to him sat Mr. Navigator who felt his occupation was predestined due to his ability to navigate our previous Tour Bus in and out of Germany within the proper days (give or take a few hours here or there) without the aid of a proper map. I was the only passenger to let known my fears of his qualifications, as I was the only adult present who had experienced that journey. I will leave the rest unsaid.

Fearless Leader and Mr. Navigator pulled the Tour Bus into the parking ramp of Madurodam with daylight to spare. The kids were not yet willing to leave The Bus without bribes as they were still enjoying their backpacks full of toys too much, so we convinced them they'd be able to play giants in this tiny world.

I was not exactly sure what to expect. I had only seen a few pictures of Madurodam; the one which stood out the most in my memory was that of a politician standing in a suit with one big leg standing in the middle of a miniature Dutch town. I doubted they would let us walk the streets of these miniature cities, but I figured I'd best set my mothering sensors at critical. I needed not have worried too much. There were displays the girls could reach out and touch easily but the world was so full of displays I doubt their minds had much curiosity left over for touching and feeling. Instead of wandering tiny streets lined with buildings we walked along guided sidewalks from one numbered building or village to the next. Each was so rich in detail I could have stood for hours to admire, just as I might had I been standing in front of the real thing. There were railways and highways with cars, trucks, and trains which ran the route of the entire miniature world. I've always had a thing for miniature trains or, actually, just their tracks and the worlds which you can set them up to travel through, so I was very jealous of the person who got to set up several train tracks to run through this huge world of bits and pieces of the Netherlands. What a treat it must have been.

There were modern buildings and ancient buildings, people and vehicles, and my favorite of all were the trees. The trees were perfectly sculpted bonsai's to look just like the real things in miniature. You did not just look at a replica of a building, but of the building in the midst of its landscape complete with detailed flowerpots in the courtyard to the meandering stream. At each display things were in motion as you might find them in real life. Boats navigated the rivers and canals, bridges raised for them, cars traveled parking lots, semi-trucks docked and undocked with loads for various businesses (those of which we figure probably paid a large sum to get their name or building into the city of Madurodam), and you could even drop a coin into some displays to witness the more spectacular events. For example, a wedding promenade, the band playing in town square, the rides move in an amusement park, or a car go through the car wash. Supposedly you could stay until dark to view the entire place lit up with tiny little street lamps and lights from the windows of the houses and buildings. It would have been beautiful I am sure, but we were on a tight schedule. There was still hope that we may get to Brugge in time for the evening glow of a real live village, but first we needed dinner.

None of us having seen any possible dinner on the road through Den Haag we stopped at a map just outside the entrance of Madurodam. It listed every McDonalds you could find within a 50-mile radius! None of us having set out on this adventure to try McDonald's we tried to spot the most likely cluster which would bring us into an area of eats and treats. I suggested the beach. There was a cluster of streets next to the beach just a few kilometers away and was bound to have a café or two overlooking the ocean waters. Why waste our opportunity of a beach walk when we were so close?

We stopped in the part of town which looked the most active and made our way towards the smell of sea breeze and dinner and found ourselves plopping down at a Surinamese restaurant. I cannot say the service was great, kind of a laid back Jamaican kind of atmosphere, but the food was out of this world! We couldn't stop eating, even after our tummies were full and the sea breeze was tickling our fantasies. I'd observed a steady flow of foot traffic making its way through a hole in the wall towards what must be the beach and Mr. Navigator had come back with reports of wonderful smells and an ocean view after parking the van up the same direction with Fearless Leader, so off we all went.

As we came into view of the beach I knew in an instant I had certainly led us in the right direction. Before my eyes was the view I had only witnessed in travel books and my Dutch textbook: Scheveningen Beach. It was hard to mistake the notable esplanade and long double-decker covered pier. The first time I heard of this beach was in my Dutch Language class last year in Minnesota. My instructor told us that during WWII the Dutch used the name Scheveningen to find out German spies as only the Dutch could pronounce the "Sch" with the proper spitting, hacking, and scratching sound. He he he, I'm just poking a little fun at the Dutch language there, but my instructor did use this as a proper example of how difficult it is to properly pronounce some of the more complicated Dutch sounds. Though today the beach is better known for it's soft sand and long stretch of beach.

We did not get to spend as much time on the beach as I would have liked and I made my husband vow to bring us back there again some day. Even the sands of Barcelona could not compare; though I cannot say the same for the water. We all waded in the water and the girls got downright drenched. I would have likely swam also if it didn't mean I had to be stripped down upon arrival at the van, held up by my arms naked in the cool breeze, shaken, and rubbed down with a beach towel to rid me of the last grains of sand in front a long line of traffic waiting for the vans parking space. After that the girls were tossed into the van, dressed in their PJ's, and buckled while the van sped away towards it's next destination.

Traveling from one country to the next in Europe does go by quickly, but it seems the mathematics to figure out kilometers per hour differ from that of miles per hour. Our estimated 1 1/2 hour trip was really a 2 1/2 hour trip and we pulled in after the kids had all drifted off to sleep. We had called ahead to let the hotel know we were coming in late (something we've learned you should never forget) so we had gotten the security code and the keys were waiting in an envelope in the foyer. Our bedroom was a beautiful room with a sofa bed for the girls and a corner just big enough to put the fold-up crib into which took up the entire front of the second floor of the building. Did I mention it was beautiful? Our parents got the "two-person room" which was up another two flights of stairs to the fourth floor, or should I say the attic garret room? My husband saw it first with Pa and when he came back down while was tucking the girls in bed; he sounded a little concerned. His mother had just gone upstairs to their room and he was a bit afraid I'd made a mistake while I was reserving the rooms. I told him it was impossible to tell what we'd get; they just listed off the different sized rooms by how many people were to sleep in each and stated I trusted they would be nice as the hotel had gotten really good reviews. He said, "It's really cute, but I wonder if they'll think it's a bit too small?" Naturally I had to run up and inspect since it was I who had booked it. Upon entering I found his mother charmed by it's uniqueness and it's beautiful view, so I was requested to run back down and grab my camera for pictures. So, there we were taking time-lapse photos of the view and trying to find the best angle on the room to get as much of it in one shot as possible while the guys were packing the huge suitcases up those 5 flights of stairs. Note that these were not just any stairs either. These were stairs which had been around since the mansion was built in the early 20th century so they were a little narrow, leaning a tad, with a few wobbly rails here and there, and no light. By the end the men were carrying flashlights in their teeth to light their way, so I can't say whether or not the men liked the place, but us women loved it.

W.C. Report:

As I stated in the last chronicle, I wasn't so sure the quantity of available toilets would meet Grammy's demands, yet I was unprepared for the drastic measures which would be taken to accommodate those needs. After our leisurely wade along the Scheveningen Beach we had packed into the van assumedly prepared for the 1 1/2 hour drive to Brugge. Fearless Leader and Mr. Navigator had just figured out how to navigate the one-ways streets to get us out of the town square and headed towards the right interstate when Grammy spotted a Burger King. One might think of Burger King as a source of fast food, but Grammy obviously relates it to "Available WC". We had been stopped in the left-hand turn lane for the last two light changes and the call of the available toilet was just too much for Grammy to ignore. Just as the light changed again and we were ready to roll out of town she leaped from her seat, slid the van door open, and ran across the other two lanes of traffic calling behind her "I just have to go use the Burger King restroom! Come back around for me!" While the rest of us where in shock that Grammy jumped ship, her son was on his feet and running after her calling back, "I've got a cell phone! Call me so you can find her!" Being Mr. Navigator, he knew we were in the worst spot in the road to try and reroute, but reroute we did while the girls anxiously peered out the van windows in hopes of spotting the lost passengers. Find them we did and after they reboarded her son had to reprimand her not to jump ship again, especially without her cash as he had to bail her out at the cue. He found her crossing her legs and begging at the entrance to the WC with a stern faced cleaning lady refusing to let her in without paying the dues. And since this occasion we begged Fearless Leader never to bring the Tour Bus to a halt in front of a Burger King again.

Tragedy Report:

None today!

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Do I have to?

2007-08-20T17:32:00.000+02:00

With a small interruption in the midst of my travel chronicles I break to share with your our latest events. Upon returning from our wanderings from country to country with Grammy and Pa we faced the pending doom of the First Day. We were all feeling a bit down and lost after waving the grandparents off at the airport and Dad and I decided we needed a bit of a "celebration" to lift the spirits. He suggested we celebrate making it home. I, being the practical one, suggested we go school shopping for the girls. What better way to lift spirits than to go shopping? Well, at least for us females, but for the man in our household we first went out to eat "one last time" . . . for enough nourishment before entering a store. But the minute I let the word "back to school" out of my mouth both girls went into a panic. The daily countdown and biting of fingernails began. Lesson learned: Don't mention "back to school" mere hours after your vacation has ended.

We did buy them both a beautiful dress of their choice, each with one accessory. And to help cover up my mistake we took them out the see a movie and eat dinner with Dad after work one of the last weekdays left. Still we were questioned every morning, "Is today a school day?" We've made the best out of each remaining day left to us by playing games, some of which were made up just to refresh their little minds without calling it homework, and trying to teach Squirrel Monkey how to ride her bike without training wheels. Then, last night, we had to break the news to them that the First Day would meet them face to face when they woke up in the morning. Naturally we broke it to them as easily as we could and we got two very interesting reactions.

Squirrel Monkey practically leaped for joy at the thought of being back in her classroom. She was thrilled to see her friends again, even her teacher, and to learn enough to pass the test in December so she can move on the Group 3 with the rest of her friends. The girl could hardly keep herself from doing gymnastics in bed and we had to threaten to tie her to the bed to get her to sleep through the night. It's no small wonder she was the first to awake this morning.

Spider Monkey, on the other hand, immediately went into a fit of tears and worry. She begged us not to force her to go to sleep as the night was going to be to short and she'd have to wake up too early and she didn't want to have to go to school and, and, and . . . She'd worked herself up into a sobbing mess curled on our bed with her dad. She spilled her biggest fears to him, told him of every instance she was scorned, embarrassed, and harassed from the entire last school year up to the other day when a boy laughed at her on the street. She even spilled why her best friend had not invited her to her birthday party which was something I've been trying to get out of her for the last two months. With all the worry and frustrations this girl has kept pent up I'm amazed she even made it through the holiday without a complete mental breakdown.

It took some adult reasoning to sort out the truth from her own interpretations and we were soon explaining the realities of life with her. "Some boys laugh at me because they think I'm silly," she'd sob. Dad would ask,"Do you think they're silly sometimes? Do you laugh at them?" An affirmative was assumed at her increased wailing and burying of head in the covers. It took a Dad to explain that she probably wouldn't find very a many boy who wanted to be her friend for a very many years after this year anyway. As for the girl problems, it took Mom to explain over a bowl of cereal and OJ that they are all quite fickle at times and if she can just keep a smile on her face with a bit of love and patience in her heart she'll be able to pick out the true friends from the thick of their circles.

I marched them off to school this morning in their new dresses adorned with bows in their hair and smiles (of one sort or another) on their faces. Squirrel Monkey bowled people over trying to get to her class and, smiling at her teacher, sat down beside her. I left her with a peck on the cheek and began the journey with Spider Monkey over to her new classroom. Fortunately for me, she pointed out which one it was. For a moment I was beginning to wonder if she'd feign ignorance so we could just give up and wander home mission incomplete. Upon arrival we spotted friends; friends who called out to her with returning smiles of relief. She hid her head from the teacher, even though it is the same woman who fought alongside us to keep her in this school, so we just slid past and found the desk with her name on it. They'd placed her in a group of four desks with three of her favorite buddies and after I encouraged her to slip over and give them hugs the air in the room began to clear and she held her head a little higher. I expect a positive report from her at lunch and I expect that somewhere along her life's journey she will began to understand the social aspects of the human being. As her father stated last night after we'd settled them into bed, he's thankful that she had such a dramatic breakdown now as it can be used later for demonstration: "Do you remember when . . . It wasn't really so bad after all, was it?"

I'd sigh and thank God for not keeping me in those years for too long, but although I am not 7 years old anymore I still find myself facing those same fears. Does it matter I'm a little better prepared after the years of trials, pains, worries, failures and successes? I admit I was a bit nervous myself for The First Day. Would the other mothers still smile and accept me? Could I pull off looking the equipped and on-top-of-it mom if my daughter decided to experience a complete breakdown in front of her class and their mothers? Yes, I think those years do matter. Although I may still experience the feelings of fear and insecurity I can now assure myself that I can make it through them and if I don't . . . I'll still live to try again.

Here's to you, my daughters. May you learn and live well. You've just jumped one more of life's hurdles and I hope you remember and learn from it well.

Day Two: Amsterdam

2007-08-17T17:34:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Frost Cakes
Prepare for two-week vacation
Give "The Amsterdam Tour"

The day was slow on the uptake a bit. I had an order for a cake that I should have start on while I was stuck in the hospital, so the whole cake turned out to be a bit more rushed than I would have liked. That along with the fact that it was my first ever art cake, I was a bit more nervous about it than I probably should have been. And to top it all off the whole family was waiting on me to be able to get out the door for our day in Amsterdam. The cake took all morning long to decorate. I don't know why it took so long, but it seemed absolutely forever to make. I had to mix up enough frosting to fill and cover a 12" four-layer cake with enough left over for the art on the top. Then I had to mix the perfect colors to match a Piglet and Pooh with a couple other colors for the balloons. I drew the art first on a piece of wax paper, cut them out, place them on the cake to trace around them, and then fill it in with my colored frosting and outline with the black. It may not sound like much, but when you've got everybody waiting on you and their all buzzing around trying not to act anxious just makes you want to be anxious for them. Or at least that is the way it seemed to me. Finally, after long hours of mixing and drawing I was finished and we ran out the door.

By the way, what do you think of the cake?

Amsterdam was lovely as always. The weather was not to hot and not too cold and allowed for us to stroll through the canal streets at ease. Our first order of business was to find a place to eat, and them having settled on eating traditional Dutch I set out to find a place my girlfriends have told me about. My mother-in-law was not so certain I knew the direction after we kept walking and walking, and I must say I was starting to wonder myself, but I think it was just preparing all of us for the amount of walking we would be doing the rest of the two-weeks. Hubby and I are used to walking the meandering cobblestone streets for block upon interesting block in Amsterdam, so this little trip from Centraal Station to Spuistraat was nothing for us, but the days ahead would wear our legs to rubber and our shoes into the garbage.

Situated in the exact location my friend had so accurately described sat the charming Dutch restaurant of Haesjes Claes. It was situated in typical canal house that must have been merged with another as it created a marvelous wandering feeling as you moved from room to room. I couldn't help but explore the entirety of the building before our orders were taken. I could have always used the excuse of looking for the bathroom, but I think they just left me be once they saw me taking pictures of every corner, window, pot, tile, vase, you-name-it. Just charming! It had seating on many floors, each room getting smaller as you went up. By the third floor I was convinced I had to take a portrait of the family from the window to the street below. (You'll find it in the album "European Tour August 2007" along with more from this adventure.) The food was wonderful and the atmosphere "gezellig". We could hardly pull ourselves away from the place to wander the streets again, but wander we did.

We took them along the canal ring where we pointed out houses that so-and-so lived or where so-and-so got drunk and messed up his meeting with so-and-so. To tell you the truth, it was all rather boring reading the little tidbits from the tour book, so we soon just stopped reading and walked and looked. The bridges really are my favorite and the detail on each houses facade is lovely. Naturally, I have a thing for the windows and shutters as well so you'll see plenty of those in the album.

It was debated whether or not we should take a boat tour, but by the end we had walked most of the tour ourselves. Fortunately we have been on the tour enough times that we could point out facts the boat would have, plus a little extra. Besides we got to stop and take pictures and taste a few bites from the shops as well. What more could you ask? We also had to pick up some pastries for breakfast in the morning. This came in quite handy as it was quite the rush to get packed and out the door the next morning. Especially after a late night of fun on the town of Amsterdam.

We had to take them to Rembrandtplein to see the famous figures from Rembrandt's "Night Watch" and it is the perfect spot for people watching as well. Though we had given them a good flavor of the Dutch food we had not yet gotten them the traditional french fries with mayonnaise, so on a hunt for those we went. I don't know why, but Rembrandtplein must be just too high class of a place for such simple things. We were forced to go into my favorite Irish Pub and get some fish and chips. I was not complaining that the fries were not your typical fare as the atmosphere in this pub is excellent. We all had Guinness beers and big smiles. As the evening wore on the baby took game in collecting all of the Heineken coasters and piling them up just to set her sippy cup on. We had to get a picture of our baby in the bar playing with the Heineken coasters.

Afterwards and well into the evening we made our way past the evening tourist spots. The girls were tired and delirious enough we figured they'd just take the ladies under the red lights to be getting ready for bed having forgotten to pull the shades. As it turns out the girls were one of the main attractions there. The ladies in their nighties were leaning out of their doors to coo at them and pinch their cheeks. We joked with Dad that if he wanted a good deal to remember to bring the kids with him the next time ;) Granted, we may have been the only couples who brought their kids to the red light district while it was at during it's prime time, but they've seen the ladies during the days anyway. Thankfully, they do not yet know why those ladies stand in the windows with their nighties on. My favorite quote from the night came from this part of the trip.

"Mommy, look at all of those pretty lights on the water," said Squirrel Monkey pointing to the reflections dancing in the canal.
"Mmmm, especially the pretty red ones, hu?"

W.C. Report:

It was at this point that I realized we may have some serious issues ahead of us. Grammy seemed to have the need more often than one could find a sparse European toilet. They were amazed that you had to pay for a toilet and that you could not just walk into a place and run into their bathroom.

Tragedy Report:

None today!

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Day One: Picking up from the airport and getting settled/ready

2007-08-16T17:38:00.000+02:00

Mission:

Bake a Four-Layer Cake for decorating and delivery tomorrow
Bake a smaller two-layer cake
Give the weary travelers a clean place to rest their heads and shower
Keep them in the sun so they'll wake up tomorrow morning
Prepare for packing
Do laundry
Clean the house!

Seeing as I was kept in the hospital for the two most critical days of preparing for our trip and our visitors, I was in a slight panic when we returned from the airport with them. I had sent home a list of things for the family to do to prep for each, but they seem to have read the list, torn it to shreds, and randomly start doing odd jobs that had been on the back burner for the last several months (for good reason). I love my family dearly, and I communicated that quite clearly when I saw all the hard work they had put into (1) piling every item from the kitchen counter onto the dining room table so they could (2) oil the counters with a stain which could take days to dry depending on the amount they layered on and (3) cleaned off the heating elements in the kitchen so you couldn't notice the nearly invisible amount of dust which had only accumulated for the last 4 weeks and (4) had cleaned a few spots which had been bugging him on our kitchen/living area sliding divider, but had not (1) cleaned the bathroom or (2) washed the sheets or towels or (3) taken out the garbage or (4) given the hermit crabs a final bath. Okay, I'm so not being fair here because they did sweep the floor, remember to take out the garbage bins on pick up days, and submit Screech Monkey's photo into the Johnson&Johnson Shampoo contest before the deadline.

By the way, do you like it?

Anyway, we were able to eat a decent meal provided by the man who had taken care of two children on his own for two days and done all that housework. We settled into the backyard garden to get in as much sun as we could and enjoyed catching up and being able to look at each other from across a table rather than across a computer screen.

We each got in a bike ride here and there to the grocery store for some beer or other missing element and I was glad to see we were not the only American's who had a hard time getting used to a Dutch bike.

They brought over two extra suitcases filled with gifts, American food, and all kinds of miscellaneous items for my new cake business that I'd spent weeks ordering off of eBay or checking of my list to send my mother-in-law in search of at a Michael's. It was just like Christmas in August. The kids were trying on cloths, attempting to put together the broken plastic tiara's and eating American snacks.

Though my cake baking kept us around the house all afternoon it was probably a good thing as they were ready to retire at an early hour and we all needed the rest for what was coming next . . .

(The following reports are included as they are critical details which should never be eliminated from proper travel logs, as you'll learn throughout the next several days.)

W.C. Report:

Somehow it was magically cleaned by the time I made it there; I think one of our guests did it! *blushing*

Tragedy Report:

My brand new pants were ripped in the leg while I was riding my husbands bike to the store! I think I cried over this as they were the first pair of pants I've had in over a year that I actually liked.

My cake was a disaster! On the same trip to the store I asked my husband to take the cake out when it was ready, but he took it out early and the whole cake was a soppy mess which after an effort of trying to rebake it still failed. We crumbled the half baked pieces onto a plate and ate it for dessert ;) I still ended up having to make another batter and spent hours baking!

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The Adventure Began Earlier Than Expected

2007-08-15T17:41:00.000+02:00

Sorry to have left without a word, but I can rightfully claim emergency circumstances. Just days before the arrival of my parents-in-law Squirrel Monkey took ill. She vomited nonstop for a day and night and by morning her hands and feet were blue. You can hope against hope but in the end you have to make the phone call. We took her to the local doctors office and from there they sent us to the hospital. With no car, three kids, one who is listless and could vomit all over my back at any moment we made our way through the village streets to the hospital in the next town over. A trip to the hospital was the one adventure I have been dreading to make since we moved, but was thankful my husband could give me decent biking directions. My only major quarrel with the situation was that my usually reliable husband must have acquired some of the Dutch tendency to vastly underestimate the travel time. The 10 minute bike ride was a painful 30 minutes at best, but on the plus side my sick girl didn't have to find a receptacle along the way.

Once at the hospital they determined she was dehydrated and admitted her "until she balanced her fluid intake with her loss". I wish I could say it was as easy as that, but when you add two other perfectly healthy children confined in the cramped quarters of the doctors offices without the aid of the second pair of hands . . . Well, you can imagine things got a little crazy. Then there was the fact that we were unable to eat any dinner until the second parent finally arrived near 8 o'clock at night! By this time I was ready to shoo them out of the door and find a bed to lay next to my limp and delirious child.

As is with most nurses and doctors in the hospitals, they had other plans. In order to hydrate her their plan was to put in a nasal drip rather than the US's traditional IV. I am not one to demand a different form of treatment than the doctor suggests, but from now on I will never let them put another one of those things in my child again. First, they failed to pass my sterile test by dropping the tube on the hospital floor and instead of replacing it with a new one they rinsed it with a bit of water and soap and set it back on the tray. Then they grabbed my limp child and held her fast while they shoved the plastic tube through her nose and into her stomach. She retched and screamed and reached with every last ounce of energy she had left to get into my arms. Her eyes showed a look of terror I have never seen on any face before and hope I will never see again. It was so extreme that I found myself screaming alongside her at them to stop and just pull it out. It took every bit of my will power to stop from grabbing the tube and pulling it out myself, picking her up and running out of the hospital as fast as my legs could take us. In the end they had to establish that the tube had made it to the stomach by forcing air into her stomach and then pulling some of her stomach juices out with a syringe. After all this torture they set her in my arm and she gave them a look to kill and roared at them. I need not question why they felt it best to leave her in her crying mothers arms for comfort at that moment. I would like to question why the Dutch feel they need to use a nasal drip method over the less intrusive IV. If we ever find ourselves in the same situation again I will stamp my foot down and demand and IV. It does have it's own pain factor, but it is nothing in comparison with what my daughter was put through. By the next day they determined she had not had sufficient intake and determined to keep her another day. This made me wonder if we had given her an IV if she'd have already been back on her toes. The last two times we've been to the hospital with her for this she has had an IV and was feeling and looking much better with mere hours.

The final night in the hospital was interrupted repeatedly with a child who had to pee every hour. My warning was a little whine and if I failed to miss that cue the whole train of events would be thrown into a catastrophic scene. Next she would jump out of bed and start running at full speed towards the toilets whilst searching for her underpants. This groping slowed her enough that it gave me enough time to round the hospital bed, grab the pole she was attached to by the tube stuck into her stomach. This tube was quickly running out of slack and I'd have to chase after her without getting the electrical cord caught up on anything along the way as there was only enough tube and cord to extend taught to the toilet. I learned through much trial and error the best place to set the collection pan so that I could easily grab it with my free hand along our race to the toilet. This I had to get situated precariously on the toilet seat before she could work her panties to her ankles and jump on. This was usually done by hopping over a cord or tube and patting her on the head with a reassurance that I was sure she could hold it in just a second or two longer. After each of these races were completed my heart was beating fast and I had to force a calm into my voice as I tucked her back in bed. The night was long, but by the end they had determined they had finally filled her with enough liquids to stop the drip.

In the morning I begged the nurses and assistant physician to let her out in time to meet her grandparents at the airport by 11:45. They could not guarantee anything and wanted to see her drink more on her own which I informed them they wouldn't see until they pulled that nasty tube out of her throat. Every time she tried to eat or drink she'd quickly stop, grab at her throat, and complain that her throat hurt. The following conversation is a testament to her state of illness at the time of admitting. Upon trying to get her to prove to the nurses that she really could drink on her own I tried to convince her that the tube in her throat was the only thing that was making it hurt and that it was actually rather soft, just like the own she was fiddling with in her hand.

"There's a tube in my throat?!?" She gasped in shock.

A bit shocked myself that she could not have grasped this concept over the last two days I tried my best to sound casual about it, "Yes, honey, the tube you have in your hand is the same one that goes down your throat into you stomach."

"It goes into my tummy too!?!?!" Her mouth is now open in utter disbelief.

"MmHm, that's how they put all the extra water you needed back into you."

With a look of dawning comprehension she responded, "Oh, so that's why I'm not supposed to pull on this tube; it's attached to my tummy."

Poor kid. Here she thought she just had a pet tube to fiddle with. I hoisted her up too look into the mirror and she was again put into a state of shock when she realized her pet tube was actually going into her nose exlaiming, "It's in my nose?!?" But, again with a look of a light bulb clicking, "So is that why I am not supposed to pick at or itch my nose?"

When I had finally convinced the nurses she would eat or drink no more unless she could do it without the pain the tube caused they reluctantly conceded to pull it out. She asked if it would hurt and they told her that only the tape they used to keep it in place would hurt. She gritted her teeth through the pulling off of the tape and as she gave a sigh of relief the nurse gave one quick tug and the tube was gone. Squirrel Monkey gagged and by the time she turned her head to look at the thing that had invaded her body it was already tucked away in the garbage.

She then proceeded to devour her food and drink an entire bottle of apple juice just in time for the morning rounds, when the doctors (again reluctantly) gave her the approved discharge papers, and we ran out the doors without looking back towards our awaiting chariot: man on bike with two kids and an extra bike for the escapee and her mother (the side-along method of transporting an extra bike achieved not as gracefully as the Dutch can do it, but still affective). We rode like mad through the streets to catch the train to find the grandparents at the airport and from there it is a whole other story. Each day was an adventure in and of itself which I will chronicle with the attention they deserve over the next couple of weeks, complete with photos.

Currently I am settling into a simple pace of life again after our European tour of five countries and 8 cities in less than two weeks. I am sifting through laundry and unpacking from the trip and the hospital stay. I still have not yet mailed out the postcards from the trip (yes, it was that busy!) and do not dare look at our email inbox!

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Shhh . . . Don't Say "Flood" Too Loud

2007-07-26T17:44:00.000+02:00

It is common knowledge in our circle of family, friends, and neighbors that a certain phenomena follows the Jackson family. It is beyond coincidence and into the realm of scary. I will never forget the first time our mystery was exposed.

Shortly after we married in 1995 we moved from our home state of Montana to the beautiful Oregon. We settled into a basement apartment in the Willamette Valley and were proud to call it our very own home. We had not lived there a year when my husband had to leave me for the first time (Feb 1996). It is no doubt that I married a genius and he was called upon to show off his talents at a competition in Las Vegas. Many other circumstances revolved around this trip which bode ill fortune, but what we awoke to on the morning of his departure sealed not only the fate of his trip, but that of the world (Sometimes I wonder if being melodramatic is an integral part of my existence). My husband sat up in bed, stretched, and when he stood up was momentarily frozen to his spot. Something in the sound of my husbands feet hitting the carpet floor did not register as normal and as he briskly walked towards the light switch I could tell I was not the only one in the room with an odd sense that something was out of place: the river! When he flipped on the light each of his foot prints in the carpet was clearly defined as they gradually filled with water. The level was low, resting just below the level of our carpet, but how long would it stay this low. There was one spot in our apartment that did not yet have water so we quickly moved all of our furniture there and started piling a pyramid of valuable belongings. A call to our landlord led to the discovery that it was not just our apartment which was flooding but the entire valley, preventing him from traveling to our aid as each road in or out of the city was becoming impassable. This, however, did not prevent my husband from traveling to the airport, though he was likely the last truck through.

I was left with a tower of furniture, a wet vac, and an ever present companion: water. Three college girls lived in the ground floor apartment above us and one of them came down for a visit. I was soaking wet with either sweat or flood water, probably a good mix of both, from trying to keep up with the flow of incoming water with the wet vac and racing each full bucket up the basement stairs to dump it in our backyard. But she didn't come down to help, she came down she was visibly shaken and told me they had just spotted a peeping tom peeking through their window and I had better watch myself. Oh, great! All windows and doors had to remain open and there wasn't a minute I could spare for the water was rising just as fast as I could vacuum. I was alone and feeling desperate for more reasons than one, so I found our pistol, placed it on a chair in the middle of the barren living room floor and vacuumed with one eye on the open front door. Our best friend came to call on me in the midst of my labors and when he spotted the gun and my frenzied demeanor he rescued me out of the flooding apartment and into their dry one. From their apartment we watched the waters rise over the next several days and watched the news of rescues and deaths. I'd always wanted to live through a natural disaster. Of course, I had preferred an earthquake or a tornado, but the flood turned out to be exciting enough for me.

Then it happened again the next year and, in the meantime, Montana was suffering a draught to beat the records. Our family back home teased us that we'd taken their rain to where it wasn't welcome.

We moved to Minnesota during the midst of Montana's first year of serious wildfires in 2000. My husband set up his computer in his new office with continuous satellite feed of the fires spreading throughout our home state and encroaching on our childhood and family homes. It was this move which made us question our existence on planet earth. Two more floods followed our move. The banks of the Mississippi overflowed the banks in the twin cities and flash floods took out power lines and various objects all around us. To us it seemed like just another rainy season, but our new neighbors were in a state of distress. We no longer took pictures of the flooded parks, homes, streets; we'd seen it all before.

Then our friends from Oregon started reporting a draught. That was just impossible; even though Oregon is just a state above the drying state of California, it still caught as much rainfall as it's northern neighboring state, Washington, keeping it practically a rainforest. Yet, Minnesota flooded again and Oregon began battling wildfires due to draught.

We didn't have to mention our secret curse for our children to pick up on it. Soon they were having their own nightmares about floods and they voiced their fear whenever they had a chance. Just the other day Squirrel Monkey was pronouncing her love for all things as she has gotten into the habit of doing. She'll say things like, "Mommy, I love you! I love you like a rose, as much as the sun goes around our Earth, and even when you go to heaven and come back again." Only this time she exclaimed, "I love everywhere! I love Montana and Minnesota and the Netherlands and every planet. Well, every planet except for the ones that flood." With every lightning storm or downpour the girls tremble and ask in fear, "Is it going to flood, Mommy?" I swear I have not instilled this fear in my children! As naive as this may sound I have grown not to fear floods so much and therefore rarely mention them, but I must admit living in the land below sea level has raised my eyebrow a bit.

After we moved here, even the slightest mention of the word "flood" to any of my newfound Dutch friends would spark an instant rebuke and overly confident reassurances that the Dutch would never let their land flood! "It's impossible for the Netherlands to flood." If I hadn't been much concerned before, their blind confidence in the system now sent me questioning. Visions of the Titanic sinking in the frozen waters of the Atlantic vividly came to mind. I questioned why/how those pictures of flooded streets and desperate faces of stranded victims were posted along the town hall walls. I walked the dikes and wondered at their makers and design. Finally, I found a man whose passion is the history of this region and displayed bookshelves lined with books from the earliest eras of the Netherlands to it's windmills and it's current affairs. Taking note of my sincere curiosity, he sent me home with a bag of them to peruse. Through these I learned just how the Dutch made the Netherlands and how, at times, nature changed her mind on them. All it took is for one dike to break and a whole section of their land would be filled in with water, which in turn could create a break in another dike, and spreading like a domino effect would flood the next section of land. Some of those sections were aware of the encroaching danger and were warned, enabling them to pack their cart, maybe even hitch their horse, and hightail it out of the lowland. Though, the ones in the first sections were not warned and suffered tragic losses. There was no question as to whether or not the land would be under water once the dike broke; it was that dike which was keeping the water above it's normal habitation, what had likely been a lake in it's previous life, and would rush into the now farmland to create the lake once more.

The Dutch are lucky that there have not been more floods than the those they've experienced, but are they wise to think they are immune to them? Many of the dikes are old, and as it has been seen before, it was these old ones which could not stand the added pressure of a previously broken dikes charge. Still, I hold faith that the Dutch will continue to keep their plots of land dry, even with all this rain we seem not to have outrun even by hopping across an ocean. The river Thames has broken its banks and the same rain that hits England finds its way across the channel and dumps on the Netherlands as well. It's been wet! We haven't seen a dry day for over a month now. Well, some days may end up dry, but the clouds still roll over our heads and threaten to dump some more on us. On one of these days we decided to risk the weather and go for a walk along the dike. I was surprised to see level of the water it was holding back. Nowadays the Dutch no longer use the unreliable power of the wind to pump water from the polders (dried lower lands) into the canals; they use electric pumps. One of these pumps I would pass on my daily walks, and even in the rainy winter months the drainage pipe was always well above the canals water level, but this time the water level covered the mouth of the pipe. I could tell the pump was working because I could hear it, which I always viewed as a treat to see as it was quite rare to actually see it working. When I ran over to the edge of the canal, instead of seeing a steady stream of water spilling from the end of the drainage pipe, I saw a turmoil of water bubbling up from well under the surface of the canal edge.

As the UK is battling the effects of numerous floods, with the Dutch withstand our curse? Will they regulate the waters with only the precise skill the Dutch possess? I trust that they will, but do I ever feel sorry for those neighboring countries around us!

External Links:

BBC current news: Battling Floods

How the Dutch Windmill actually worked: Archimedes' Screw

Wikipedia's list of ALL 35+ Dutch floods and how they happened.

How the Dutch guarantee a flood free land: Deltaworks

BBC Article: US learns from Dutch flood dykes

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Harry Potter Arrives

2007-07-25T17:47:00.000+02:00

I don't know how the rest of the families in the world read this book, but our family has a special method. A method which is begging me to break it!

Like many of the other Christians, we banned these books and feared them like the plague when they first became a hit. Only after we learned that sometimes researching the foundations of our own convictions is not always a bad idea did we dare to open the cover of the first book and peer inside. At the time, Mr. Jungle Man was busy working on his PhD and had months worth of "cluster cutting" to do with the data he had collected. This involved hours of uninterrupted, mindless work sitting behind the computer and, seeing as how he had rigged up our computer to be able to work on this task while at home, I devised a way to keep him at home and in my company while he whittled away the hours in front of the computer screen. I read to him. We started late in the series, and judging by the looks of our collection it must have been sometime before the 6th Harry Potter book came out on hardback. (We did this with the Left Behind series as well and actually don't mind getting in late in the rage; it means we can read endlessly through all/most of the books.) This did not mean we were less anxious than the rest of the fans who were awaiting the final book.

Upon our arrival to the Netherlands I spotted the Harry Potter collection in a local bookstore. To my shock, they were all translated into Dutch. The Dutch are very proud about their literature and have a great many authors of their own, so I am not surprised that though they may speak English very well, they prefer to read their books in their own language. This posed a serious problem for us if we wanted to get the Harry Potter book along with the rest of the awaiting world. We could risk our chances at picking up an English version at the American or English Bookstore in downtown Amsterdam or we could preorder a copy off of Amazon.uk. We chose the latter. Did you know that when you preorder several months in advance you get the book at 50% off? And you get to wait!

This may seem like I'm wandering off of the topic a bit here, but I'm really not! I moved with the minimum amount of clothing I could put in my suitcase along with the rest of our valuables and have been living off of this minimum for almost a year now. Thus, I have had no shorts, a selection of 2 short-sleeved shirts, and every one of my pants either has a hole(s) or a stain. I almost cried on Saturday morning when I woke up, put on my white pants, and heard my husband exclaim, "Honey, why do your pants have blue spots all over them?" He then forced me out the door to go find some replacements at the V&D. Without the kids! The last bit was enough to send me skipping away, but what followed was out of a dream. Have you ever had those dreams, similar to the buffet table dreams, where you walk into a store and every single items is marked off not once, but twice, three times, maybe even four times and the racks are full of cloths you can't take your eyes off of and when you try them on they all fit!?!? That was what I walked into. My arms couldn't carry the load of cloths I had stacked in them when I found my way to the dressing rooms and, to top it off, the steward at the door even let me in with all those items. I found jackets that fit over shirts from the selection across the room and pants that fit out of the junior section! I was in heaven when I headed towards the checkout line with an armload of only the best of the best that I had tried on when I spotted it. A neatly stacked tier of Harry Potter books rested next to the cashier. I couldn't resist; I reached out a few free fingers from under my pile of cloths and let them brush over the pages of one of them. Was I dreaming or were those English words I saw strewn across the pages? Now I crammed the articles of clothing under one arm and grabbed a book off the stack with both hands, tore it open, and gaped at the English staring back up at me. In and instant reality hit me that I was holding a treasured copy of the last Harry Potter book in my hands and that I couldn't reasonably buy it because the one I'd already purchased was currently crossing the English channel. My dream bubble burst in that instant. I stood in the line shaking my head unseeingly at the words I was dying to read. I thumbed the pages one last time, set it neatly on the tier with the rest, and turned my back on them. Oh the restraint it took not to grab it seconds before she totaled my bill, but I left the store with only my beautiful new outfits and focused all emotion into my lovely finds in order to stop myself from thinking about the forbidden pile of Harry Potter books.

As the days rolled by without a ring of the doorbell I have thought about whether that pile of books is still there or have they been sold out. The rain has kept me from making the bike trip "just to see" and today the awaited bell rang. I ripped open the package and held the new book in my lap. Do you think he would figure it out if I read ahead while he was at work? I mean, I've gotten to be a really good oral reader lately, so would he be able to tell when I seamlessly pieced together the emotional inflections and conversations? Besides, we're going on vacation in just a week and we want to make sure we don't have to leave the book unfinished before we leave, so I had better get a head start so it will read all the faster during our evening readings, right? There it sits on the coffee table in front of me now and I am writing my last line . . .

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Heritage

2007-07-19T17:50:00.000+02:00

It has always been a passion of mine to sift through my families heritage. While exploring the files of census records from the 1800's, or climbing the family tree branches to it's root, I connect with my families through envisioning each moment. I enter into their world from the moment the census recorder knocks on the door to the whistling tea pot on the stove my great-great-great grandmother was preparing for her temporary guest. I have accompanied said census recorder walking down the dusty country lane from one farm house to the next with the handwritten pages in hand and have traveled down those lanes, present day, once trod upon in hopes of recovering more information than what was recorded so many decades past. I have held my own private funeral procession over abandoned and forgotten cemeteries in whom my forefathers are buried without even a sign to acknowledge their presence except for a notation on a 19th century map. I feel the loss of life when, from one decade to the next, a child disappears from the census records and I feel the grief the mother must have felt to answer the question with a number when the census recorder asked if any of her children died since his last visit.

When I started with this obsession some 8 years ago I had envisioned many hours to spare on long, intensive research projects resulting in the discovery of many ancient ancestors, but shortly after I had just compiled the records my various distant family members had already collected I discovered we were expecting the beginning of a new family branch. As do many things during this period of a families growth, my project was put on hold with only short bursts of energy put into possible leads here and there. My Irish side of the family had started an online genealogy website that enabled me to put in my few hours of research into that side of my history easily, leaving the rest of my family gathering dust in a few thin files.

I cannot remember the question in which I was seeking an answer for now, for the discovery I made while trying to find it seems to have diminished its value to nothing. Just weeks ago I started digging through emails sent to me by a great aunt, sent to me at the time I started my projects 8 years ago, looking for this now insignificant question, when I pulled up a file on my grandfather. Even now I hesitate to mention this particular man.

I never met my paternal grandfather. His life was ended tragically while my father was not yet out of high school, and the discovery of his existence was shrouded in mystery for me. My aunt would only give me his vitals and hinted, with a voice mingled in fear and guilt, that if I ever wanted to know more about him I'd have to look through the local paper around the time of his death as the family never opened their mouth about him after his life ended. I treated the "case" just as a young researcher would without much thought into the impact of looking up information on my deceased grandfather would have on my family. I only mentioned my queries to my step-mother who assured me, as my aunt had done, that I would get nowhere by questioning even my father, let alone the rest of his family. She told me all that she knew from picking up on broken bits of conversations or hints cut short when the individual realized what they were discussing, which was just enough to put in me a resolve into finding any articles related to him.

Upon my next visit home I found the article I was looking for which told me more than I already knew, but was not such a shocking story as to justify the families reaction. I still had questions, but withheld them after my grandmother, his widow, learned of my limited research and has stopped talking to my father and I since. The turmoil it brought up was senseless enough that I determined to leave that side of the family well alone. For years I have not touched, let alone thought of, any file related to my paternal side of the family until just weeks ago.

Again, I cannot imagine what insignificant information lured me into these branches again, but what I discovered there surprised me. Resting underneath my grandfathers name with the rest of his vitals was listed his lineage, among which was Dutch. Seemingly insignificant upon my initial perusal years ago, it was now information which made my heart give a little leap. I am sitting in the very land in which my grandfather's blood had once parted from. Questions began to form in my mind; which relative came from the Netherlands, from what generation, which region, which dialect, could there be any passed on lingual traits which may help me master this language any better, what ship did they travel from their home country in and when, did they part their home country, are my cousins still living in the same village?

I may never find those answers, but it has surprisingly formed in me my own personal bond with the grandfather I never knew, never heard mentioned of fondly in stories recalled around the campfire, and only know of through an impersonal email and microfiche replica of an old newspaper. Suddenly we understand each other now, I have a piece of my heritage living in me through an experience shared in a country I never dreamed I'd be able to relate to on this level. And this country has now smiled upon me as one of it's own and I feel a connection I had not expected. What a surprise to find myself suddenly existing as a living ancestor of this familiar culture and heritage. Now, as I ride my bike through the streets I feel as if I really do somehow belong or share a particular right to travel within it's borders without having to consciously lift my chin.

Thank you, Grandpa. Your existence may have been short and probably painful, but it has made a difference of good.

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The Best Vacation Day Yet

2007-07-18T18:44:00.000+02:00

On the scale of 1 to 10 today was a 10! So far the vacation has been dull and frustrating. The weather has not cooperated and our temperaments have needed some adjusting. It seemed that any task I put my hand to failed and the girls spent more time bickering than playing or watching TV than romping around the garden. Our fortunes turned today. There is a rainbow at the end of the storm.

We continued working on our stack of homework assigned to the girls over vacation and it was my pleasure to watch the girls excitedly learn how to read. Squirrel Monkey has recently figured out how to spell and read simple words in both English and Dutch, so we picked out words from simple reading books in both our Dutch and English books and she transitioned into each language flawlessly. As did Spider Monkey; she is now onto a new level of reading and it is amazing to see her read from page to page of a long book with a normal speed and perfect inflections. She also can transition from one language to another flawlessly and even picks up a German book she was not able to read during her kindergarten year to read those words as well . . . in beautiful German. It felt good to see the girls excited to do their summer homework and even better to see their amazing skills who many here doubted they would ever accomplish.

The girls helped me mix up the exact color of beer out of frosting and several different icing colors. In so doing they helped make a cake for Daddy to take into work to celebrate. His lab has a nice tradition; with each newly published paper the author brings in a cake to share and celebrate and I am proud to be his own personal baker.

After the girls had licked the bowls of the beer and foam, we burned off some of the energy by doing gymnastics in the living room. I surprised myself that I can still do cartwheels and in the living room, to boot. So we listened to Duran Duran (songs that inspired me to spring during the age that I was doing cartwheels on the lawn during my own summer vacations) and some of the latest Red Hot Chili Peppers (songs which maybe they'll play while showing their own children that they can still do cartwheels after 30).

Soon the sun started shining and I sent the two oldest out to ride their bikes while I danced with my baby to "My Girl". She giggled with glee when we spun and rested her head on my shoulders while we waltzed, her little hand clasped in mine and an arm lovingly clinging around me.

She then helped me make a dinner by sitting on the counter and passing me various items I really didn't need to help make the meal. When all was cooling on the stove she and I walked barefoot to the playground to gather the older girls who were deserted on an island surrounded by hot lava with only a few sticks and leaves to live off of (in the school sandbox).

We ended the night with the girls tucked into bed and celebrating a successful surgery on Mr. Monkey's first rat for his own personal post-doc project by sipping wine and eating a fresh baked baguette with brie. I think summer has finally dawned.

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Screech Monkey or Tasmanian Devil?

2007-07-16T18:47:00.000+02:00

My child seems to have a thing for the lazy susan. If she ever finds this open she sneaks over and starts pulling boxes, cans, and bags out one by one and lining them up on the floor at her feet. She will then inspect each one and find a new home for them where there may be an empty spot on the shelf. She does not eat anything . . . unless she finds the bag of raisins. Then catch her quick! Too many of those and you know what comes next.

Which brings me to her latest achievements. No, she is not potty trained, but she thinks she is! It has happened twice now. I've finally become confidant that she will not rip the toilet paper squares off one by one and throw them all over the bathroom floor, so I stopped worrying too much if I heard her enter the bathroom. Until it gets a little to quiet. Upon inspection of this ominous silence I find a baby stuck with at least one foot, a leg or two, and a butt immersed in the toilet! Thankfully it's awful hard to get to the water in these toilets, but nonetheless, it does not make for a clean experience.

Someday soon she will be trained as there is certainly an interest in her bodily fluids, which is marked by the overturned diaper bin and litter of opened diapers scattered along the trail of brown finger paints along the doorways and hall floor.

And if that wasn't bad enough for her to get into, she's become increasingly obsessed with her fathers bike chain. It started as simply as just toying with the individual chain links and then wiping her blackened and greasy fingers on her white trousers. (Who here has ever tried to get this stain out? Note the word "tried"!) Then I'd find her sneaking through the cracked open door of the bike shed and spending minute after minute in quiet fascination while running her hands along the freshly oiled and smooth chain; again to wipe them on her pretty pink floral Hannah Anderson one-piece. But I was unprepared to spot her caressing the chain with mouth yesterday as the bike awaited our tour of the park! What was Mr. Monkey's response? "She must be deficient in something." Anyone got a reply to that one?

Now for my moment of utter terror. I had been downloading a txt. file of all the addresses we wanted to send postcards too from the laptop to my cellphone and had left the USB cord still dangling from the side of the computer after I had finished. This did not bother me much as I had not yet left my comfy seat on the couch while I downloaded some new music off of the internet (THANKS, Daphne; now I'm addicted to Limewire!). The Screech Monkey had found the other end of my phones USB cord and was checking it out with extreme curiosity. I was in deep concentration with the downloads and a couple other online activities, like any other natural human multi-tasker, and registered her interest in the cord with only mild concern, eventually accessing the risk of her behavior as harmless. I had forgotten about the fact that there were some very interesting little sockets in the back of the laptop (extra USB ports) that would grab a toddlers attention. The memory of these was not hard to recall in the split second it took for her to loop the phones USB cable from one port to the other and the computer spontaneously stopped. "Screech! You killed the computer!!!" The $1000 box sat on my lap lifeless. No attempt to resuscitate it succeeded and it sat awaiting it's maker. Until the next best thing came home, pulled the battery painlessly from its back, shoved it back in, and hit the power button. I had to take down the awaiting lynch, for my baby came back to life. And the other baby would live to strike again . . .

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Monkey Quiz

2007-07-10T18:53:00.000+02:00

My biggest fan, the Mr. Monkey, stated that it seems I'm too busy to keep up with postings on Our Blooming Jungle as of late. It is true, partially. Our computer decided it needed some work done on it, so I've had to live without it for a while and will have to again in the near future it seems. But it is also summer, is it not? One can only expect we are running over to the beach every day and staying up late in the summer sun sipping wine with the neighbors. If only that were the case. It seems the Netherlands decided to skip summer and head straight into a rainy fall. We've had rain nonstop for the last month! And when we went to pick up our kids from their last day of school we were all wearing our winter jackets with the rain and wind beating at our chilled frames. For some reason, as my Australian friend stated, it just didn't seem like the festive vacation atmosphere it should have been. Regardless, the kids are home now and we await warm weather. We've had our good days and our bad days, a few of which I will expound upon in the next couple of weeks before we head off on our European vacation. Not to mention more photographs! I have been too busy for those also, it seems. I promise some good ones to come. It seems that every time I see a guy carrying a ladder while riding his bike or hauling a huge TV on the back of his bike is the time I don't have my camera with me. I assure you, I'm going to be carrying that thing around with me everywhere I go now.

Now, for a little teaser. It is common for us to hear from one or another of the girls, "Mama, I miss _____ . . ." Fill in the blank with any person, place, event, food, or object from the states and you'll establish the basis of moaning's we regularly hear. Just yesterday, out of the blue as normal, Spider Monkey exclaimed, "Mama I really miss that drink that we used to be able to mix up and drink in the United States. You know, the one with a monkey name."

It took me three guesses to get it right, so I'll give you each three. Can you guess what that name of the drink is she really misses from the states?

Tang

Milestone: A full sentence!!

2007-06-27T18:55:00.000+02:00

Yes, she did it today! Screech Monkey is among that class of children which are statistically challenged due to the influence of a multilingual environment. Therefore she has taken a lot longer to define her vocabulary. Only just within the last month has the words "Mommy" and "Daddy" actually been used regularly and she has finally started repeating words we say, even using them every day since. At the dinner table she knows to say "Ahhhh Done!" when she is done and wants to get down. She's learned the word "no" and uses it at every chance, even with a vigorous head-shake. She likes the word so much she even uses it when she really actually means yes. She's got the name of one of our friends down pat and calls him by his name when she sees him. To us, it's still a foreign name and we find it hard to really call somebody by this name, but we still summon up the strength to call him by name, Jelle (pronounced the Baltimorese way of saying yellow: yell-uh). No doubt about it, the kid even calls out her own name over and over again and we know she'll have no problem with her l's.

But today she shocked me with what I would consider a full sentence as we were walking down the diaper aisle of the grocery store. Faces of babies lined the shelves and she excitedly pointed in their direction and yelled out, "Een baby; kijk, hoor!" (A baby, look!) Yes, all in Dutch! She's even got their intonations down. "Hoor" (pronounced like "or") is added on to the end of a statement (ex. yes, no, go) to add an extra intonation of severity, anger, irony, or surety. I'm so proud of my little multilingual baby!

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What my children will do for a good meal

2007-06-26T18:58:00.000+02:00

We prepared to partake of a scarce and favorite meal of Macaroni & Cheese; one of the few boxes which get shipped to us from the states by one grandparent or another. The kids were so excited that they were fighting over who got to pour the box of noodles into the pot, who got to stir, who got to pour the water, etc, etc, etc. I'd finally made the decisions for them and gave Spider Monkey the go ahead to pour the noodles into the pot, thinking her the most responsible to handle the precious little bits. She excitedly grabbed the open box from the counter . . . and dropped it. The tiny noodles sprayed across the kitchen floor and even scattered themselves through the living room. I suppose in America we would have swept it up and opened a new box, but we've only got ONE box left. I put the pot on the floor and all the kids got on their knees and began scavenging the floors in search of every little noodle. I think I later ran across one or two which they missed, but the result was still delicious.

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Cultural Embarrassment #4

2007-05-23T09:24:00.000+02:00

(Note: My parents are flying in from the states tomorrow so I'll be off having fun with them through the end of the month. Sorry, I don't expect I'll have the time to get on the computer, let alone write a blog, with all that we have planned. When we come back I'll have stories and pictures to share of our adventures throughout Germany and the famous Efteling Amusement Park. Until then I leave you with another of my infamous cultural embarrassments.)

We were in the midst of winter when I was finally starting to feel my soul settle into it's new friendships and surroundings. Spider Monkey was settled into school with her many friends and Squirrel Monkey was living up her new freedom in the big world of being a schoolgirl. The school sends home bimonthly newsletters with so much text I normally skim it for only the most important details. Those which seemed to pertain specifically to my children I would pull out my translation dictionaries and piece together in detail. It was through one of these that I was informed the school was having a Disco Night. My thoughts were still mainly full of various bureaucratic loopholes we still found ourselves squeezing through so the finer details of the night were put on the procrastination shelf. I memorized "Disco" and the times which Squirrel Monkey and Spider Monkey were to arrive as each class took their turns kicking it up on the school dance floor. My man was still taking his Dutch lessons and knew he would be missing out on the big event. I was on my own.

The days slipped by and before I knew it the night of the Disco was upon me. Disco, disco, disco? Think, think, think . . . Surely I'll be able to make something up for that theme; those styles were really in last summer in the states. I didn't have anything full of beads or sequins, but I did have a few hippie-style children's cloths we'd brought with us from the states. Same decade, right? And, hey, what other kid would be able to say they had disco era cloths from the states at the party? My kids were going to be the coolest on the dance floor. Squirrel Monkey didn't balk a bit with her outfit, but that could have been it was her only lapse in the sudden onset of illness during the day. I rushed her off to her dance time and returned home to put the final touches on Spider Monkey's outfit. She was wearing bell bottom jeans, layered shirts in the appropriate fashion, beaded necklace, barefoot, and to top it all off, one of dads funky paisley ties wrapped around her head as a headband. She looked so hip!! I was so proud of my handiwork that I was grinning ear-to-ear as I held up a mirror in front of her. She took one look and and wanted to run the other direction. "Mom! I look like everyone is going to laugh at me!"

"Don't be silly," I assured. "You're going to be the coolest looking kid in the group. No one is going to be as authentically dressed as you."

Time was of the essence so I dragged her skidding across the living room floor and grabbed both hands so she couldn't brace herself across the threshold of the doorway and into the chilly night air we ran. She pouted the whole way, convinced she looked too silly to be seen. I explained to her for the 5th time that a Disco was a really fun type of dance when her grandparents were young and frequenting the dance floor themselves and this is what people used to wear back then. "I promise, anybody who is anybody will be dressed just like you tonight."

But those silly parents didn't stick to the theme of the dance! All those cute little girls were running around wearing princess costumes just like the one Spider Monkey had begged to wear with pearls around their wrists and glitter in their hair. I had forgotten to bind those hands at the door of the school and now Spider Monkey was putting up a great fight. I convinced her that I needed to go in and get her sister and wouldn't she like to see her sister dancing? The minute she was within the building she found a corner behind the piano and hid. Still, convinced I was not the only one who would stick to the theme, I again promised her she would have other hippie companions arriving shortly and even if she didn't she'd be the envy of all those kids who didn't have "real" American cloths. It was convincing enough that I could pry the kid out of the corner and push her out onto the dance floor where she joined in dances with all of the little princesses, pirates, and princes regardless of the paisley tie wrapped around her head and the beads around her neck.

Have you guessed yet that the Dutch word for a dance is "disco". It was not a theme, it was just a dance. Will that poor kid ever let me live it down? Will she dare go to another "Disco" ever again? My husband stands convinced that she was surely the coolest kid on the floor anyway, just because she was so . . . "unique".