Football Practice

Wednesday is football day at our house.  The boys have a half-day of school (like all kids in the Belgian school system).  The half-day is to give kids one afternoon a week to devote to an extracurricular choice.  Our boys chose football.  (aka foot and/or soccer.)

The boys play for a local team, so they could play with their friends from school.  Monkey is in the first year (U6) and AJ is in the third year (U8).  There are a few differences that I've noticed between an American team and here.  Last year, was AJ's first year playing on the local team, and Monkey played with the BSA (the Brussels Sports Association, an english-speaking group, mostly for Americans) - John was the coach.  Last year (given our one car situation) I often found myself running back and forth between the two games to drive everyone where they needed to be -- A perfect chance for back-to-back comparisons.

One noticeable difference, was the coffee.  The americans always brought their travel mugs and drank their coffee during the match.  The european parents waited until after the match, to go buy each other drinks (coffee, coke, beer or wine) at the stadium bar (any and every sport facility has a bar here - even the pool!)  Here, the socializing after the sport as important as the workout itself.   I have to say that I've learned to appreciate the later.  Standing on a cold field drinking a luke-warm cup of coffee doesn't compare to coming in off a cold field and drinking a cup of european coffee (before noon) or beer/glass of wine (after noon - for me anyway.)  

This has become part of our Saturday morning tradition now.  After their matches, we go into the bar with the rest of the parents and wait for our kids.  The kids come in with their drink tickets, and we all have something to drink, and maybe a sandwich and/or a bag of chips.  I love it - it reminds me of being a kid and getting to pick a treat from the concession stand after my brother's baseball game.

Another difference was that it took us awhile to realize (maybe March?) that we had signed on for a full school year commitment.  Who would have thought?  In the U.S., kids play one sport in the fall, another for winter and maybe even a third and fourth for spring and summer.  And of course a Minnesota winter obviously doesn't cooperate with the idea of a full school year of outdoor soccer.  AJ was a bit tired of foot by the time the season ended in the spring, but he spent the summer with a soccer ball attached to his foot so we signed up again for this year, knowing full well (this time) what the commitment entailed.

Which brings me to his little brother.  He signed on as well, and is incredibly happy to be on a local team of his own.  He often plays goalie, and I have to say, he is a really fun goalie to watch.  He dives for the ball and isn't afraid to throw his body whichever direction it needs to go to make the stop.  Incredibly, he also stays very level-headed.  One game, I watched him give up a string of goals, and to my amazement, he kept his head.  It never phased him in the least.  After watching Manny Fernandez (former NHL goalie for the Wild, for those non-hockey fans reading this) repeatedly become a head case if he had a bad streak -- time and time again, I was impressed with my Monkey's ability to "shake-it-off."

We did have to have a talk though, last week.

The only problem with Wednesdays, is that the boys have different practice schedules.  I pick them up from school at 12h30.  I take one of them for a practice (the field is right by school) at 14h30/2:30 pm, and he's done at 15h45 (3:45pm).  The next kid has practice from 16h (4 pm) to 17h30 (5:30 pm).  I drive back and forth to school on Wednesdays no less than five times at regular intervals.  On one such Wednesday, I was dropping AJ off and picking Monkey up.  I walked all over - out to the back fields, around the clubhouse building, everywhere.  I could not find Monkey.  While I was starting to get a little bit anxious, I wasn't in a panic just yet.  And then I checked the bar.  There was my kid, on a bar stool, on his knees, belly-up to the bar chatting it up with the bartender drinking cherry flavored water (free, I might add, it's not like I send them to soccer practice with coins in their pockets).  Because, he told me during the inevitable inquisition, "he was thirsty."  Of course.

After a reprimand, he promised never to mooch free drinks off the bartender ever again.  And I was left with the incredulous realization that I just had a talk with my kid about how he can't hang out in a bar and order drinks all by himself.  He's six.  I thought I had at least another 12 to 14 years before I had to have that conversation.  But then again, it is Monkey.  He's ahead of his time.

American Football

Football in Belgium (Europe) is soccer.  To talk about the sport that involves tackling, passing, kick-offs and a brown pointy ball, it is best to specify American Football.

That's not to say no one here knows anything about American Football.  Last month, the two Belgian boys that live next door were playing football in the backyard, and they were using their bike helmets as protective gear.  Imagine their sheer delight when John went out to our garage and came back with the boys' purple Vikings helmets.    It almost made it worth the extra baggage fee he had to pay last fall when he brought them home, worth it.

Luke and Avery went out to help teach them the rules, and soon they were running plays, but eventually they were all more interested in the tackling part.

This year, is the first year we have an ESPN channel on our local cable package.  Over the years, John has been watching NFL games via the internet and the NFL season pass.  It has always been "Sunday Night Football" at our house, because with the time difference, the first Sunday afternoon game starts at 7pm.  Last night, he had the NFL pass on the computer (Vikings game) and a different game on ESPN.  His chair was in the middle of the room so he could watch either.  But mostly, he was focused on Facebook.  At one point he commented "I'm not even really watching, it's just nice to have it on in the background."  And that's true.  On the NFL pass, we even get some of the American commercials.  This time of year, as we go into Thanksgiving week, I am thankful for those subtle, American customs that sneak their way into our life here.

Holes.

Last month, we noticed that "they" (workers, from the water company, we think) dug a big hole at the end of the block.  A day later, there was another hole, about a block away.  A few days after that, they dug a hole across the street from us, on the corner of our neighbor's driveway.  It makes her turn out of her driveway so tight, that she can't get out to the street without backing up at least once.  About a week later, they dug one directly across, on our side of the street.  These big, deep holes have blue and yellow plastic fences around them.  I thought the neighbor's cat fell into one the other night, but it was a false alarm (thankfully, I didn't really want to climb down into a hole to rescue a three-legged cat.)

Last week, on our way out the door to go to school, "they" were digging more holes.  (This time, I know it was the cable company, he told me so when he asked me to move my car.)  They dug these holes on our lower sidewalk, next to where everyone parks their cars.  They jack-hammered through the cement stones and it was quite the ruckus.  But by the time I brought everyone home from school, everything was all put back together again.  But then the next day, they were at it again.  The same thing, they waited for all of the cars to leave, dug more holes, made lots of noise, and then everything was all patched up again by dinner time.

Our front walk is still a big mess of sand and dust.  But I'm actually ok with that, because it means it hasn't rained in over a week to wash it all away.  And a week in Belgium without rain, means we've had a lot of sun, and sun in Belgium makes everything more tolerable.

Today, they are jack-hammering away at the big hole across the street.  The one that has been sitting open for at least a month.  (But then again, there were a few bank holidays in there, who has time during  consecutive bank holidays to do any work?)  I hope they aren't making it bigger.    

What are all these holes for?  It is almost like they are looking for buried treasure.  But I'm sure it's nothing as exciting as that.  Just boring old utility work.  But trying to figure out the rhyme or reason to it is interesting....

Anatomy of a week's vacation.

This week is fall break, and the children have one full week off from school.  Monday morning came, and we blissfully slept in.  Well, not really actually.  We had our time change this weekend so everyone was up early, but still, sans alarm clock was nice.

Monday and Tuesday were a breeze.  The kids were so happy to be home.  They went from one room to the next, playing with their toys as if it were Christmas Day and they had never seen them before.  And get this, they even picked up after themselves!

By Tuesday afternoon, the novelty was wearing off, and boredom began to set in.  But just in time, AJ's friend arrived for a sleep over.  The atmosphere was fresh and exciting again, and the three boys played together without notable incidents through the next morning.  Then I packed them (the boys) all off to soccer practice and an afternoon of fresh air and exercise combined with a late night the night before meant early bedtime.  Good thing too, as John is off to Italy for a couple of days.

But I knew that this morning, we would need an outing.  So what to do with three little kids?  Maybe a museum?  A google search revealed that a museum would either require public transportation or a drive (and parking) in Brussels traffic, and at least 40 euros in admission fees.  I wasn't sure if I had enough patience to commit to such an outing.  I also doubted my ability to come home with the same number of kids that I started with.  Maybe if someone were paying me 40 euros, I would be able to find said patience, and not be tempted to sell one of them off at some point during the outing.

Instead, I packed them all up and took them to the local swimming pool.  It can be an intimidating outing here.  Swimming pools here have co-ed locker rooms and stringent rules about speedo swimsuits and swim caps.  A quick look at the pool's website reassured me that I understood what I would need for this adventure.  A former competitive swimmer myself, I made sure my silver silicon cap was tucked in our swim sack along with the speedos and towels and we were on our way.

After a combined 7.50 euros in entry fees (and that's even the non-resident rate) by approximately 10h15 we were happily splashing our way through the morning.  By 12h30 we were home for lunch and a tired 3-year old was incredibly compliant with the idea of an afternoon nap.

As I type this, I have ten barrettes in my hair.  (Miss B's new very favorite thing to do is put every barrette in my hair at once.)  The boys are wrestling upstairs and I'm tired of telling them to go outside, and anyway now it's raining, so I'm just going to let them have at it until someone gets hurt and then I can say "I told you so."

Miss B is now busy putting all of her dollies in "time out" on the steps.  At least she has found someone to yell and boss that is happy to go along with it (the boys aren't always excited about going into time out just because their little sister tells them to - nor am I.)

Ok, time to sign-off.  The inevitable happened and there is loud crying and a lot of pain coming from one of the boys upstairs.  I get to go say "I told you so" and then move on to my special reserve rainy day idea - an afternoon movie.

But what, I ask you, am I going to do with tomorrow?!

Happy Halloween!

A week or so before Halloween, we were driving in the car and I said to Miss B "you could be a little witch for Halloween?" after a thoughtful pause she answered "or maybe me be a wittle pink pwincess instead!"  Once she saw the boys cool vampire teeth, she amended her costume to be a vampire princess and I had to buy one more set of glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth.  (She has no idea how cool that costume idea actually is in today's pop culture Twilight world.)  

We carved up our pumpkins before Daddy had to go back to the U.S. for his trip.  It's a good thing our trick-or-treat night came early here in Belgium, our pumpkins never would have made it to the actual holiday in our 60 degree warm autumn weather.  They got moldy and smelly in our kitchen really fast!  

Trick-or-treating in Belgium is very much a grassroots effort.  While All Saints Day (Nov 1) is a recognized national holiday (being a catholic country with a national religion and all) all Hallow's Eve - the day of the dead is not.  All of the Halloween aisles in the stores are R-rated.  My kids don't need to see costumes that combine axes stuck in heads with a lot of fake blood.  Any non-horror themed costume idea has to be imported from the United States (or what I've learned through the years) bought during Carnival week in February.  

But the American families here are numerous, and organized.  In one village, an American friend of mine organized her neighbors for a trick-or-treat night when her boys were young and she wanted them to experience the tradition.  It grew and grew, and now her boys are too old to trick-or-treat, and the night in her neighborhood has grown so big that she had to hand it over to a local business to sponsor.  Over the years that we've been here, more and more neighborhoods are organizing their own trick-or-treat nights.  This year, I was by myself with three kids.  So we took an easy route and went to the neighborhood across from the American school.  I dropped my candy off at the school the week before (I told you the Americans here are organized!)  And any house with a pumpkin sign last Thursday night was fair game.  

In an attempt to make my single-mom-night-out easier, and be cool at the same time, we went to McDonald's for dinner before we trick-or-treated.  There is only one McDonald's, and it just so happens to be very near to the American school (go figure).  AJ was more than apprehensive about setting his vampired foot into a public establishment.  I assured him that there was sure to be other American kids in costume having dinner before trick-or-treating.  I was wrong.  To my amazement, we were the only vampires in the place and the talk of the town.  (Miss B looked awfully cute with her princess dress and vampire teeth.)  

Trick-or-treating was a success.  I could even relax a little, the kids were old enough this year to ring each doorbell by themselves, even the scary houses.  After all, how can a princess be frightened when she has two tall vampires on either side of her?  After each house, Miss B had to bring each piece of candy back individually to show me.  She asked over and over, "Mommy, another one?!"  and at one point, she turned and said "mommy, me weally, weally wike Halloween!"  We do have a little work to do though, as it  was revealed that the older boys didn't know what a tootsie roll was.  

I came home with the same number of kids that I started with, which was my primary goal for the evening.  There were a few seconds of panic when I couldn't find Monkey, thankfully, it wasn't dark yet.  Monkey is still talking about the extra piece of candy he got when he trick-or-treated a house all by himself.  

We were out for just over an hour, each kid got about 20 pieces of candy, they were home in bed at a decent time and they even fell asleep (despite the sugar rush).  All in all, a fun night in Belgium.

Miss B and the multiple personalities.

I survived the first two children without the colorful stories that I've often heard other parents share.  My boys never took their diapers off in their cribs.  My boys never climbed on top of furniture before they could really walk.  My boys never took their clothes off and danced around the backyard.  They didn't color on walls or furniture and certainly not their own bodies.  My third kid has done all of the above and more, and many of these on a regular basis.

Miss B is an angel at school.  She loves being there, she loves her friends and she loves her teachers.  The teachers comment all the time about how she is always smiling with her cute dimples.  She kisses every adult upon greeting and goodbye (as is the custom here in Belgium) - even Luke's soccer coach.  But then she will run away from me in the parking lot, flashing those two cute dimples, taunting me.  Her sparkly eyes say: "Chase me...chase me....what do you mean walk with you in the parking lot?  Are you kidding?  This is so much more fun!"

She also has these Jeckle and Hyde episodes where she flies into a rage with little or no notice.  (Ok, so the notice is usually me saying no to something - like candy before dinner.  I know, I'm such a horrible parent.)     This episode almost always involves her throwing her little body on the floor and kicking, or hitting at me, or sometimes even trying to bite.  What is that all about??  My boys never did that!  Is this a girl thing?

As near as I can tell, it's all tied to emotions with some aggravating factors.  I can almost see and/or predict when a Jeckle and Hyde moment is going to happen.  The aggravating factors are usually hunger and fatigue.  And the moment almost always comes when she really, really wants something (like the aforementioned candy.)  Or if she really wants to wear a certain item, like a tutu or tiara.   If she thinks I'm not going to let her, she won't even wait for the words to come out of my mouth.  She just gets really mad, really fast.  Hmm.  Irrationally jumping to conclusions.  Doesn't sound at all like anyone I know.  There is a reason she is my daughter.

We are working on slowing down.  Taking deep breathes.  Using our words to talk through situations without screaming and carrying on.  But it's exhausting and comes with collateral damage - I have more than one healing bite mark to prove it.  My intuition and experience tells me this is a phase and it too shall pass.  I just hope it passes before the babysitter that lives next door is frightened off by the blood curdling screams and fits that I'm sure carry through the shared wall, because I could really use a grown-up night out.

My Pipe Dream

I have a pipe dream.  And I was so close to it this week that I could almost taste it.  Which leads me to the question:  Is it better to come that close and have it slip away, or not to come close at all?

My pipe dream is my mystery novel.  I wrote a book, a mystery.  I finished last spring, and I've just started to put the feelers out for an agent.  I started with a couple of inquiries to New York (over the summer, while we were stateside.)  But upon returning to Belgium in the fall, it made more sense to focus on the agencies in London.   After all, I'm living on this side of the ocean, London is a cheaper postage stamp.

I sent off a couple of inquiries in September.  September 9, to be exact.  A couple of weeks ago, I got a really good rejection letter.  (Yes, there is such a thing as a good reject.)  The email said that the plot was strong, but the writing was weak.  That made me laugh, because the first good rejection letter said that the writing was really strong but he didn't care for the plot.  All in all, a perfect example of  the subjectivity of this whole process.  I feel as though I may as well point an arrow into a dark room and hope that I hit something eventually, somewhere resembling a target.

In any event, it inspired me to send off another batch of query letters.  This time, the date (coincidentally) was October 10.  And thus a superstitious process was born.  You can bet I'll be sending my next round of queries out on November 11.

October 10 was a Monday.  On Thursday (one week ago) I got an email.  From an agency requesting a chance to read the full manuscript and they wanted a summary of the next book as well.  This agency was not just any agency.  This agency, was Harry Potter's people.  After dancing around the kitchen and basking in the glow for an evening, I sent them off an email with the several requested attachments, one of them very large.

I've been waiting, holding my breath for a week.  I've tried not to let my overactive imagination think ahead to how my life would change if this pipe dream became a reality.  I tried not to imagine what it would look like, feel like to see my name in print on the cover of a book that I wrote.  It was hard.  There's that aforementioned overactive imagination at play.  I told myself that even if nothing came of it, it was still really cool that the Harry Potter people wanted to read it.

So now that nothing has come of it, it's hard to remember that part.  It was a good rejection letter, the best yet, actually.  But at the moment, the only words that are registering are "....but we don't wish to represent you."

Sigh.  The disappointment weighs heavy.  And yes, even a tear or two has welled.

At the end of the day, I have to go back to my personal writing mantra.  I don't write to get published, I write so that I don't explode.  I write because for me, it is like breathing.  If I don't do it, something in my life is missing.  If someone somewhere along the way wants to read it, then I guess that's just a bonus.

So to answer the posed question, it's better to come close of course.  Even though it has slipped away, eventually (when I'm done feeling sorry for myself) I will be able to remind myself that if I could get this close once, maybe the next time will be a bullseye.

An Illegal Alien...Temporarily

Thanks to a snafu with the work permit paperwork, for a week or two, I was an illegal immigrant.  Interesting enough, they renewed the children's permits without realizing it, so they were fine.  John had a trip to the U.S. so he expedited his paperwork to make sure he'd be able to re-enter the country after his departure.  That just left me.  

Here in Belgium, they often have random checkpoints.  Police blockades.  These occur at various hours of the day (not just at night like a DWI checkpoint.)  It's my understanding that these are employed to look for illegal immigrants, driving under the influence, and other various infractions.  

This is another one of those times where I've noticed the absence of the constitutional protections offered in the U.S. that I would normally take for granted.  There is no probable cause requirement here.  

I have never been stopped at one of these checkpoints, although I've seen them often enough.  I figured that it would be just my luck that I would get stopped at one of these while I was carrying an expired i.d.  It didn't happen.

I did however, happen upon a checkpoint a week or so after I had my shiny new i.d. card in hand.  In the past, any time I've gone by one of these checkpoints, it so happens that the police officers are all busy with other cars and I zip on by without being stopped (and usually avoiding eye contact with the officer in charge of pointing the cars over to the side of the road.)  This time, I looked the officer right in the eye as I slowed down in accordance with the orange cones he was using to filter cars past one at a time.  I practically dared him to pull me over.  (Might as well show that shiny new card to someone, right?  And my curiosity about what happens at these random stops has been peaked.)  He peered into my car and waved me by. I was a little disappointed.

It made me think that racial profiling might be standard practice here as well.   If my skin had been a different color, I wonder if my day would have been interrupted with an impromptu police interview?  

A Voice.

I don't get homesick very often, but I was homesick last week.  It was for something that caught me a little off guard...I was homesick for democracy.

I found myself in a situation where I didn't have a voice.  At all.  Now that's not all that unusual, there is a whole language barrier that I deal with on a daily basis.  (I really should find a french class now that all of the kids are in school.)  But that's not what this is about.

The first week of school, the usual calendar of the year's events such as vacations, holidays and class trips came home in a backpack (or three.)  A tiny little detail jumped out at me immediately.  This year's Classes Vertes (we call it Green Week at our house - it's a Monday thru Friday class trip for the 1st thru 3rd graders) is no longer for 1st graders.

Ok, yes.  I know.  If you are reading this and you are an American, you are probably thinking, "First grade is much too young to go away on an overnight (let alone 4 nights) away from home with a school group."  That's what I used to think too.   I thought that exact same thing two years ago when AJ was in First Grade and his teachers started talking about their spring Green Week trip.

But despite my anxiety at my oldest baby leaving to go away with his class, I didn't want to be the only parent to keep my kid home.  I didn't want him to miss out on a bonding experience with his class.  We're here in this country for an immersion experience.  So I told myself that first week of school, his first year of primary, "It's nothing to worry about right now, kids grow and change a lot in a short amount of time, we'll deal with this in the spring when it's time for the trip."

For the last two years, Monkey (AJ's little brother) has watched enviously, waiting for his moment when he could climb on that school bus and go away with his class (and his big brother).  Last year, he shouted to the whole world that he only had one more year to wait.  He was finally going to get to go to Green Week this year.

An email to the principal and a conversation with Luke's teacher revealed that this year, "parents complained that the children were too little."  Now, I happen to know that parents have said that in the past (I said that) but never, was the green week trip canceled for the first graders.

I also know that there are a lot of parents in Monkey's class that only have one child, or that have an oldest child.  I don't know what happened, I don't know who or how the decision was made.  I do know that I never had a voice.

If I had a voice, this is what I would have said.  I would have said, yes, I know they are little.  Yes, I know it's four days.  But the teachers do an excellent, amazing job at preparing the kids for these days away.  And somehow, in all of that preparation of the children, they happened to prepare the parents too. I would have also said that as hard as it was to say goodbye to my baby for a few days, the difference I noticed in him when he got off that bus to hug me again at the end of it all, was well worth it.  He was confident.  He was self-assured.  He was so proud of himself.  And he had so, so much fun.

I am so sad that Monkey doesn't get to do that.  I will be crushed if we are called back to the U.S. before he gets a chance to go.  I am sad that I never had a chance to stand up for the teachers, and tell everyone how good of a job that they did with the children.  And how I felt the same way - but even more so because it isn't even our home country.   But mostly, I am so sad that I never had a voice.

Now to be fair, I don't know if this is the way things always get decided with something of this sort in Belgium, or if it's a quirky one-time thing that just happened at our school.  But it made me homesick for the democratic process I would normally take for granted. The process where all of the parents (or at least those that wanted a voice) come together in one room and they talked about their concerns together.  But I know that it certainly didn't happen for this situation.

My Angel

Today was Wednesday, half-day for public school kids in Belgium.  As a good friend of mine put it perfectly just yesterday, "we drop them off and we have just enough time to spin around on our heads before we have to go back and pick them up."

Miss B is going to stay home on Wednesdays.  She needs some mommy time in her now busy week and Wednesday is a tough day for the little ones.  We don't get home for lunch until nearly 1pm, and then we turn around to go back out for everyone's football practices.  (The reason for the half-day is to give kids one afternoon to devote towards an extra-curricular activity.)  It's brilliant, really.  My boys are playing football (i.e. soccer).  This year, we even know that it's for the  whole year.  (Last year we assumed it would end after the fall, just like in the U.S., but it never did.  By about March we figured out that if they sign up to play on a local team, it's for the whole school year.)

But I'm getting off topic from what I wanted to tell about.  Miss B and I had a lovely morning.  We went on a coffee date, a quick stop at the grocery store, she had a chance to play at home and I caught up on a few things around here.  Thinking that I was being proactive, on our way out the door to pick up the boys, I put the glass bottles in the car to dump at the recycling bins at the end of our street.  (Glass bottles aren't picked up curbside, there are bins in every neighborhood and we have to sort our own.) Then I was going to run into the store at the train station to grab one more thing I needed for dinner.

Our glass depository is conveniently located next to the preschool down the street.  Not the smartest placement, come to think of it, especially once you hear this story.

My timing could not have been worse.  I stopped to dump my bottles just as all of the school parents were picking up their children.  Lots of traffic and lots of kids.  But continuing on to pick up the boys with three bags of smelly wine and beer bottles wasn't really an option either.  With the colored glass already sorted, I convinced myself it would be easy enough to jump out, dump each bag in the coordinating bin and be on my way.

Not so much.

Two cars were parked in what was supposed to be the bottle drive area.  My plastic bags were wet from the rain and heavy from the bottles.  They slipped from my hands in my haste and smashed to the ground.  I grabbed bottles and started tossing them where they needed to go.  Another bag slipped and broke.  There was literally broken glass everywhere.  My broken glass.  And children (little children) were all on their way to their cars.  Cars were honking at me.  (Did I forget to mention that the street is narrow and even though cars could get around my car, the one behind me was trying to fit somewhere in or around where my car was stopped.)

I looked down at my mess of broken glass.  I still tried to pick up a bottle or two that was big enough to put in the bin.  Two men who had stopped for some strange reason to have a conversation right at that spot, just stopped talking and stared.  One made a comment of some sort about glass, it was probably about my bad timing, but I prefer to think that he was echoing the thoughts that were ringing in my head about the cars that thoughtlessly parked so as to block the glass bins.  (The language in my head was a little bit stronger than that.)  In any event, I was too flustered for my mental translator to work properly.

Then I saw the blood.  I had blood gushing all over my hand.  I had no choice but to walk away from the mess of glass, get in my car and drive away.  With one hand, I dug out kleenex to wrap around my wound.  By the time I got to the parking lot for the store at the end of the street, it was soaked.  In the parking lot, with Miss B by my side, I realized a tiny cut on my right hand was bleeding profusely.  I found a band-aid in my purse and got that one under control.  But the one-inch cut on my thumb was not going to be so easy.  I was on my second wipe and out of bandaids.  At that exact moment, a cashier from the store came outside to have a smoke break.

She took one look at me and told me she'd be right back.  She came back with antiseptic spray, gauze, cotton, and tape.  I just started to cry.  Right there in the parking lot, she cleaned and wrapped up my entire thumb.  I'm a mom.  I'm the one that always takes care of everyone else.  To have someone like that appear at exactly the moment I needed someone to take care of me, is nothing short of a miracle.

I often hear expats complain about the customer service here in Belgium.  Personally, I've experienced much worse customer service in the U.S. and I've never had a customer service incident here worth mentioning (not including phone calls of course, especially to Belgacom).  Until today - in a good way.  This woman saved me today.  I am 100% sure that I would not have been able to get my cut to stop bleeding on my own.  She saved me from an afternoon in an ER waiting for stitches.  And I even made it to school on time to pick-up the boys.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go un-wrap my bloody-mess of a hand and assess the wound-situation.  On second thought, maybe I'll make Johnny do it for me.  Sometimes it's ok to ask for help.   Speaking of, I think he's going to be on bottle duty for awhile.  It's going to be awhile before I'll be able to return to the scene where today's traumatic events transpired.  At least until someone cleans up the glass, and the rain washes away any possible blood spatter.  I will also say lots of prayers that no one gets hurt on my glass mess.

And I can assure you, I will never, ever go back there with any sort of glass if it's even close to a drop-off or pick-up time.

Saved by the Poop Book

I really hope that this is my last entry about poop.  But the second I say that some unimaginable event will happen regarding said substance and thus I won't say it too loudly because I don't want to jinx myself.

We have had a battle of wills going on at our house with respect to the potty training.  Miss B got it in her little blond head that she didn't want to sit on the potty and preferred to do the dirty business in her diaper.  Or underpants, should she happen to be wearing those.  Which, of course she has been mostly wearing.  Yuck, yuck and yuck if you know what I mean.

She was getting frustrated.  She knew when she needed to go, but wouldn't sit still long enough for nature to take its course.  Over the weekend, I tried to devise ways to keep her sitting on the potty long enough for her little body to take care of business.  She would have none of it.

And then, I remembered "the book."   I scrambled to the book shelves to find it, forgotten from potty training efforts of a few years ago.  An unsuspecting adult who has never had to go through potty training, would be utterly confused by this book, should they happen upon it in a children's book store.  It's called "Everyone Poops."  It is exactly what the title claims, all about poop.  It goes something like: Big animals make big poop, little animals make little poop (you get the idea) it moves on to talk about people and then ends with the lines "...everyone eats, so everyone poops."

This book saved me.  Miss B thought that it was the funniest, most fascinating book topic she'd ever seen.  We made a deal.  We could only read the book if she was sitting on the potty.  Our second time through it, the miracle I've been waiting for the last couple of weeks finally happened.

And so I hereby declare this to be my last entry about poop.  Unless something unimaginable happens that I just have to share with you.

How Many Milestones Can We Fit into One Day?

Preface:  I've learned that it is difficult to blog about the children without using their names.  In an attempt to still keep them a tad bit anonymous, from here on out, the first-born is AJ.  The second kid is Monkey.  And the little one is Miss B.

Yesterday was the first day of school for the public schools in Belgium.  It was Miss B's first day of Maternelle (there are three years of kindergarten here, starting at age 2.5).  It was Monkey's first day of Primary.  It was also AJ's 8th birthday.

Miss B was beyond excited.  For all of her short life, we've been making the walk up to the school gates to kiss her brothers good-bye in the morning or greet them after their school day.  It was finally her day to march through the gates and wave goodbye and she was all ready for it.  On the big kid playground she was the only kid from First Maternelle not clinging to her parents.  No, she was running in the middle of all of the First, Second and Third Primary boys.  When it was time to go into her play yard and classroom, she skipped.  When it was time for us to leave, she was pretty cool with that.  When I picked her up, she was wearing different pants.  (An accident.)  Today, she was a little less excited, there were a few more tears.  She cried when I picked her up and she is very very tired.  French immersion will do that to a kid.  But she'll be ready to go again on Monday, I'm sure.  And no, I wasn't sad to see my baby go off to school.  She made it very easy to walk away because she was so excited, and I was just thrilled and happy for her.

Monkey loved his first day in Primary school.  AJ was excited for his birthday to finally arrive.  He showed up at school with his arms full of cupcake boxes.  When your kid has a birthday on the first day of school, there really is no other choice than to send treats.  Even if it does add a whole extra level of stress to the first day of school prep.

My morning was spent running errands, happily rushing about without dragging a single child along with me.  I'd feel like I was lying if I didn't admit that I had "freedom" themed songs playing like a soundtrack in my head all morning.  Lyrics like: "I'm free, to do what I want, any old time"  (Soup Dragons) or "Freedom, you've got to give for what you take" (George Michael)  would randomly pop into my head throughout my errand jaunt.  

We also celebrated another milestone yesterday.  One year ago (the first day of school) we noticed Luke's hair was falling out.  A whirlwind of doctor visits eventually resulted in a diagnosis of Alopecia and a three-day hospital stay for a progressive treatment.

We celebrated all of these milestones by creating a new one.  After school, we took our first family bike ride - without training wheels - to the outdoor patio pub at the Chateau and toasted our day.

Lightening Strikes

One of the reasons I love traveling back to Minnesota in the summertime is that we almost always get at least one good thunderstorm while we are there.  Thunderstorms just aren't as common here - maybe the temperature is just too consistent - without dramatic drops from high to low.  Anyway.  I'm not a meteorologist.  I don't really have any idea.

But this last month, we've had quite a few thunderstorms here.  Last week, a thunderstorm in the middle of the night lasted for hours.  Another thunderstorm delivered a lightening bolt that hit our building.  Everything shook, and all of the burglar alarms started going off.  Here, a lot of people have homes with burglar alarms.  These are not exactly silent alarms.  These alarms are attached to the exterior of the building in an obvious place, with a flood light that flashes and an obnoxious blare that screams at a high decibel when triggered.

Everyone's power was knocked out.  The next morning, it took me longer than I care to admit to find the switch in the basement to reset it.  Ok, let me rephrase.  It took me longer than I care to admit to learn that there was such a switch in the first place.  I had to hear the vacuum cleaner next door before I knew I had to start asking around about the power loss and what to do about it.  (Remember, that sometimes my strategy here is to wait to see what happens.  Sometimes, things just fix themselves.  This wasn't one of those times.)

Our neighbors had their phones and modem fried.  A few hours later after our power was back on, I realized that our brand new dishwasher was still dead.  The flashing lights indicated some sort of short. The first available appointment was a week out.  Today, that coveted appointment revealed that a part needed to be ordered and a new appointment was scheduled for next week (the next available time slot, of course).  But the repairman explained that he has been extra busy because of those storms.  Apparently, a lot of electrical appliances have shorted out.

I've decided that we got off lucky.  It was an appliance that is still under warranty, it's an appliance that our landlord maintains.  And while it's not as convenient, it's not critical.    I can use my hands to wash my dishes.  Our computers (both were plugged in at the time, updating iTunes) - now THAT would have been a critical loss.  Not to mention expensive.

I'll wash my dishes and buy myself some new fancy hand lotion for my dishpan hands.

The Laundromat

Now that we have been here for three years, it's not very often that I have those moments of complete panic    that used to be so common in the first few months.  That feeling of walking into a place, and having absolutely no clue about what was expected of me or how to accomplish what I needed to accomplish.

Flashing back, I remember having said moments of panic: the first time I went to the gas station; the first time I had to pull a cart out of the cart coral (here you need to insert the proper coin), the first time I had to buy produce (here, loose produce is weighed by the purchaser on a scale and you have to print the price sticker); the first time I had to use my bancontact card.  It was a fun first week, filled with lots of panic-stricken  moments.  

I am happy to be beyond all of that.  Every now and then, though, something comes a long to remind me that I don't know everything.  

A few months ago, one of the kids threw-up on our king-sized quilt.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stuff it into our 8kg washing machine.  There is a laundromat in town, across from the grocery store.  I had driven by it a number of times, thinking "I really should wash our big quilt from our bed."  The sick kid expedited this errand.

I did a little reconnaissance.  I learned that there was a big enough washing machine, I needed my own soap, and I had to buy tokens on the wall.  Upon venturing back with my smelly quilt, I was delighted to learn that the large washing machine had a delicate cycle that only took 24 minutes.  

Mission accomplished.  The other day when I realized that the cover for our Ikea sofa was washable, I returned with confidence to the laundromat, no reconnaissance necessary.    

I know it's a simple thing to be proud of.  But I'm proud of it anyway.

A play date.

This is the last full week of summer vacation.  Monday morning arrived with overcast skies and a lot of rain.  The kids insisted on a “stay-home day” which quickly turned into a “whining and fighting day.”  It appears that others were having the same problem.  Just after lunch, the Middle Kid’s friend from across the street called and invited him to play.

Our neighbors with the cat are home now.  (One side note – they were grateful for my slug traps.)  They have a daughter that is two years older than our youngest and the girls like to play together.  She was very happy to come to play at our house this afternoon.  But their play dates provide an interesting language challenge.

Our neighbors speak German at home but their daughter goes to school in French.  I speak to the mom in English, but she doesn't know French.  When her little girl comes here to play, I can speak to her daughter in French, and she can tell me what she needs (in French).  My daughter bosses her around quite successfully in English.  I don’t think she speaks much at all when they are actually playing.  Although, one day, her mom asked me if our Little One speaks Dutch.

Huh?

No, I assured her that while Dutch has trickled in here and there sometimes with the boys, the Little One would have no reason to have learned it yet.  She explained that her daughter told her ours spoke Dutch.

Today, I figured out why her daughter thinks that ours speaks Dutch.  The girls were playing together at our house and at one point, mine was jibber-jabbering away in complete nonsense.  When I asked her what language she was speaking, she said French.  

Her teacher is going to have a lot of fun next week.

The Annual School Supply Scavenger Hunt

I don’t know why I keep thinking that the search for school supplies will get easier every year.  It just doesn’t.  This year, I have three lists, with varying degrees of complicity. 

The Little One’s list is pretty easy.  Things like markers, crayons (which are actually colored pencils), glue sticks, pillow and blanket for nap time, and a box for her nuk when it’s not nap time. 

The Middle Kid’s list had the potential to be difficult, but it has only been two years since I bought all of the same stuff for the big kid.  The more strange the item on the list, the more likely I was to remember it.  Like three little boxes, or a deck of playing cards, or a pair of dice. 

The 3^rd Grader’s list was the toughest.  This year, I learned what “highlighter” and “protractor” are in French.  “Equerre” and “surligneur” respectively.  I'm more than a little bit scared for the homework he's going to need help with.

One problem with all of the lists is that they can be very specific.  For example, they all need pads of paper, and colored paper.  But they all need a different size, and sometimes the teachers specify which weight.  They each need several presentation folders.  (These are plastic folders, with clear plastic pages to insert artwork, etc.)  But each kid needs folders with different numbers of pages, and I’m convinced that sometimes they teachers specify folders with page counts that don’t exist.  Like one kid needed a folder with 50 pages.  But in all the stores I went to, I could only find 40 pages or 60 pages.  Recently, (I think maybe last year) I let go of my type-A need to be exact, which was liberating. This year, if I needed a folder that required 50 pages and I couldn’t find it, I just bought the 60 page one.  It made things much easier.

Another problem is that words don’t translate exactly.  (Something about “French-French” and “Belgian-French”).  So while they are sometimes helpful, my online translator tools and pocket dictionary don’t always cut it. 

I have developed a strategy, though.  And it seems to work year after year, especially in the smaller, specialty paper stores.  I head to the school supply aisle.  I get as much as I can by myself.  Then, I wait until an unsuspecting employee ventures within a two-asile vicinity.  I pick the most obscure things on the list, explain I don’t speak French very well and have them show me what they are.  This year, I started with the protractor and highlighter.  My employee was very patient and helpful this year, and she walked me through about five or six other things.  There were even a few things that she couldn’t figure out, which oddly made me feel a lot better.  After she went on her way, I sorted myself out and realized I only had a few things left.  Next I asked an unsuspecting mom, that took care of another one or two and the rest I’ll figure out later. 

So while the lists don’t get any easier, I suppose my comfort level -- and therefore attitude -- has improved.  Mostly, I’ve just learned to let go of having to do the whole thing perfectly, which has helped the stress level immensely.  

The War On Slugs

I hate slugs.  They are just disgusting little creatures.  I’m sure they serve some sort of purpose, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what.  Last year, I ran through the grass late at night in the backyard.  Barefoot.  I stepped on a slug.  That did nothing to promote them in my eyes.

The last few weeks, we have been looking after our German neighbors’ cat.  The cat, we call it tripod (it only has three legs) is a really sweet outdoor cat.  To make it easier on us, they made a little outdoor shelter for the cat on their patio bench, gave it a huge tank of self-filling dry food and all we have to do is check in every couple of days to make sure it has enough and maybe give her a few treats.  It’s prefect, really, as when I watch this cat for their smaller trips, the cat prefers to stay out for days at a time anyway.  And I know from experience that cats who get mad about their people traveling like to pee all over carpets.  So it’s a pretty good set-up for everyone.

Except that I realized the cat wasn’t eating.  I thought maybe she was mad about her people being gone.  Every couple of days I gave her a can of wet food to appease her and make sure she wasn’t starving.  However, one early morning visit the other day revealed the real reason the cat didn’t want to eat. 

The slugs had slimed her food.  Yuck, yuck and yuck.  It was a damp morning, and to my horror, I looked down and her food was covered with giant, slimy slugs.  She looked at me and meowed.  Ok then.

Right then and there, we declared war on the slugs.  I grabbed the food tank to scrap them off her bench.  I shuddered and did that little creepy-shiver dance thing you do when something is really gross.  The slugs landed in a pile on the ground, as did about a cup-and-a-half of her food.  It was the slimed part anyway.  I laid new towels down on her bench to cover all of the slim trails.  I filled her dish with fresh food.  I left the big pile of food on the ground to serve as a decoy.  Slugs are by nature lazy, right?  They won’t climb up her bench if there is a pile of food on the ground.

And then.  I remembered reading somewhere a long time ago that snails like the taste of beer.  If you put some in a shallow dish, they climb into it, get drunk and can’t get out.  Maybe slugs like beer too?  After all, aren't they kind of the same as slugs, just with a shell?  I went home and got a beer and some shallow plastic take-away dishes.  I came back an hour later and guess what?  There was a slug taking a drink of beer.  I found a stick and “helped” him to get a better taste. 

A couple of hours later, the five-year-old and I went back to check out the slug situation.  There was a whole bunch of them helping themselves to the pile of cat food.  I grabbed two (really long) sticks and chopstick-style, we helped them all taste the yummy beer.  Tonight when we checked, there was only one slug.  It turns out, he likes beer too.

The only part of this I’m pondering, is how am I going to explain the dishes on the patio filled with dead beer-slugs to our neighbors?  They return in a couple of days.  I sure as heck am not going to touch the beer-slug dishes.  Unless it’s to put more slugs in the beer.  Or maybe more beer into the slugs.

Current Tally in the War on Slugs: 

Me:  13  (Slugs)

Slugs:  None. 

Kitty: 2  (mice, but I’m not touching those either.) 

My neighbors are going to find a whole carnage-death scene on their patio when they return.  But I suppose as long as their cat is alive and not starving to death, maybe they won't care?  And their carpets won't have cat pee all over them...so maybe that's something too.  

  

The Longest Line

 So in my previous post I mentioned a long line for a ride that Number 3 insisted on.  We had just come back into the Park after taking a break for dinner, and we were trying to pick rides that we had never gone on.  After a few minutes in line, we realized that this particular ride was probably a mistake.  The line was long.  The line was slow.  Only a few people could go on the ride at a time.  It was sort of excruciating.  But a few pivotal things happened.

The first, was mentioned previously.  The Little One picked it, and insisted, and we obliged.  The second, was that we saw another kid with Alopecia.  Looking over early on in the long wait, I happened to see a little boy, a few years older than our Middle Kid with a bald head, marked by a few small patches of shaved hair.  It made me catch my breath. 

About one year ago, we made a trip to Disney after our five-year old’s first hospital stay and his head looked exactly the same.  We immediately made contact and started talking to the mother.  Through a combination of french and english, she explained that the doctors didn’t know what it was, but that they thought it was a reaction to a shock – she was a recent cancer survivor. (A common trigger for Alopecia is shock and stress.)  We pulled the Middle Kid’s hat off of his head and explained that he had the same thing and one year before looked exactly like her son.  She had never heard the name of it before.  Our two boys did the “exploding nucks” anytime they saw each other in line after that.

And finally, about half-way through the line, I realized there were a couple of kids trying to sneak past us in the line.  I refused to let them past.  To my complete shock, at the next turn in the line (that went by the exterior wall), I saw their mother join them.  She was kind of hard to miss, seeing as how she was wearing a hot-pink blazer that should have stayed in the 80’s.  They had settled into the line too far behind us to really care, other than tisk-tisk at each other about how ballsy that is. 

And then. About ten minutes later, I noticed that her three children were perched conveniently along the wall that would deposit them neatly in front of us, about a dozen or so people ahead from where we were standing.  She placed her hands under the armpits of the first kid.  The oldest kid slid sneakily onto the ground, securely in his new place.  I grabbed John.  I didn’t wait for him to do anything. 

In my rustic French, I started screaming.  Madame!  Madame!  Stop, there is a line!  Stop, Stop!  Or something like that.  I don’t really remember.  It couldn’t have been much more than that, my French isn’t that good.  All I remember was John laughing and saying, “Ok honey, that’s enough.”  The woman nonchalantly shrugged.  She shook her head at the kid still on the wall and pulled the other ones back over to their original spot, where they’d already cheated an unearned place.

All around me, people were nodding in agreement, saying it wasn’t fair.  Later, Avery told me that he heard all kinds of people saying (in French) that they were glad I said something.  On one hand, I was surprised that I was the only one to speak up.  On the other, I was proud of myself for seizing the moment.  I'm not usually very confrontational.  It didn’t hurt that we had just come from dinner (which was accompanied by a shared bottle of wine.)  

I won’t even get into the sick feeling I have about what kinds of lessons that lady is teaching her kids about cheating.  I’m just glad that my own kids got to see me stand up to something wrong and maybe even be a little bit of a hero, however small.

A 48-Hour Family Vacation

Preface:  It’s summer.  I have three kids.  I just can’t find a moment of peace to myself, ever.  Let alone find any time to write anything. But anyone that has followed this blog for awhile, knows that if I don’t blog, I explode.  Therefore, if there is a break in the blog, never fail, I will make up for it eventually, as you can see for yourself.

Our first month of summer break was Minnesota.  After that, it’s recovery and usually this part of the summer we get to have a visitor or two.  (Morrisons, we miss you!!)  Then it’s back-to-school prep and birthday party planning.  John’s travel starts up again.  This year, we decided that it was very important for us to dedicate some time to have a family vacation, where it was just us.  Our own little family vacation – even if it was only for 48 hours.  We had just enough time to sneak something in after the cousins departed and before Daddy had to go to Spain.  

And you’ll never guess where we went.  Yep.  We snuck away to Disneyland.  Again.  But seriously.  When will we ever live 3 hours from Disney ever again?  Not when our kids are the perfect age to enjoy it, that’s for sure.  Maybe grandkids.  And have I ever mentioned that it’s on the way to stop in the Champagne Region of France?  We cleared a space in our wine cellar (i.e. basement), packed the car and took off.  Since we were traveling on a Sunday, John even called ahead to a cellar to book an appointment.  There was no coincidence whatsoever that the name of the cellar was “Lemaire.”  None at all.

We were at Disney with plenty of time to swim before dinner.  Our day at the park dawned bright and beautiful.  Our expert park-going skills got us through our top three rides in the first 45 minutes of the Main Gate’s opening.  (Yes, we fully admit to our type-A personality traits.)  But after that, we really did relax.  Throughout the day, it became clear that it was one of our very first, family vacation memories. 

Yes of course we’ve had family vacations before this.  But we were dragging this little baby along.  Someone had to stay with her because she couldn’t go on any rides.  Someone had to make sure she had her special food, or her nap, or her whatever.  But not this time.  This time she was one of us, with her own little opinion and her own appreciation of being considered one of the crew.  She expressed this opinion clearly whenever necessary.  Like the time we considered getting out of the god-awful long line.  She screeched and declared “ME GO ON AIRPLANE RIDE NOW.”  Ok then.  We’ll wait it out.  Waiting in line together actually became a treasured part of the whole experience.  Who would’ve thought?

Her favorite ride of the day:  Pirates of the Caribbean.  Having been on it earlier in the day, it was decided that this was going to be the last ride of the day.  We raced across the park near closing time to make sure this happened.  We just made it through before they closed the ride to anyone else.  (See, sometimes being type-A has its advantages.)  It was just as big of a hit at 10 o’clock at night (even if I did worry just a little about nightmares.) To our surprise and delight, when we pulled up to get off, the attendant asked who wanted to go one more time?  (We were the last boat.)  Our family, Little One included, was all for it. 

It was a really great day.  

Potty Training, Take 3.

It’s official.  The potty training has begun on Number 3.  If I have anything to say about the matter, this is the last time I am going to go through the potty training thing.  The first kid was a tough one.  So tough, in fact, that when, on the weekend of the second kid’s second birthday and he asked me if he could sit on the potty, I flat out said “No.”  I continued to say “No” for several days.  I told him he was “too little” and explained that I didn’t even have any pull-ups in the house.  Little did I know that this was the absolute, perfect strategy for Number 2.  After a week of him asking, I finally relented and put him in these itty-bitty underpants.  He never had a single accident, and I got to completely skip the pull-up in between thing.

And while I know I got off easy with Number 2, it is safe to say that after 8 years, I am really, really tired of poop.

The Little One starts school next month.  A big motivator to get going on the potty training, for sure.  I could hardly start anything like that with us traveling for a month, so after the jet lag wore off, it was clearly time.

I tried a new strategy this time.  One morning, we woke up and I just put her in big girl princess underpants.  Every twenty minutes that whole first day I asked her if she had to go potty.  I went through every single princess in the package.  She peed on the couch a couple of times.  (Which was perfect timing as we had been meaning to get a new couch anyway.)  I did a lot of laundry those first few days, but it seems to have worked.  She announces to the world that she needs to go and she runs to the potty.  She refuses to use a seat of any sort, all the way declaring “Me a big girl.  Me do it.  Me do it.”  And she does.  Ok then. 

But there’s one catch.  While she’s good at the pee-pee part, she absolutely flat out refuses to do the other on the potty.  I’ve coaxed.  I’ve explained.  I’ve even made up stupid songs to sing, but to no avail.  So after a few days of dramatic accidents (made dramatic almost entirely by me, because as I said, I’m sick of poop) we reached a compromise. Now she tells me when she needs to go, we put on a diaper for that part and we go on about our day. 

But I hope this is temporary.  I’m really, really sick of poop. 

Travel Tips & Water Spritzing

I just came across an article about travel tips for dealing with long flights in one of my fashion magazines.  It was all about staying hydrated, eating the right foods, and there was something about “spritzing” water on your skin to help with the dry air.  I laughed.  

I just can't sit by and not comment, having gone what we just went through.

I have a travel trip that will get you through a long flight.  Try flying across the ocean with three little kids.  No wait, let’s make it easy.  Just start out with two.  If you need a challenge, then add in the third.  But at least one of them has to be a baby, toddler or two-year old.  Instead of bringing a water spritzer, bring extra clothes.  For everyone.  The goal is to not get "spritzed" by anything (like spilled drinks but most especially one of those little person's bodily fluids).  Put the extra clothes in one of your ten carry-on bags.  Trust me, when you show up at the airport with a gaggle of kids, they don't actually count everyone's carry-ons. 

Just try it once.  After that, anywhere you fly by yourself (without kids) will feel like a holiday.  Even if it's a really long flight, or you get stuck on a tarmac somewhere.  It will feel like paradise, just because you don't have kids with you.  You can talk to your spouse.  You can read the book you want to read, watch the movie you want to watch or listen to the music you want.  You won’t have a million pieces of carry-on luggage that you have to juggle while carrying a sleeping child.  You won’t have to wait at the door of the aircraft to pick up the stroller!

You might even have room to pack the little spritz bottle for the aforementioned “spritzing.”

American Boys

Usually, our annual trip back to the States is marked by culture shock reflections and finding humor in what we found remarkable.  As I mentioned the last time we were back in April, what was astonishing to me was the lack of culture shock we experienced upon our arrival in the U.S.  I commented as to how we seemed to have achieved some sort of balance between the two places – as if our hearts had achieved this ability to belong in both places at the same time. 

And like after our trip in April, I don’t have any of the standard cultural shock observations to share.  However, in our jet lagged fog the other night, I realize I have some observations of a different sort.  A reverse reaction so to speak.  I realized that this time, I am noticing  how American our children are upon returning.

A critical part of this immersion experience for us is keeping our children, well, Americans.  They have done such a good job at adapting and immersing themselves in their Belgian school and the European culture, that if we don’t work hard at nourishing their American roots, that part of the experience – the comparison that provides them (and us) with insight into our own culture by living in another – is less obvious.  Not only that, on a much more basic level, it will just make it very difficult to readapt and repatriate upon our move back.  And we all know that is coming at some point in the near (or not so near?) future.

 So here are a few observations from our first few days back in Belgium, and I will try to add to the list as we go along:

• The other night, as I pulled American a couple of cereal boxes out of duffle bags and put them on the counter (think Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops), the boys started singing the jingles for each accompanying cereal.  In fact, they also had at least a ten minute banter back and forth about a Toucan Sam commercial that resulted in them doubled over in hysterical laughter. (Keep in mind at ages 5 and 7 they are the target audience, and then throw in the jet lag  - it makes for a slaphappy kind of moment.)

• At one point, I came into the empty living room and was greeted by a loud television tuned into random coverage of a girl’s international softball contest.  It brought back childhood memories of the “Wide World of Sports” that used to air on Saturdays(?) and was always “on” in the background of a weekend afternoon growing up.

• Walking through the Amsterdam airport, the 7-year old saw the Burger King sign and declared that all he wanted was a burger.  (It was 5am local time).  Keep in mind that we were at the mercy of jet lag and suffering from completely wacky cravings at random times.  (No one in my family ate a single bite of airplane food the entire trip – except me who has learned that while traveling if presented with a gluten-free option at any point I have to take it as I never know where my next meal will come from.)  We succumbed to the kids’ craving and they all inhaled their food – which was better than the time in April where we sat at almost the same table and insisted that they try to eat the ultimately untouched croissants and fruit.  That morning’s “breakfast” was very much a transition moment, bridging one culture to the other.  My oldest even commented that it was not a very good burger at all and we explained that the Americans have the corner on the fast food industry.  (Seriously, though, how good could any airport Burger King burger really be at 5am??) But they all ate it, which was critical.  

 And now, as the jet lag fades, we are slowly but surely easing back into our life here.

U2 Baby!

I never in a million years would expect that I would be lucky enough to see U2 live in concert.  I mean, let’s face it, they are getting a little old.  Combine that with the steady decline in my own concert going attendance and the fact that I live my at-present expatriate life and the odds aren’t in my favor. 

More than a year ago (maybe two?), we got an early-on-sale email about U2 tickets.  The concert date was set for the end of June.  We would be pushing it to time it right with the end of the Belgian school year and our first few days of our summer vacation in Minnesota, but it was the first star to fall into place.  We shelled out for four tickets and made plans to go with my brother and his wife.

Then there was some sort of accident…a back surgery…(Bono’s, not mine) which lead to an indefinite postponement and shake-up with the ticket plans.  (Although, it’s not like they are hard tickets to get rid of).  We sold them to my brother’s friend.  But to be honest, it was a little bit of a relief not to have to pull the kids out of school early to try to get back with a plan to go to a concert on our first night back in the U.S. etc. etc. 

Living overseas, we never dreamed that the concert would get rescheduled for a time that we were going to be in town, but that’s exactly what happened.  Fortunately, my brother’s friend recognized the cosmic enormity of this occurrence and agreed to sell us back the tickets. 

Last Saturday night, I got to go to the concert of all concerts in my experience to date.

The anticipation in the Twin Cities built steadily throughout the week.  From the time the semi-trucks rolled into town, through the assembly of the massive stage, to the wary eye the meteorologists kept on the weather reports, as the concert date approached.  

It was a hot and steamy week.  Saturday morning brought a few thunderstorms and rain showers.  We were wishing that the heat and humidity would therefore be broken.  But it was not to be.  The forecasts called for showers and the ever-vigilant news media advised concertgoers to pack a “rain poncho,” diligently spreading the news that umbrellas would not be allowed into the stadium. 

(Side note to my Belgian/European friends that are following this story: the U.S. likes to have a lot of rules and regulations, especially when it comes to public venues and massive congregations of people.  Saturday night, it was something about no umbrellas). And I’m not even going to try to explain the concept of a “dry” stadium or elaborate on how we handled that. Anyway, I digress.

Back to the rain.  We live in Belgium.  We laughed.  If there is one thing I’ve learned over the last few years of living here, it’s that we don’t melt in the rain.  We have rain all the time.  And it’s usually a cold, damp, unpleasant rain.  The thought of a rain shower that would follow one of the hottest and steamiest weeks of summer weather that Minnesota has seen in decades, sounded just a little bit like heaven.

Here was the extent of our preparations:  I packed a plastic grocery bag inside my new, cool, painted leather, vintage purse.  The purpose of this was to keep said vintage purse and the contents thereof, dry in case of rain.  We also put a stack of towels and a change of clothes in the car so we wouldn’t have to drive home all wet and soggy in case predicted weather reports came true. Which of course you know by now that they did.

It was amazing.  The rain made it even better.  Just as we thought, it was a hot and steamy night.  An hour into the concert, it started to rain.  Everyone around us pulled out their plastic ponchos.  I pulled out my plastic bag and safely tucked away my purse, the cell phone and my camera.  It rained steady for the rest of the time, only letting up at the end.  The concert goers in our immediate vicinity were a stoic bunch.  Their eyes were fixed on the stage and occasionally they lifted back their hoods if weather conditions allowed for it.  Clapping at the appropriate times, of course.  We jumped and danced and tried not to knock into them too much.  And in the meantime, we forgot for a few hours that we left a whole bunch of kids at home with a babysitter and just got to be at a rock concert.  

I Hate Target.

I hate Target.

Did I really just say that out loud? My Americanized friends here in Belgium are going to be so mad at me for even thinking that, let alone saying it out loud.  That’s almost like saying “I hate Oprah.” Which I’m not saying at all but they are two sacred housewife brands that go hand in hand. 

Anyway.  So yes, I hate Target and here’s why:

When we go back to the U.S., I don’t pack any toiletries.  Here, toiletries are expensive.  (Let me rephrase: Here, everything is expensive.)  For example, a bottle of Pantene Shampoo or Conditioner costs about five euros per bottle (or more) and is roughly half the size of a U.S. bottle of the same stuff for about three dollars (on sale?).  Figure in the exchange rate, multiple that example by all of the various toiletries a family of five needs regularly and that adds up.  But then again, it doesn’t really make sense for me to buy suitcases full of toiletries to “stock-up” when I’m back in the U.S., as suitcase space is usually reserved for items that we can’t find here in Belgium.  A happy medium is to not bring any of the expensive toiletries from Belgium with to the U.S., and instead make a Target-run within a day or two of landing stateside. 

This year, on our very first morning in Minnesota, I found myself alone returning from the rental car pick-up.  The three kids and one very ecstatic grandma were happily getting reacquainted at a park.  I needed diapers.  I swung into one of the many Targets on my route home to “get a few things.” 

Do you have any idea how overwhelming it is walking into a Target after an extended hiatus?  In the past I have always mentally prepared myself for this.  Gone in with some sort of shopping strategy.  I don’t know why I thought I could go in for “just a few things.”  Maybe because we were just back in April and I wasn’t thinking that it would hit me so hard?  Or maybe it was because I hadn’t even been on U.S. soil for more than 12 hours and the jet lag buzz was still peaking. 

But seriously, I needed diapers!  And I was alone in the car without the three kids!  Talk about the stars lining up.  Just a few things or not, it was a chance early on in our vacation to knock a whole bunch of “stuff” off of our never-ending shopping list.

I will not even tell you what my bill came to.  I will tell you that it included the usual boxes of colored sugar cereals necessary for any good summer vacation, several grocery items, the whole range of aforementioned toiletries -- including suntan lotion and bug spray (neither of which we really need much of in Belgium) and a whole plethora of children’s medicines and topical creams that are unavailable or require a prescription here.  And of course the handful of random non-essential “spontaneous” purchases that Target is so very good at.  A small plastic serving platter in a whimsical summer pattern immediately comes to mind. 

And I know this will come as no surprise, but I almost forgot the diapers.

And I know that this will also not come as a surprise, (and maybe even redeem my reputation back here in Brussels among the expat community), but we’ve been back home for roughly seven hours and I’ve already caught myself saying “I miss Target.”  More than once.  I guess I will have to add it to my love/hate relationship list.    

Home Again Home Again

Last year, we had absolutely terrible flights back and forth to the United States with the now 2.5 year-old.  If you are new to the blog, let me flashback.  She was 18 months old – old enough to be one of the newest members of the movers and shakers, a toddler with the newfound freedom of movement. But she was too young to understand that everyone had to sit with seatbelts fastened at the same time when that little red light said so.  She was in a car seat, which gave her long legs the perfect distance to “lock” and push against the chair in front of her.  It was awful.  My one saving grace, the thing that got me through, was to repeatedly remind myself (every second of every minute if I had to) that it was a finite period of time.  Time, thankfully, does not stand still.  No matter how awful it was, the seconds would keep on ticking by until enough of them had passed that the experience would be over.  I kept telling myself that eventually, the plane would land and we would be on the ground.

Today, though, time stood still.  At one point, I glanced up at that map at the front of the plane that said “Local Time at Departure: 19:03”; “Time Remaining: 3 hours 52 minutes.”  I think it said that for a good two hours.  I was so relieved when I finally realized that it had stopped working.  It made me think that it would be a good concept for a horror movie – to be on a plane where time just stops and it goes forever.  It would certainly be one of my worst nightmares come true.

This year on our annual summer vacation to the U.S., our flights were much easier.  For the most part.  My favorite moment from our flight home, was when I turned to the toddler and asked her what she was excited to see at her house.  She very seriously answered “my kitchen.”  It was one of those little moments of insight where they express something that's important to them.  And sure enough, when we walked in the door, she made a bee-line for her little pink sink and stove.

My least favorite moment was the taxi along the runway at Schipol, Amsterdam airport.  She woke up just before landing.  And it was the “shocked, I don’t understand where I am or what I’m doing here” sort of wake-up.  She screamed.  A lot.  And about the time we started the taxi in along the runway – which by the way, takes a good 20 minutes in Amsterdam – she was in a full-fledged temper tantrum unlike any I’ve ever seen in any of my kids.  Screaming, choking, and gagging (which sent fears of vomiting rushing through my mind).  Her back was arched, she reacted violently to any sort of touch, forget the seat belt at that point (she had wriggled down and almost chocked herself with it in an effort to get to the floor) so I pulled her on my lap and restrained her as best I could.  I was proud of myself for keeping calm, for not raising my voice, for tuning out every other person around me (even if most of the stares were sympathetic) and tried to just focus on doing whatever might help my distraught toddler.  I also managed to successfully divert the clawing scratches and thumping kicks (not only for myself but on behalf of anyone else within range). 

Thankfully, when that plane FINALLY reached the gate, and that all-important “ding” sounded to alert us that the “fasten seatbelt sign” had been turned off, she settled down and realized (between hiccups and shallow breaths) that her temporary nightmare was over.  

Exhausted and relieved, we started to pack-up our many, many belongings.  That was about the time that the guy behind me reached up to retrieve his carry-on from the overhead bin and then proceeded to drop it.  On me.  No worries, though, my head and back successfully broke its fall.  I’m sure by the look on his face, that his thought process was along the lines of “Oh my God, of all the people this thing could have fallen on, it was the poor mother who has been restraining the crazy kid for the last 30 minutes.”  Actually, though, I think he did me a favor.  It was a really good release to have a valid reason to publicly shed a few tears.  

I noticed this afternoon, that the top envelope on my junk mail stack was from our local grocery store.  The envelope advertised that we could be the winners of a trip to New York City!  I immediately threw it in the trash without opening it. 

Addendum:  It’s 6:59pm (18h59).  The toddler just shouted down the stairs “Mamma? It bedtime now?”  When do two-year olds ever ask that?  It is now 7:40pm (19h40).  Every single one of my kids crawled into bed on their own and is already snoring.  I set each one of them up with a flashlight and a stack of books along with specific instructions:  when you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, use your flashlight to read until you get tired again.  What do you suppose the over/under odds are on that actually working?