I found my pen!

Dear Readers,

This is Jungle Mama signing in once again.  I lost my pen somewhere in the chaos of the jungle and have only just now found it again.  Okay, so I found it a little while ago but it's only taken me this long to get up the nerve to use it again.

It is funny that while I was away and the blog remained dormant and dusty so many of my friends and family would ask if I was still blogging or would request I not put a particular incident into my blog.  Honestly, it was comments like these which would make my hand twitch and my grip slacken.  For reasons only in my head I assumed those same friends and family would take an interest in this blog to the point of being dedicated readers and if I found out they hadn't touched the page in over two years I'm sure my pens least worries would be the twitching.  Instead it would have found itself at the bottom of an Amsterdam canal  buddying up with a rusty bike wheel.  It's hard to avoid that mental trap as a blogger.  Regardless of who reads this blog, let alone this very post, I have taken up the pen for my own personal journey.  Those of you who choose to join me are welcome.  The river boat is large enough for all!

Now that the hard part is over I must jump the next hurdle; an honest to goodness post.  After all these years what do I write about?  Do I pick up where I left off?  Let's see... how old were those little monkeys back then?  Do I need to mention that we've moved back to the states?  Yes, the years in the Netherlands are over and memories are slowly fading in the fog of dusk.  Are our lives as interesting now that we're your standard suburb family?  What about all those other blog topics I'd love to start?  Maybe I'll ditch the jungle and start an entirely new blog which doesn't even mention my personal life or those of my family.  Gasp!  The thought!  Nah, I'll remain true to my family and continue to speculate on their future and humiliate their present.

At any rate, I feel there is much need for some reorganization of the blog and its links so perhaps I'll busy my time with those aspects for a while.  Always easy to procrastinate one way or another.

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

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 . . .

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!

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

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

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

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!

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?

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

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'?

 

"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"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.