Autumn is here, with chilly nights and fresh, crisp, sunny days. (With the occasional rain shower of course, it is Belgium after all.) We don't get the same vibrant colors on our trees here as they do in Minnesota, but it's still beautiful.
It's also a great big mess. The other day I was at school, waiting to pick up the children. I arrived early, so I had a few minutes of silence in the car to collect my thoughts. It was a blustery day, and as the treetops waved back and forth, leaves and sticks dropped down all around. Then, there was a big (and by that I mean giant) gust of wind that rattled the trees. And this time, my car was attacked by chunks of tree branches and...clonkers.
Have you ever seen a real chestnut? Before I moved to Europe, chestnuts were only something you sang about "roasting on an open fire" every year at Christmastime. I'd never actually seen one, and if I had, it wasn't in the full shell as it just came off the tree, it was in the grocery store in some sort of prepackaged something or other.
In the shell right off the tree, these nuts look like an organic instrument of torture -- something Mother Nature must have invented on a day when she was feeling particularly moody. They are round, and can be anywhere between the size of a golfball and a tennis ball. They are green, and shooting out from every which way are spikes, the size of sewing needles. They are also heavy.
That day, several had split open upon hitting the cobblestone street and/or my car. I don't even want to know if they put dents on the roof - probably they did, it sure sounded like it. (In the midwest I know it's common to make an insurance claim for hail damage, but I doubt I could call my insurance agent here and ask about chestnut damage.) All around me on the ground were perfect brown nuts, two to a shell.
Over the years we have lived here, I've learned that there are two different types of chestnuts, the ones you can eat and the ones you can't. I decided to do some research to figure out which was which. If these things were falling out of the sky clonking me on the head, it would be nice to know if I could at least roast it on an open fire and see what that excitement was all about.
Google is amazing. Within five minutes, I learned that, first of all, they are aptly nicknamed Clonkers. The ones you can't eat are called horse chestnuts. I don't know why, I can't imagine horses actually eat them. The way to tell which is which is easy: The horse chestnuts have short spikes that are spaced wide apart. The ones that you can eat are covered with long needle spikes, and it made a joke about figuring out how to get them open. Both versions have two nuts inside. The ones that attacked my car were horse chestnuts. Bummer.
Later in the week I went for a run. I was almost back to the house, when there in the road before me, was a round green spikey ball, with needles the size of a sewing needle. A real chestnut! I tried to pick it up. It poked me, drawing blood. Forget about opening them, how the heck do you even collect them? I, very carefully this time, picked it up by the stick part that was still attached and walked it home. I signed into google again, and confirmed by pictures and descriptions (of the shell, needles, leaves and everything) that this in fact, was a non-poisonus chestnut. That I could roast on an open fire.
The next day, Belle and I walked down the road with a basket. Very carefully, we filled it with chestnuts and took those spikey little balls home. The basket sat on the counter for a week, while I worked out a strategy for what to actually do with them next. The excitement in the house grew. "We get to roast chestnuts," everyone said. That week I saw chestnuts in a big pile in the produce section at the grocery store. With a smug grin I thought to myself, "I don't have to buy those, I collected my own off of my street for free."
Last Saturday morning I was feeling particularly ambitious. With the BBQ tongs in one hand, and the sharpest knife in my drawer that most closely resembled a saw in the other, I set about opening them. I discovered these tiny, little wrinkled nuts. But this far into my task, I wasn't about to give up. An hour later, I had a tiny bowl full of wrinkled nuts to show for my effort. The ones at the grocery store looked better. And much bigger. I think the sign next to them had said that they were from Italy.
Do you think my family would notice if I buy the ones at the grocery store and we roast those instead? Apparently Italy grows better clonkers than we do here in Belgium. I would hate to see how long the needle spikes are on those things. But that's the beauty of a grocery store, isn't it? I'll never have to know.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
The Braderie
After the last post, I need to follow-up with something much lighter.
The end of August always brings us a little bit of regret: We loved going to the Minnesota State Fair each and every year, multiple times. This is our fifth year in a row that we've missed the "Great Minnesota Get Together." Every year, we look longingly at photos posted by FB friends of the fun we are missing. The KFAN podcasts of the "Live at the Fair Broadcasts" filter though our iTunes to remind us that we're here, not there.
For my Belgian friends, State Fairs are time honored traditions. They began as a showcase for agriculture and livestock, where people from throughout the state would compete to win the title of the best of the best in any number of categories anywhere from pumpkins to pigs. So today, there are still the agriculture and livestock displays. But there are also rides, and concerts and markets to shop and lots and lots of food. There is something for everyone. When we were younger, we went for the rides and games. As we got older, it was for the music and beer. With little ones, it was to wander the streets with the stroller, and start to teach the American tradition to our toddlers. The Minnesota State Fair is always the last week or so in August, with the last day always falling on the American Labor Day, September 1st.
But La Hulpe does follow-up with something pretty cool. Each year on the cusp of our disappointment of having to miss the State Fair for another subsequent year, we start to see signs for the annual La Hulpe Braderie. Here, our "braderie" is a basically like a big town garage sale/street fair. They close off the main street of La Hulpe, and sell spaces along the street to whomever wants a spot to sell something. All of the shop owners get a section in front of their store, so they have special sales. Most of the food shops, like the meat market, the bars or the restaurants, set up tables and chairs and sell food and drinks. And in between it all are local residents selling garage sale stuff. They also have rides and games and music. It is definitely more like Grand Old Day (in St. Paul) or BBQ Days (in Belle Plaine) than the State Fair, but we miss those events too so we will certainly take what we can get and not complain.
And one nice difference about a street fair in europe: they don't make you keep your alcoholic beverages in a beer garden. You are free to roam about at your leisure with your mohito in hand, which is exactly what we did last night.
There was one other activity that I'm not sure they have in the states. A few steps from the front door of our church, there was a giant inflatable swimming pool. And for a mere five euros, they will put your kid in giant bubble and let them try to move around the pool. As a mother, it's a little alarming to watch your child get zipped into a giant plastic bag. But then it's inflated to float on the water and for a good ten minutes or so, you can watch your kid run around like a hamster on a wheel. I think the whole contraption would just fit into our backyard, maybe we should get one for home?
This year's braderie marked a new milestone for our little family. We did not need a stroller, and we went at night instead of the daytime. We saw friends from school, older kids from the neighborhood, people we know from around town all out enjoying themselves on a beautiful September evening. We watched our kids ride a few rides and sipped a few drinks and ate dinner provided by the street vendors. We came home and tucked children into bed, tired from the fresh air with bellies full of junk food. We love our little town.
The end of August always brings us a little bit of regret: We loved going to the Minnesota State Fair each and every year, multiple times. This is our fifth year in a row that we've missed the "Great Minnesota Get Together." Every year, we look longingly at photos posted by FB friends of the fun we are missing. The KFAN podcasts of the "Live at the Fair Broadcasts" filter though our iTunes to remind us that we're here, not there.
For my Belgian friends, State Fairs are time honored traditions. They began as a showcase for agriculture and livestock, where people from throughout the state would compete to win the title of the best of the best in any number of categories anywhere from pumpkins to pigs. So today, there are still the agriculture and livestock displays. But there are also rides, and concerts and markets to shop and lots and lots of food. There is something for everyone. When we were younger, we went for the rides and games. As we got older, it was for the music and beer. With little ones, it was to wander the streets with the stroller, and start to teach the American tradition to our toddlers. The Minnesota State Fair is always the last week or so in August, with the last day always falling on the American Labor Day, September 1st.
But La Hulpe does follow-up with something pretty cool. Each year on the cusp of our disappointment of having to miss the State Fair for another subsequent year, we start to see signs for the annual La Hulpe Braderie. Here, our "braderie" is a basically like a big town garage sale/street fair. They close off the main street of La Hulpe, and sell spaces along the street to whomever wants a spot to sell something. All of the shop owners get a section in front of their store, so they have special sales. Most of the food shops, like the meat market, the bars or the restaurants, set up tables and chairs and sell food and drinks. And in between it all are local residents selling garage sale stuff. They also have rides and games and music. It is definitely more like Grand Old Day (in St. Paul) or BBQ Days (in Belle Plaine) than the State Fair, but we miss those events too so we will certainly take what we can get and not complain.
And one nice difference about a street fair in europe: they don't make you keep your alcoholic beverages in a beer garden. You are free to roam about at your leisure with your mohito in hand, which is exactly what we did last night.
There was one other activity that I'm not sure they have in the states. A few steps from the front door of our church, there was a giant inflatable swimming pool. And for a mere five euros, they will put your kid in giant bubble and let them try to move around the pool. As a mother, it's a little alarming to watch your child get zipped into a giant plastic bag. But then it's inflated to float on the water and for a good ten minutes or so, you can watch your kid run around like a hamster on a wheel. I think the whole contraption would just fit into our backyard, maybe we should get one for home?
This year's braderie marked a new milestone for our little family. We did not need a stroller, and we went at night instead of the daytime. We saw friends from school, older kids from the neighborhood, people we know from around town all out enjoying themselves on a beautiful September evening. We watched our kids ride a few rides and sipped a few drinks and ate dinner provided by the street vendors. We came home and tucked children into bed, tired from the fresh air with bellies full of junk food. We love our little town.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Fifteen minutes.
It just figures that the day I return to my blog, something monumental happens. I think it was the universe telling me I would need to be able to tell someone about this in order to fully process what just happened.
I just saw a man die.
Well, I don't know exactly when he died, but I was the first to arrive after he did. It was just another Friday. We are in our second week of school, the routine has started to settle in. I picked up the kids from school and we went to our swimming pool for swimming lessons, just like we've done every Friday for years. Only this time, the lesson was for Miss B and the boys had to get ready for their respective Friday night soccer practices. We were leaving the small parking lot, we turned down the tiny street towards the intersection that led to the busy street, and there, in front of us was a motorcycle lying in the middle of the road. Something was obviously very wrong.
By the time we got to the end of the tiny street, we could see a man lying just beyond, and the largest dump truck I have ever seen was parked a little further away. The man in the road wasn't moving and the driver was pacing in the street yelling into his cell phone. We were the first car to arrive on the scene. It had probably happened just a minute or two before. At first it looked like it was a teenager, but then later I saw his face and it was someone older than that.
I immediately put the car in park, told the kids to stay put and ran into the street. My mind raced. What do you do at that moment? Do you try to help the lifeless body laying in the road? Talk to the driver? I was afraid of the body and my french isn't good enough to offer anything to the distraught driver. By now, the driver was off the phone and he told me that the motorcycle man had turned out right in front of him, he couldn't stop. I think I asked if the man was dead but I don't remember.
By this time, other cars were stopping, the lady that had pulled out of the parking lot behind me was on her phone, calling the emergency numbers as I'm sure the driver of the truck had already called. Other witnesses were standing around. No one knew at this point if he was alive or dead, but it didn't look good. No one knew what to do and there weren't any sirens to announce the arrival of anyone that would know what to do anytime soon.
The dump truck was parked in the right lane. The man was lying just behind the truck. Two men moved the bike out of the road. Traffic was starting to pile up. Cars that couldn't see what was happening were honking impatiently for the unexplained stop. One lane was blocked by the truck and driver but the other was passable, but it was a corner and hard to see.
I couldn't just stand there. So this American girl threw up her arms and started directing traffic. I stopped one lane of traffic, just like I've seen police officers do a hundred times. I waved about ten cars or so through from the opposite lane and then I stopped the next car and ran fifteen yards or so to the other side and waved about ten cars through from the other direction. One of them was a nurse and she stopped to try to help the man. Back and forth, back and forth I ran, telling cars where and when to go. It felt like I did this for an hour. But really it was probably only for about five or ten minutes. I tried not to look at the man and his helmet that was cracked in a million places. I yelled at cars that were going too fast to slow down and tried to stand in front of the man to block everyone from staring, and also, I guess, to make sure no one ran over him again. Eventually, we could hear sirens. Then, the police officers were there.
It didn't matter anymore about directing the traffic, the ambulance parked in the open lane and traffic was blocked in both directions. I had to move my car so the little street was passable. But I didn't want to leave in case I needed to tell someone something. And I really wanted to know if the man was alive...or not. No one was moving very fast, so I think I already knew the answer.
I asked one of the other early witnesses. He didn't know for sure either and he switched to english right away. I told him I was the first one to arrive and he went with me to talk to the officers. I didn't see the actual accident, they didn't need me to stay.
I asked my question. "Is he alive?"
The officer shook his head and said "his head..."
I told him I would never let my sons ride motorcycles. Not that they would want to after seeing this anyway.
Then, the officer smiled at me with a small smile that I will never forget, and he said "thanks for your help with the cars." I think I just shrugged. I hadn't realized until that moment that I had even done anything. It hadn't been intentional, I just reacted to a situation.
I walked back to my patient children and lost it a little then. When I got back to the car, I was wiping tears from my eyes and AJ said to me "mom, it was pretty cool that you were able to help." I pulled it together enough to get the boys to practice. When I looked at the clock I realized that the entire interruption in our routine Friday afternoon only took about fifteen minutes in total. That fifteen minute interruption is nothing compared to what some nearby family is experiencing tonight in learning about the loss of a loved one. It's nothing compared to what the poor truck driver must be going through tonight. My heart goes out to all of them.
I have this need tonight to tell anyone and everyone: Life is precious and fragile. Don't take it for granted, each day is a gift.
RIP motocycle man. I didn't know you, but I will never forget you.
I just saw a man die.
Well, I don't know exactly when he died, but I was the first to arrive after he did. It was just another Friday. We are in our second week of school, the routine has started to settle in. I picked up the kids from school and we went to our swimming pool for swimming lessons, just like we've done every Friday for years. Only this time, the lesson was for Miss B and the boys had to get ready for their respective Friday night soccer practices. We were leaving the small parking lot, we turned down the tiny street towards the intersection that led to the busy street, and there, in front of us was a motorcycle lying in the middle of the road. Something was obviously very wrong.
By the time we got to the end of the tiny street, we could see a man lying just beyond, and the largest dump truck I have ever seen was parked a little further away. The man in the road wasn't moving and the driver was pacing in the street yelling into his cell phone. We were the first car to arrive on the scene. It had probably happened just a minute or two before. At first it looked like it was a teenager, but then later I saw his face and it was someone older than that.
I immediately put the car in park, told the kids to stay put and ran into the street. My mind raced. What do you do at that moment? Do you try to help the lifeless body laying in the road? Talk to the driver? I was afraid of the body and my french isn't good enough to offer anything to the distraught driver. By now, the driver was off the phone and he told me that the motorcycle man had turned out right in front of him, he couldn't stop. I think I asked if the man was dead but I don't remember.
By this time, other cars were stopping, the lady that had pulled out of the parking lot behind me was on her phone, calling the emergency numbers as I'm sure the driver of the truck had already called. Other witnesses were standing around. No one knew at this point if he was alive or dead, but it didn't look good. No one knew what to do and there weren't any sirens to announce the arrival of anyone that would know what to do anytime soon.
The dump truck was parked in the right lane. The man was lying just behind the truck. Two men moved the bike out of the road. Traffic was starting to pile up. Cars that couldn't see what was happening were honking impatiently for the unexplained stop. One lane was blocked by the truck and driver but the other was passable, but it was a corner and hard to see.
I couldn't just stand there. So this American girl threw up her arms and started directing traffic. I stopped one lane of traffic, just like I've seen police officers do a hundred times. I waved about ten cars or so through from the opposite lane and then I stopped the next car and ran fifteen yards or so to the other side and waved about ten cars through from the other direction. One of them was a nurse and she stopped to try to help the man. Back and forth, back and forth I ran, telling cars where and when to go. It felt like I did this for an hour. But really it was probably only for about five or ten minutes. I tried not to look at the man and his helmet that was cracked in a million places. I yelled at cars that were going too fast to slow down and tried to stand in front of the man to block everyone from staring, and also, I guess, to make sure no one ran over him again. Eventually, we could hear sirens. Then, the police officers were there.
It didn't matter anymore about directing the traffic, the ambulance parked in the open lane and traffic was blocked in both directions. I had to move my car so the little street was passable. But I didn't want to leave in case I needed to tell someone something. And I really wanted to know if the man was alive...or not. No one was moving very fast, so I think I already knew the answer.
I asked one of the other early witnesses. He didn't know for sure either and he switched to english right away. I told him I was the first one to arrive and he went with me to talk to the officers. I didn't see the actual accident, they didn't need me to stay.
I asked my question. "Is he alive?"
The officer shook his head and said "his head..."
I told him I would never let my sons ride motorcycles. Not that they would want to after seeing this anyway.
Then, the officer smiled at me with a small smile that I will never forget, and he said "thanks for your help with the cars." I think I just shrugged. I hadn't realized until that moment that I had even done anything. It hadn't been intentional, I just reacted to a situation.
I walked back to my patient children and lost it a little then. When I got back to the car, I was wiping tears from my eyes and AJ said to me "mom, it was pretty cool that you were able to help." I pulled it together enough to get the boys to practice. When I looked at the clock I realized that the entire interruption in our routine Friday afternoon only took about fifteen minutes in total. That fifteen minute interruption is nothing compared to what some nearby family is experiencing tonight in learning about the loss of a loved one. It's nothing compared to what the poor truck driver must be going through tonight. My heart goes out to all of them.
I have this need tonight to tell anyone and everyone: Life is precious and fragile. Don't take it for granted, each day is a gift.
RIP motocycle man. I didn't know you, but I will never forget you.
Friday, September 14, 2012
A Much Needed Regroup
This writer needed some time to regroup.
Last spring, I attended Crimefest, a crime writer's convention in the U.K. I carried something very precious in my hands - my first manuscript. It was an amazing experience. I met other aspiring authors like myself, there for the pitch meetings and work-shopping opportunities. I had precious face-time with agents and editors. I had drinks and dinners with accomplished authors. It was surreal to go to the train station on my way out and see their books sitting on the shelves at the train station bookstore. All of it made me want to succeed in that world more than anything.
But most important and valuable of all, I got some advice. The advice was to rewrite my manuscript. Pffffffft. Can you just hear my bubble burst?
She told me that my concept would be excellent for the young adult audience. <Sigh.> How on earth could I take characters that I created to exist in a certain time and space and make them into something completely different?
The first thing I did was get myself copies of the hot young adult fiction that I had never even so much as glanced at before - Twilight and the Hunger Games. I was immediately hooked, and realized that my writing style was perfectly consistent with theirs. So maybe I should think about it. Maybe something new? The problem was, when I tried to write something new, the old characters came out. When I tried to invent a new plot, the old one came out. It made me realize that maybe I should give a rewrite a try. To my surprise, the rewrite only took about five weeks. The biggest problem, was that it was summer vacation and with three kids at home and vacations to enjoy, my attention was divided, to say the least. Sometimes though, we just need to step back, take a minute and regroup so that's what I tried to do.
But now, schedules are back on track and so am I. I'm happier with it than I've ever been. I've finished the edits and I'm back to the painful process of sending it out to agent slush piles. We shall see what happens and I will keep you posted.
Last spring, I attended Crimefest, a crime writer's convention in the U.K. I carried something very precious in my hands - my first manuscript. It was an amazing experience. I met other aspiring authors like myself, there for the pitch meetings and work-shopping opportunities. I had precious face-time with agents and editors. I had drinks and dinners with accomplished authors. It was surreal to go to the train station on my way out and see their books sitting on the shelves at the train station bookstore. All of it made me want to succeed in that world more than anything.
But most important and valuable of all, I got some advice. The advice was to rewrite my manuscript. Pffffffft. Can you just hear my bubble burst?
She told me that my concept would be excellent for the young adult audience. <Sigh.> How on earth could I take characters that I created to exist in a certain time and space and make them into something completely different?
The first thing I did was get myself copies of the hot young adult fiction that I had never even so much as glanced at before - Twilight and the Hunger Games. I was immediately hooked, and realized that my writing style was perfectly consistent with theirs. So maybe I should think about it. Maybe something new? The problem was, when I tried to write something new, the old characters came out. When I tried to invent a new plot, the old one came out. It made me realize that maybe I should give a rewrite a try. To my surprise, the rewrite only took about five weeks. The biggest problem, was that it was summer vacation and with three kids at home and vacations to enjoy, my attention was divided, to say the least. Sometimes though, we just need to step back, take a minute and regroup so that's what I tried to do.
But now, schedules are back on track and so am I. I'm happier with it than I've ever been. I've finished the edits and I'm back to the painful process of sending it out to agent slush piles. We shall see what happens and I will keep you posted.
Rats.
And I mean that literally.
I saw a rat once in New York City. We were standing in Central Park trying to decide what to do next with our day when a big, giant rat ambled out from under a bush, looked at us, blinked and leisurely crossed the path to another bush where he disappeared. That was the closest I ever wanted to come to a rat.
But then I moved to Europe. When an American thinks about Europe, images of castles and cobblestones often come to mind. Romantic lands rich with history have been teasing our imaginations for years and years until one day, maybe we are lucky enough to come see part of it for ourselves. (Even after more than four years of living here, I still have to stop and pinch myself sometimes at the unbelievable opportunity that meant we actually get to live here.) But there is good and bad with everything, and one little point in European history was pretty ugly. The Black Plague. If rats ever had any chance at all at a positive public image, the Plague sort of sealed the deal otherwise.
When we had the dog and cat, we didn't have to worry much about rodents. But we've been pet-free for a year now, and over the winter, we started seeing signs. What's that they say? Something like, for every one that you see there are hundreds that you don't? One day, I saw a dead rat in the road. Once, there was an unexplained rustle in the bushes on the back patio. A sighting in the neighbor's garden. Another sighting in the garden on the other side. But surely, there was a forcefield bubble around OUR garden, right? That's what we told ourselves.
It wasn't just in our neighborhood. It appeared to be an epidemic this spring. There were others on the road in other neighborhoods. One day, the children at school were looking through the fence at the pasture below, watching one die (its bloated body had clearly been poisoned.)
Then one day, I was serving lunch to some ladies. As part of my duties as the VP of the American Women's Club, I was required to sit on the board of the ISG (International Study Group). The ISG ladies are pretty awesome. An older group of women, they are dedicated to educating themselves by bringing in monthly speakers on a variety of topics. They also like to have lunch, so our board meetings were at each other's houses, and the hostess is required to serve lunch. The ladies on the board reminded me of my Grandma Bares. Classy, and dressed to perfection. Potentially intimidating and certainly not afraid to demand certain standards, especially of society. Making them lunch would be nerve-wracking, but at the same time, an exciting culinary challenge.
My lunch was back in February. (I thought about blogging about this back then, but I was too traumatized - and not because of the ladies.) It was cold, so I made wild rice soup and pecan pie. We started the meeting with coffee, had our meeting, finished lunch and I was on my last coffee service when I saw it. I was seated at the head of the table, with a view of our patio and garden and there it was. A large brown rat. Taking a leisurely afternoon stroll across our top patio step from one set of bushes to the other. It was followed a few minutes later by another one. They were clearly mocking me. As if by their actions they were saying "So you thought you would try to serve a proper ladies' lunch? We'll see about that (cue wicked laughter) Mwaahaahaa...."
Thankfully, the ladies never noticed and the only thing they have to talk about from lunch at my house was this Minnesota girl's wild rice soup. A few days later, our neighbor came to the rescue and brought over some rat poison (they hand it out for free at the commune, and he had extra.) John was out of town and still teases him about bringing his wife rat poison on valentine's day. I never wanted to consider poison as an alternative, but with thoughts of the black death in the back of my mind, on that particular day it was a present I was happy to have.
The poison got eaten, and the sightings (both dead and alive) stopped. Early this summer, though, our bushes were invaded by a new resident. These teeny-tiny little mice. They were rather cute, with their big giant ears and little tiny bodies, but they were very bold. One night, we were having dinner on the patio when no less than five of them came out to see what we were serving. We don't have screens on our doors, so if we wanted to be able to open our doors at all this summer, it was clear we needed to do something before they moved themselves right on into the living room.
About the same time, our neighbor had similar sightings, and his son claimed to have seen another rat. No way, we all said, just little mice. But the poison went out, got eaten and we waited. One morning, Luke and I went outside (I think it was back when he was looking for snails.) There, right at his feet, was a dead mouse. I screamed and turned. But there, just a few feet away in the other direction, was another dead one. I screamed and turned again, and there, lying in the middle of the backyard, was a large dead rat. That scream brought my entire family (and probably most of the neighbors) out to the patio.
Our garden had become a land of rodent horror.
The remedy was swift and quick. Composing myself, I scooped up the dead bodies with an old shovel and dumped them in the compost bag with the grass and that was that. And hopefully, the message was sent loud and clear to future generations: You'd best be advised to move elsewhere.
I saw a rat once in New York City. We were standing in Central Park trying to decide what to do next with our day when a big, giant rat ambled out from under a bush, looked at us, blinked and leisurely crossed the path to another bush where he disappeared. That was the closest I ever wanted to come to a rat.
But then I moved to Europe. When an American thinks about Europe, images of castles and cobblestones often come to mind. Romantic lands rich with history have been teasing our imaginations for years and years until one day, maybe we are lucky enough to come see part of it for ourselves. (Even after more than four years of living here, I still have to stop and pinch myself sometimes at the unbelievable opportunity that meant we actually get to live here.) But there is good and bad with everything, and one little point in European history was pretty ugly. The Black Plague. If rats ever had any chance at all at a positive public image, the Plague sort of sealed the deal otherwise.
When we had the dog and cat, we didn't have to worry much about rodents. But we've been pet-free for a year now, and over the winter, we started seeing signs. What's that they say? Something like, for every one that you see there are hundreds that you don't? One day, I saw a dead rat in the road. Once, there was an unexplained rustle in the bushes on the back patio. A sighting in the neighbor's garden. Another sighting in the garden on the other side. But surely, there was a forcefield bubble around OUR garden, right? That's what we told ourselves.
It wasn't just in our neighborhood. It appeared to be an epidemic this spring. There were others on the road in other neighborhoods. One day, the children at school were looking through the fence at the pasture below, watching one die (its bloated body had clearly been poisoned.)
Then one day, I was serving lunch to some ladies. As part of my duties as the VP of the American Women's Club, I was required to sit on the board of the ISG (International Study Group). The ISG ladies are pretty awesome. An older group of women, they are dedicated to educating themselves by bringing in monthly speakers on a variety of topics. They also like to have lunch, so our board meetings were at each other's houses, and the hostess is required to serve lunch. The ladies on the board reminded me of my Grandma Bares. Classy, and dressed to perfection. Potentially intimidating and certainly not afraid to demand certain standards, especially of society. Making them lunch would be nerve-wracking, but at the same time, an exciting culinary challenge.
My lunch was back in February. (I thought about blogging about this back then, but I was too traumatized - and not because of the ladies.) It was cold, so I made wild rice soup and pecan pie. We started the meeting with coffee, had our meeting, finished lunch and I was on my last coffee service when I saw it. I was seated at the head of the table, with a view of our patio and garden and there it was. A large brown rat. Taking a leisurely afternoon stroll across our top patio step from one set of bushes to the other. It was followed a few minutes later by another one. They were clearly mocking me. As if by their actions they were saying "So you thought you would try to serve a proper ladies' lunch? We'll see about that (cue wicked laughter) Mwaahaahaa...."
Thankfully, the ladies never noticed and the only thing they have to talk about from lunch at my house was this Minnesota girl's wild rice soup. A few days later, our neighbor came to the rescue and brought over some rat poison (they hand it out for free at the commune, and he had extra.) John was out of town and still teases him about bringing his wife rat poison on valentine's day. I never wanted to consider poison as an alternative, but with thoughts of the black death in the back of my mind, on that particular day it was a present I was happy to have.
The poison got eaten, and the sightings (both dead and alive) stopped. Early this summer, though, our bushes were invaded by a new resident. These teeny-tiny little mice. They were rather cute, with their big giant ears and little tiny bodies, but they were very bold. One night, we were having dinner on the patio when no less than five of them came out to see what we were serving. We don't have screens on our doors, so if we wanted to be able to open our doors at all this summer, it was clear we needed to do something before they moved themselves right on into the living room.
About the same time, our neighbor had similar sightings, and his son claimed to have seen another rat. No way, we all said, just little mice. But the poison went out, got eaten and we waited. One morning, Luke and I went outside (I think it was back when he was looking for snails.) There, right at his feet, was a dead mouse. I screamed and turned. But there, just a few feet away in the other direction, was another dead one. I screamed and turned again, and there, lying in the middle of the backyard, was a large dead rat. That scream brought my entire family (and probably most of the neighbors) out to the patio.
Our garden had become a land of rodent horror.
The remedy was swift and quick. Composing myself, I scooped up the dead bodies with an old shovel and dumped them in the compost bag with the grass and that was that. And hopefully, the message was sent loud and clear to future generations: You'd best be advised to move elsewhere.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Sticks and snails, and puppy dog tails...
What is the old rhyme?
Sugar and spice, and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.
Sticks and snails and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of.
Last year, Monkey was really sick. During his second round of his alopecia treatment, he was also fighting his ump-teenth round of bronchitis that even required an extra night's stay in the hospital because he needed oxygen at night. It was then that we learned he was allergic to cats and dogs.
As a result, we had to find new homes for our longtime family members Athena (my cat) and Jasmine (our dog). It wasn't easy, but the immediate improvement in Monkey's health, and an entire year without antibiotics of any kind (knock on wood) made it worth it. I think he only missed one day of school this year with a stomach virus, and managed to get off his inhalers altogether. This spring, we really missed our big yellow dog. But all it took was our Easter visit to Minnesota where we stayed with family that had dogs and we knew we had made the right choice. Within a few days, he was wheezing and needed his inhalers, and it took six weeks after we came home for him to get over it.
This is a little boy that loves nature. Both of our boys are at the perfect age where a dog would be their best buddy and partner in crime. But there will be no fur or feathers for our house anytime soon.
Last Friday, Monkey came home very excited. He and his friends at school had spent their time at recess hunting for snails. He found a clear plastic container and set out to the back garden with his little sister in tow, to hunt for his new pet. They came back empty handed and disappointed. Another attempt the next morning was equally futile. But hope was not lost. Monkey was invited to play at a friend's house for the afternoon, and I knew his friend had a giant garden with all sorts of wildlife. He took his snail house with him and I explained the situation to his friend's mother. She said Monkey was welcome to take as many snails as he wanted, as they were eating all of the vegetables and strawberries in her garden. I told him his quota was three.
Later in the day the father of his friend dropped him off with a sly grin and a cryptic message, "the snails are your problem now." I didn't even know that snails could grow to be the size of baseballs. Ok, so that's a slight exaggeration. But the big one is definitely bigger than a golfball. Monkey named him "Super Size" and explained that the two baby snails didn't count towards his quota of three, bringing the grand total to five.
Probably, Monkey's new pets would be happier on the patio than anywhere we could find in the house. We put a table next to the back window on the patio so we can watch the new pets from inside the safety of our house.
I have to admit, that first day, Super Size was pretty exciting to watch. He was a giant. He moved all over his new home, exploring his container. And also, it seems, looking for escape routes as we caught him actually pushing the lid off the top. The lid was quickly secured with a potted plant and we added a slice of plum to their home to keep them happy.
The next morning, there was nothing. No movement, nothing. As the day went on and the snails were silent, I worried that the potted plant had blocked too many of the little air holes. It appeared as if we had killed the whole lot of them. We opened the lid to look, and didn't bother to secure it, feeling bad that we had deprived them of precious oxygen.
The next day went by, and after school, Monkey and I went to the patio to deal with the dead snails. Only, there, sitting next to the container, was Super Size himself, tucked up in his shell taking a nap. Huh. It appears as if he hadn't really been dead after all, and took advantage of the small window of opportunity when the container was open, to escape. Not only did he escape, but he came back to eat the basil from the potted plant. And being the size of a golfball, he's not exactly inconspicuous. We left him asleep on the table and took the container to the edge of our driveway to dump the contents by the forest and put in new leaves. When we dumped the container out, the other two "dead" snails promptly came out of their shells and made a break for it.
It was nice to know we didn't kill them after all. We cleaned out the snail slime and added fresh nature. We fed them some basil leaves and named the rest of them. Monkey returned Super Size to his new home and secured the lid. Today, Monkey made a "to-go" container and chose one to take to school with him for the day, the one he calls "Speedy." He was under strict instructions regarding his snail quota. It's only half-day today, which means less time at recess to hunt for snails, which will hopefully help him abide by the snail quota rules. We shall see.
Sugar and spice, and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.
Sticks and snails and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of.
Last year, Monkey was really sick. During his second round of his alopecia treatment, he was also fighting his ump-teenth round of bronchitis that even required an extra night's stay in the hospital because he needed oxygen at night. It was then that we learned he was allergic to cats and dogs.
As a result, we had to find new homes for our longtime family members Athena (my cat) and Jasmine (our dog). It wasn't easy, but the immediate improvement in Monkey's health, and an entire year without antibiotics of any kind (knock on wood) made it worth it. I think he only missed one day of school this year with a stomach virus, and managed to get off his inhalers altogether. This spring, we really missed our big yellow dog. But all it took was our Easter visit to Minnesota where we stayed with family that had dogs and we knew we had made the right choice. Within a few days, he was wheezing and needed his inhalers, and it took six weeks after we came home for him to get over it.
This is a little boy that loves nature. Both of our boys are at the perfect age where a dog would be their best buddy and partner in crime. But there will be no fur or feathers for our house anytime soon.
Last Friday, Monkey came home very excited. He and his friends at school had spent their time at recess hunting for snails. He found a clear plastic container and set out to the back garden with his little sister in tow, to hunt for his new pet. They came back empty handed and disappointed. Another attempt the next morning was equally futile. But hope was not lost. Monkey was invited to play at a friend's house for the afternoon, and I knew his friend had a giant garden with all sorts of wildlife. He took his snail house with him and I explained the situation to his friend's mother. She said Monkey was welcome to take as many snails as he wanted, as they were eating all of the vegetables and strawberries in her garden. I told him his quota was three.
Later in the day the father of his friend dropped him off with a sly grin and a cryptic message, "the snails are your problem now." I didn't even know that snails could grow to be the size of baseballs. Ok, so that's a slight exaggeration. But the big one is definitely bigger than a golfball. Monkey named him "Super Size" and explained that the two baby snails didn't count towards his quota of three, bringing the grand total to five.
Probably, Monkey's new pets would be happier on the patio than anywhere we could find in the house. We put a table next to the back window on the patio so we can watch the new pets from inside the safety of our house.
I have to admit, that first day, Super Size was pretty exciting to watch. He was a giant. He moved all over his new home, exploring his container. And also, it seems, looking for escape routes as we caught him actually pushing the lid off the top. The lid was quickly secured with a potted plant and we added a slice of plum to their home to keep them happy.
The next morning, there was nothing. No movement, nothing. As the day went on and the snails were silent, I worried that the potted plant had blocked too many of the little air holes. It appeared as if we had killed the whole lot of them. We opened the lid to look, and didn't bother to secure it, feeling bad that we had deprived them of precious oxygen.
The next day went by, and after school, Monkey and I went to the patio to deal with the dead snails. Only, there, sitting next to the container, was Super Size himself, tucked up in his shell taking a nap. Huh. It appears as if he hadn't really been dead after all, and took advantage of the small window of opportunity when the container was open, to escape. Not only did he escape, but he came back to eat the basil from the potted plant. And being the size of a golfball, he's not exactly inconspicuous. We left him asleep on the table and took the container to the edge of our driveway to dump the contents by the forest and put in new leaves. When we dumped the container out, the other two "dead" snails promptly came out of their shells and made a break for it.
It was nice to know we didn't kill them after all. We cleaned out the snail slime and added fresh nature. We fed them some basil leaves and named the rest of them. Monkey returned Super Size to his new home and secured the lid. Today, Monkey made a "to-go" container and chose one to take to school with him for the day, the one he calls "Speedy." He was under strict instructions regarding his snail quota. It's only half-day today, which means less time at recess to hunt for snails, which will hopefully help him abide by the snail quota rules. We shall see.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Jinxed.
I don't think I should blog about running anymore. When I do, it seems that I jinx myself and end up with a running related injury requiring me to sit on the injured reserve list for a six-week period of time. This time around, it's a stress fracture in my left foot.
Actually, I don't think it was necessarily triggered by running. I think it was triggered by the fact that I had to drag a heavy suitcase on and off trains from here to England and back again a few weeks ago. Wearing bad shoes. Ok, so they weren't bad shoes, they were a cute wedge sandal, but bad in the sense that my feet didn't like wearing them as I was carrying said heavy suitcase up and down many, many flights of stairs. I have a new respect for the American Disabilities Act. It's not always easy to find elevators in train stations and underground stops throughout Europe.
And did you know that when you attend a writer's conference, they give you a bunch of free books? This didn't exactly help the luggage situation for the way home. At least I had wised up enough to turn a blind eye to fashion and wore my running shoes for the long journey home. It was EARLY on Sunday morning anyway, and the one author that I ran into at the train station was too hungover to notice my feet. But by then, the sensible shoe choice didn't help me much, the damage was already done.
The day after I arrived home, I went for a run that felt great at the time, but by evening had my left foot writhing in pain, that only got worse until I put it in the "boot." Argh. My immediate family will be the first to tell you that running keeps me sane. When I'm not in a regular running routine, I get cranky. Quickly. So last week, I did what any former swimmer would do, faced with my same situation. I found a pool.
One of the many things that I appreciate about Belgium, is the easy access to community sports facilities. (It reminds me of St. Paul, where you can find lots of options for open swim times at any one of the four universities in a two mile radius.) The last time I was benched from running with a sports related injury, I attempted a regular swimming routine. But it was December, and the pool was filled with all sorts of athletes who thought it was too cold and rainy to do an outdoor workout. (They obviously had never been to Minnesota during the winter months, or they would have known that 35 degrees (F) is perfectly fine for an outdoor run.) The pool was so crowded that it was nearly impossible to swim an entire length of the pool without having to stop for someone.
As I headed to the pool last week, I had high hopes that this time would be different. Although the weather isn't exactly stellar this year, it's not the dead of winter. The fair weather athletes have mostly moved outside. After I paid my three euros and gimped my way into the pool, I found the swim lanes much less crowded than last time. I settled myself in to a lane with only three other swimmers and stroked my way through my first lap uninterrupted - and without pain in my left foot, which was a good sign. Over the next 1500 meters, I learned something new about Belgium.
Swimming in Belgium is a lot like driving here. The lanes are smaller, thus the risk of collision infinitely greater, and different rules of etiquette apply. For example, there doesn't seem to be a yield-to-the-swimmer-coming-into-the-turn before-pushing-off-the-wall-to-start-a-lap-of-kicking rule.
Forty-five minutes later, muscles that I hadn't used in years and forgot I even had, were screaming in protest. But I was proud to have completed a swim workout for the first time in a really long time. (Of course, here I call it a "workout," back in college, it would have barely been a "warm-up.")
Two days later, I went back to the pool again and found it even less crowded than my first time. There was a swimmer next to me and I recognized her from before. She had a nice even back stroke and was doing flip turns, the telltale sign of a more experienced swimmer. My muscles creaked along with me, and I started to realize that there might be some benefits to cross-training my running with a non-contact sport like swimming. Ugh. That makes me sound much more of an intense athlete than I really intend to be at the moment. But if it keeps my knees from hurting when I start running again....
When I got out of the pool, the swimmer I admired stopped me to tell me that my swimming was beautiful. After feeling so sore and stiff, and well, broken, the last few days, this literally made me laugh out loud. It also reminded me of the time my teammates in college told me that watching me swim the last two lengths of the 200 butterfly was like watching the ceiling open up and an imaginary piano drop from the sky onto my back. Certainly nothing that would be described as beautiful. I explained to her I hadn't swam in a really long time. She told me she swims every day. I don't think I can manage every day, but I will certainly go back. And maybe my new friend will want to try a swimming a set or two sometime.
Actually, I don't think it was necessarily triggered by running. I think it was triggered by the fact that I had to drag a heavy suitcase on and off trains from here to England and back again a few weeks ago. Wearing bad shoes. Ok, so they weren't bad shoes, they were a cute wedge sandal, but bad in the sense that my feet didn't like wearing them as I was carrying said heavy suitcase up and down many, many flights of stairs. I have a new respect for the American Disabilities Act. It's not always easy to find elevators in train stations and underground stops throughout Europe.
And did you know that when you attend a writer's conference, they give you a bunch of free books? This didn't exactly help the luggage situation for the way home. At least I had wised up enough to turn a blind eye to fashion and wore my running shoes for the long journey home. It was EARLY on Sunday morning anyway, and the one author that I ran into at the train station was too hungover to notice my feet. But by then, the sensible shoe choice didn't help me much, the damage was already done.
The day after I arrived home, I went for a run that felt great at the time, but by evening had my left foot writhing in pain, that only got worse until I put it in the "boot." Argh. My immediate family will be the first to tell you that running keeps me sane. When I'm not in a regular running routine, I get cranky. Quickly. So last week, I did what any former swimmer would do, faced with my same situation. I found a pool.
One of the many things that I appreciate about Belgium, is the easy access to community sports facilities. (It reminds me of St. Paul, where you can find lots of options for open swim times at any one of the four universities in a two mile radius.) The last time I was benched from running with a sports related injury, I attempted a regular swimming routine. But it was December, and the pool was filled with all sorts of athletes who thought it was too cold and rainy to do an outdoor workout. (They obviously had never been to Minnesota during the winter months, or they would have known that 35 degrees (F) is perfectly fine for an outdoor run.) The pool was so crowded that it was nearly impossible to swim an entire length of the pool without having to stop for someone.
As I headed to the pool last week, I had high hopes that this time would be different. Although the weather isn't exactly stellar this year, it's not the dead of winter. The fair weather athletes have mostly moved outside. After I paid my three euros and gimped my way into the pool, I found the swim lanes much less crowded than last time. I settled myself in to a lane with only three other swimmers and stroked my way through my first lap uninterrupted - and without pain in my left foot, which was a good sign. Over the next 1500 meters, I learned something new about Belgium.
Swimming in Belgium is a lot like driving here. The lanes are smaller, thus the risk of collision infinitely greater, and different rules of etiquette apply. For example, there doesn't seem to be a yield-to-the-swimmer-coming-into-the-turn before-pushing-off-the-wall-to-start-a-lap-of-kicking rule.
Forty-five minutes later, muscles that I hadn't used in years and forgot I even had, were screaming in protest. But I was proud to have completed a swim workout for the first time in a really long time. (Of course, here I call it a "workout," back in college, it would have barely been a "warm-up.")
Two days later, I went back to the pool again and found it even less crowded than my first time. There was a swimmer next to me and I recognized her from before. She had a nice even back stroke and was doing flip turns, the telltale sign of a more experienced swimmer. My muscles creaked along with me, and I started to realize that there might be some benefits to cross-training my running with a non-contact sport like swimming. Ugh. That makes me sound much more of an intense athlete than I really intend to be at the moment. But if it keeps my knees from hurting when I start running again....
When I got out of the pool, the swimmer I admired stopped me to tell me that my swimming was beautiful. After feeling so sore and stiff, and well, broken, the last few days, this literally made me laugh out loud. It also reminded me of the time my teammates in college told me that watching me swim the last two lengths of the 200 butterfly was like watching the ceiling open up and an imaginary piano drop from the sky onto my back. Certainly nothing that would be described as beautiful. I explained to her I hadn't swam in a really long time. She told me she swims every day. I don't think I can manage every day, but I will certainly go back. And maybe my new friend will want to try a swimming a set or two sometime.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Hollaback Girl
Over the years, I've turned to running as my form of exercise. My free-time is precious and I'm an efficient person, therefore running is the most efficient workout I could choose. I lace up my shoes, turn on my iPod, go out the door, get my heart rate up and approximately 30-40 minutes later I'm home again and in the shower. Et voila, workout accomplished, therefore allowing me to indulge in Belgian delicacies such as saucisse and frites and of course, chocolate.
This spring, I've decided to start adding a little bit of mileage. Nothing much, I would just like to extend my workout time to about an hour, three times a week. I'm thinking about signing up for a local 10k race this summer, and maybe, just maybe taking on a half-marathon at some point next year. Ok fine, I'll admit it. The half-marathon I'm thinking about is in Paris. If I'm ever going to do a half-marathon, how cool would it be to do it in Paris?!
In any event, this morning I took the kids to school, and with a whole sunshine-y day ahead of me headed out for my run early. Incidentally, the road in front of our house is a complete mess. Multiple road work crews are tearing it apart to make a bike path and walking trail and hopefully, make it next to impossible to drive the wrong way thereby improving the traffic situation. Meanwhile, it's a pain-in-the-you-know-what to use it for anything, running included. But it's the route to the trails at the chateau so away I went.
By the time I got to the end of the road, I was the embarrassed recipient of at least a dozen catcalls and jeering remarks. As a mother of three approaching 40 in the not so distant future, I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Should I be proud, that I can still turn heads? I wasn't. Should I be embarrassed that I'm out enjoying a much needed workout? No way jose, that's not my style. I settled on being proud to be an athlete.
But it got me thinking. Running is primarily a male sport here in Belgium. I haven't noticed it that much before, it's not the sort of thing I think about. I have the luxury of being an American woman born in one of the first generations that can take Title 9 for granted. But now that I think about it, 9 times out of 10, the runners running by our house are men. And while it doesn't happen very often, I've noticed that when I do happen to pass a male runner when I'm running at the park because I'm faster than they are, they don't like it very much.
As I ran my 7km route, I thought about one of the greatest experiences of my lifetime. My four years in college, where I competed on the varsity co-ed swim team. In the pool we were one team. Swimming the same workout, regardless of the swimsuit you were wearing. We respected each other as teammates and fellow athletes and our friendships that were born in that old stinky pool have endured through the years as some of the most precious and valuable of my lifetime. And as a result, I don't even think about differences in men's sports versus women's sports, especially with sports like running and swimming.
So as I approached the home stretch of my run this morning, I braced myself for the looks, pulled my baseball hat down over my eyes and set my iPod to the ultimate girl-power song -- Hollaback Girl by Gwen Steffani. I turned up the volume and sprinted the last 500 meters to my house, grateful and proud to be an athlete. And from now on, I'm going to have to resist the urge to high-five other female runners that I pass and shout, "you go girl."
This spring, I've decided to start adding a little bit of mileage. Nothing much, I would just like to extend my workout time to about an hour, three times a week. I'm thinking about signing up for a local 10k race this summer, and maybe, just maybe taking on a half-marathon at some point next year. Ok fine, I'll admit it. The half-marathon I'm thinking about is in Paris. If I'm ever going to do a half-marathon, how cool would it be to do it in Paris?!
In any event, this morning I took the kids to school, and with a whole sunshine-y day ahead of me headed out for my run early. Incidentally, the road in front of our house is a complete mess. Multiple road work crews are tearing it apart to make a bike path and walking trail and hopefully, make it next to impossible to drive the wrong way thereby improving the traffic situation. Meanwhile, it's a pain-in-the-you-know-what to use it for anything, running included. But it's the route to the trails at the chateau so away I went.
By the time I got to the end of the road, I was the embarrassed recipient of at least a dozen catcalls and jeering remarks. As a mother of three approaching 40 in the not so distant future, I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Should I be proud, that I can still turn heads? I wasn't. Should I be embarrassed that I'm out enjoying a much needed workout? No way jose, that's not my style. I settled on being proud to be an athlete.
But it got me thinking. Running is primarily a male sport here in Belgium. I haven't noticed it that much before, it's not the sort of thing I think about. I have the luxury of being an American woman born in one of the first generations that can take Title 9 for granted. But now that I think about it, 9 times out of 10, the runners running by our house are men. And while it doesn't happen very often, I've noticed that when I do happen to pass a male runner when I'm running at the park because I'm faster than they are, they don't like it very much.
As I ran my 7km route, I thought about one of the greatest experiences of my lifetime. My four years in college, where I competed on the varsity co-ed swim team. In the pool we were one team. Swimming the same workout, regardless of the swimsuit you were wearing. We respected each other as teammates and fellow athletes and our friendships that were born in that old stinky pool have endured through the years as some of the most precious and valuable of my lifetime. And as a result, I don't even think about differences in men's sports versus women's sports, especially with sports like running and swimming.
So as I approached the home stretch of my run this morning, I braced myself for the looks, pulled my baseball hat down over my eyes and set my iPod to the ultimate girl-power song -- Hollaback Girl by Gwen Steffani. I turned up the volume and sprinted the last 500 meters to my house, grateful and proud to be an athlete. And from now on, I'm going to have to resist the urge to high-five other female runners that I pass and shout, "you go girl."
Spring has Sprung
Spring is slowly but surely arriving in Belgium. We had a late winter, but spring is finally upon us. Over the last few weeks, the weather has started to change from the random fifteen minute cycles of rain-sleet-sunshine to mostly sunshine with enough rain mixed in to remind us that we are indeed still in Belgium and shouldn't get too cocky about it.
When we were back in Minnesota, we took the boys on a tour of the catholic school they would be attending had we stayed there. One word comes to mind: Impressive. We wanted them to see the school because some day, our time here might come to an end. The boys are already nervous for something like that to happen. Since we happened to be in Minnesota during the school year for the first time, we took advantage of the timing so we could give them a visual image of what it would be like to go to school in the United States. During the tour of the school, the assistant principal turned to AJ and said, "now we're going to go see the big gym" to which AJ replied, "the little gym is already bigger than the one we use," and then we proceeded to tell her how the children walk approximately 2km through the cow pastures, rain or shine, to walk to the community sports facility for their gym class.
About ten days ago, Miss B and I were waiting for the boys after school (her class sometimes gets out just a little before the boys). We were standing at the fence on the playground that overlooks a pasture below and we were watching the sheep. And we noticed a tiny little lamb poke his wobbly legs into position and stand for the first time. His little tail wagged as he tried to figure out how to eat for the first time. His mama started the long process of trying to clean him up.
When I told the boys about the new baby lamb, AJ replied "We already know. We watched it being born at recess. Christophe was the first one to see the legs come out." Huh. That's a pretty cool thing to get to see at recess.
This week, we've watched the daily progress of preparation for the annual spring school party, fete du printemps. Our house is beyond excited for tomorrow's party. It's the first year where all three kids get to be in the spectacle, and Miss B even showed me her entire dance routine last week. (Girls are very different than boys...neither of the boys have ever come home and actually practiced their dance routines for fete du printemps.) This morning, when we arrived at school they were doing sound checks at the stage. This turned into an impromptu DJ/dance party with songs that were heavy on the base and lyrics along the lines of "steal all of the booze from your mother's liquor cabinet..." (Keep in mind that there is normally not a need to censor music as my kids are some of the only ones that speak english well enough to understand. Believe me, I've had to do my fair share of explaining bad words we've heard on the radio over the last four years.)
But as I walked out of school this morning, my excitement and anticipation for tomorrow's festivities matched the same level as my children. We are so lucky to have found this school, we are grateful that the families accept us as part of it, and we are happy for the chance to celebrate spring.
When we were back in Minnesota, we took the boys on a tour of the catholic school they would be attending had we stayed there. One word comes to mind: Impressive. We wanted them to see the school because some day, our time here might come to an end. The boys are already nervous for something like that to happen. Since we happened to be in Minnesota during the school year for the first time, we took advantage of the timing so we could give them a visual image of what it would be like to go to school in the United States. During the tour of the school, the assistant principal turned to AJ and said, "now we're going to go see the big gym" to which AJ replied, "the little gym is already bigger than the one we use," and then we proceeded to tell her how the children walk approximately 2km through the cow pastures, rain or shine, to walk to the community sports facility for their gym class.
About ten days ago, Miss B and I were waiting for the boys after school (her class sometimes gets out just a little before the boys). We were standing at the fence on the playground that overlooks a pasture below and we were watching the sheep. And we noticed a tiny little lamb poke his wobbly legs into position and stand for the first time. His little tail wagged as he tried to figure out how to eat for the first time. His mama started the long process of trying to clean him up.
When I told the boys about the new baby lamb, AJ replied "We already know. We watched it being born at recess. Christophe was the first one to see the legs come out." Huh. That's a pretty cool thing to get to see at recess.
This week, we've watched the daily progress of preparation for the annual spring school party, fete du printemps. Our house is beyond excited for tomorrow's party. It's the first year where all three kids get to be in the spectacle, and Miss B even showed me her entire dance routine last week. (Girls are very different than boys...neither of the boys have ever come home and actually practiced their dance routines for fete du printemps.) This morning, when we arrived at school they were doing sound checks at the stage. This turned into an impromptu DJ/dance party with songs that were heavy on the base and lyrics along the lines of "steal all of the booze from your mother's liquor cabinet..." (Keep in mind that there is normally not a need to censor music as my kids are some of the only ones that speak english well enough to understand. Believe me, I've had to do my fair share of explaining bad words we've heard on the radio over the last four years.)
But as I walked out of school this morning, my excitement and anticipation for tomorrow's festivities matched the same level as my children. We are so lucky to have found this school, we are grateful that the families accept us as part of it, and we are happy for the chance to celebrate spring.
Overtired and Overstimulated
Wow. I've let the days get away from me again...with good reason. If you've only just started following this blog, don't worry, I always come back to the blog. Sometimes I get distracted for a few weeks at a time, but anyone that's been following this for awhile will tell you that I almost always make up for long silent stretches with multiple entries.
So my good reason was that this year, we took our annual trip back to Minnesota for the Easter break, rather than go at our usual time in the summer. Earlier this year, John announced that we needed a vacation and we should go somewhere warm and have a beach vacation for spring break. Hmm. I'm not sure if you follow regional weather patterns, but Europe doesn't exactly have a Florida. There's not really anywhere that's warm enough to lay on the beach in Europe for spring break.
We could go to Africa? Or maybe Egypt? Can you imagine that phone call, "hi mom and dad, just want to let you know that we're taking your grandkids to Egypt for spring break this year....what do you mean violent uprising?" In any event, either of those destinations seemed a little overwhelming for this family of five. That left, well, Florida. You wouldn't believe the deals you can get on flights from Europe to Miami or Orlando. But how silly is that? Americans living in Europe traveling to Florida for spring break...maybe if we lived here permanently, or maybe if we talked all of our family into meeting us there....
We came up with an alternative. Rather than spend all of our time and money to travel to the U.S. this summer, we decided to take our trip to Minnesota for Easter, leaving a wide open schedule (and budget) for us to travel somewhere warm and vaction-y here this summer. So that's what we did.
The kids were older, the flights much easier. It was the first time since we've lived here that I was actually more excited to go, than I was nervous about taking the kids on the long flights. That was a good feeling. We all appreciated the fact that we would be there to celebrate a holiday that we usually celebrate alone, here. We figured that we could manage it during the school year and the kids would be able to handle it. What we didn't think about was the reality of trying to fit everything in, to a two week period, when we usually have a month. We focused on family and overall feel like we did a good job with the schedule.
There was one of our crew that had a difficult time with all of it. Miss B. Over the course of two weeks, I finally figured out that she just needed to have a temper tantrum at least once a day to decompress. I never knew when it was going to hit. Once, in the middle of the night (sorry Fowler and Roberson families, the girl has a set of lungs and she knows how to use them) other times, after a big outing (Tritz and Morrison families, you missed a doozy after we got home from Easter dinner). One night, when John was traveling for work, the only way she would sleep is if she had one hand on my back the entire night. By the end of the trip, I was just as overtired and overstimulated as she was. It's hard to be a good mom when you are so far away from home!
But we got through it, and had a wonderful time with our families. And now we have a summer vacation to look forward to, and a wide open calendar for anyone that might want to book a visit....
So my good reason was that this year, we took our annual trip back to Minnesota for the Easter break, rather than go at our usual time in the summer. Earlier this year, John announced that we needed a vacation and we should go somewhere warm and have a beach vacation for spring break. Hmm. I'm not sure if you follow regional weather patterns, but Europe doesn't exactly have a Florida. There's not really anywhere that's warm enough to lay on the beach in Europe for spring break.
We could go to Africa? Or maybe Egypt? Can you imagine that phone call, "hi mom and dad, just want to let you know that we're taking your grandkids to Egypt for spring break this year....what do you mean violent uprising?" In any event, either of those destinations seemed a little overwhelming for this family of five. That left, well, Florida. You wouldn't believe the deals you can get on flights from Europe to Miami or Orlando. But how silly is that? Americans living in Europe traveling to Florida for spring break...maybe if we lived here permanently, or maybe if we talked all of our family into meeting us there....
We came up with an alternative. Rather than spend all of our time and money to travel to the U.S. this summer, we decided to take our trip to Minnesota for Easter, leaving a wide open schedule (and budget) for us to travel somewhere warm and vaction-y here this summer. So that's what we did.
The kids were older, the flights much easier. It was the first time since we've lived here that I was actually more excited to go, than I was nervous about taking the kids on the long flights. That was a good feeling. We all appreciated the fact that we would be there to celebrate a holiday that we usually celebrate alone, here. We figured that we could manage it during the school year and the kids would be able to handle it. What we didn't think about was the reality of trying to fit everything in, to a two week period, when we usually have a month. We focused on family and overall feel like we did a good job with the schedule.
There was one of our crew that had a difficult time with all of it. Miss B. Over the course of two weeks, I finally figured out that she just needed to have a temper tantrum at least once a day to decompress. I never knew when it was going to hit. Once, in the middle of the night (sorry Fowler and Roberson families, the girl has a set of lungs and she knows how to use them) other times, after a big outing (Tritz and Morrison families, you missed a doozy after we got home from Easter dinner). One night, when John was traveling for work, the only way she would sleep is if she had one hand on my back the entire night. By the end of the trip, I was just as overtired and overstimulated as she was. It's hard to be a good mom when you are so far away from home!
But we got through it, and had a wonderful time with our families. And now we have a summer vacation to look forward to, and a wide open calendar for anyone that might want to book a visit....
Sunday, March 25, 2012
It's a Mad, Mad, World.
It's a Mad, Mad world, and I'm mad, mad, mad. This is a reference to a favorite movie on the Pilarski side of the family. It's a movie that I hate, but I decided that awhile ago. We've been watching more old movies lately, and I have a different perspective of the world than I used to, so I think I need to give it another chance.
This story needs some background information. The street in front of our house used to be two-way. Right in front of our house, it changes to a single lane and when it was a two-way street, cars used to have to take turns to drive past our row of houses. The intention was to slow down traffic in front of the houses, but the effect was to turn driving into a game of chicken, right in front of little children's homes. All it took was two drivers with an elevated sense-of-self to think they deserved to be first, and viola. You had two cars trying to fit in a single lane and one would eventually be pushed to the sidewalk shaking his fist while the other zoomed past and usually, both would lean on their horns. Again, right in front of our house.
Once the street turned to one-way, that scenario improved. Although for us, it now means we have to drive an extra three kilometers out of our way to get to the same section of the road 500 meters away from our house. But it was a small price to pay for safety and I'm happy to do it. Besides, as my neighbors and I all found out, it's an expensive ticket. No less than 150 euros for driving the wrong way which is more than I can budget for on a regular basis, so we are sure to always drive the right way, even though it's a hassle. And again, there's the safety thing.
But every now and then, and it's happening more and more lately, there are cars that drive the wrong way. They come from the neighborhood and are trying to take the shortcut to the road that goes to the Ring. The road isn't marked as well as it should be, and there are also a lot of people that are in a hurry and just don't care. It's a dangerous scenario, because the cars driving the right way, drive fast and there is a big blind curve that could result in a really bad head-on collision.
The other day, I was arriving home from school with a car full of kids. I even had an extra one (the neighbor.) A car was approaching head-on, driving the wrong way. We were at a section of the road where only one car fits at a time, I was already passing through when the other driver insisted on coming straight at me. With a little bit of attitude to let them know they were driving the wrong way (I promise, no hand gestures or anything obscene) I moved to my right when there was a section of road without a parked car. But I admit, I took my time about it.
I looked at the driver, straight on. He was a young adult male, about 19 or 20 years old (yes, I occasionally watch police procedure dramas and don't forget that I'm on my second mystery novel). He was wearing a baseball cap and driving an older dark-gray or black sedan. There were at least three other boys in the car. He sped up and as he did, the back end of his car clunked into the back end of mine. I immediately put the car in park and jumped out but he stepped on the gas and got the heck out of there as quick as he could. I squinted into the sunlight but was unable to read his license plate.
I came home and called the police (actually, I made my neighbor do it for me, with my poor french and all) and the police said it would have been nice to have the license plate number (no s&*t sherlock) and to come in to file a report if my insurance needed it. Sigh. And then my neighbor said, I wonder if it's the kids that play basketball at the park? And come to think of it, I have seen a dark gray/black vehicle parked there on a regular basis. The boys play basketball at the park around the corner. They always park blocking the drive to the entrance, so it's easy to remember seeing it there.
I spent the rest of the evening being mad about it. I was mad that there are people that think rules don't apply to them. I was mad that I'm a good person and this happened to me. And then I turned on the news. I've been watching the local news lately as 1.) it's a good french lesson and 2.) as expats it's easy to get stuck t in a bubble where we don't know what's going on locally unless we make an effort. And the lead-in story on the news was about the terrorist in Toulouse, followed up by funeral coverage for the joint funeral of six of the children from last week's bus crash. That's enough perspective for me not to care in the least about a dent in the back of my car.
Friday, after school, I made AJ come with me to the police station to file a report. And guess what?? On our way to the police station, we saw a dark gray/black car pulling out of the driveway parking spot at the basketball court. He thought I was kindly letting him out of his parking spot, when really I was trying to find a pen and paper to write down his license plate number.
After an hour-and-a-half at the police station AJ and I had successfully filed a police report. We had a close call and almost got turned away, when the flustered desk officer didn't want to take a report that wasn't in french, but we prevailed. I am grateful that I have a personal interpreter in the form of a really cute 8-year old. While he was initially excited to see what a police station looked like, I'm sure the novelty wore after the first ten minutes. But I couldn't have been more proud when, after an hour into it, he turned to me and said "mom, I can see why you made me come with you."
So the car will get fixed and maybe the irresponsible teenager will get a good lesson in owning one's actions. And now AJ and I can add "visit police station" to the long list of "things we got to do in Belgium."
This story needs some background information. The street in front of our house used to be two-way. Right in front of our house, it changes to a single lane and when it was a two-way street, cars used to have to take turns to drive past our row of houses. The intention was to slow down traffic in front of the houses, but the effect was to turn driving into a game of chicken, right in front of little children's homes. All it took was two drivers with an elevated sense-of-self to think they deserved to be first, and viola. You had two cars trying to fit in a single lane and one would eventually be pushed to the sidewalk shaking his fist while the other zoomed past and usually, both would lean on their horns. Again, right in front of our house.
Once the street turned to one-way, that scenario improved. Although for us, it now means we have to drive an extra three kilometers out of our way to get to the same section of the road 500 meters away from our house. But it was a small price to pay for safety and I'm happy to do it. Besides, as my neighbors and I all found out, it's an expensive ticket. No less than 150 euros for driving the wrong way which is more than I can budget for on a regular basis, so we are sure to always drive the right way, even though it's a hassle. And again, there's the safety thing.
But every now and then, and it's happening more and more lately, there are cars that drive the wrong way. They come from the neighborhood and are trying to take the shortcut to the road that goes to the Ring. The road isn't marked as well as it should be, and there are also a lot of people that are in a hurry and just don't care. It's a dangerous scenario, because the cars driving the right way, drive fast and there is a big blind curve that could result in a really bad head-on collision.
The other day, I was arriving home from school with a car full of kids. I even had an extra one (the neighbor.) A car was approaching head-on, driving the wrong way. We were at a section of the road where only one car fits at a time, I was already passing through when the other driver insisted on coming straight at me. With a little bit of attitude to let them know they were driving the wrong way (I promise, no hand gestures or anything obscene) I moved to my right when there was a section of road without a parked car. But I admit, I took my time about it.
I looked at the driver, straight on. He was a young adult male, about 19 or 20 years old (yes, I occasionally watch police procedure dramas and don't forget that I'm on my second mystery novel). He was wearing a baseball cap and driving an older dark-gray or black sedan. There were at least three other boys in the car. He sped up and as he did, the back end of his car clunked into the back end of mine. I immediately put the car in park and jumped out but he stepped on the gas and got the heck out of there as quick as he could. I squinted into the sunlight but was unable to read his license plate.
I came home and called the police (actually, I made my neighbor do it for me, with my poor french and all) and the police said it would have been nice to have the license plate number (no s&*t sherlock) and to come in to file a report if my insurance needed it. Sigh. And then my neighbor said, I wonder if it's the kids that play basketball at the park? And come to think of it, I have seen a dark gray/black vehicle parked there on a regular basis. The boys play basketball at the park around the corner. They always park blocking the drive to the entrance, so it's easy to remember seeing it there.
I spent the rest of the evening being mad about it. I was mad that there are people that think rules don't apply to them. I was mad that I'm a good person and this happened to me. And then I turned on the news. I've been watching the local news lately as 1.) it's a good french lesson and 2.) as expats it's easy to get stuck t in a bubble where we don't know what's going on locally unless we make an effort. And the lead-in story on the news was about the terrorist in Toulouse, followed up by funeral coverage for the joint funeral of six of the children from last week's bus crash. That's enough perspective for me not to care in the least about a dent in the back of my car.
Friday, after school, I made AJ come with me to the police station to file a report. And guess what?? On our way to the police station, we saw a dark gray/black car pulling out of the driveway parking spot at the basketball court. He thought I was kindly letting him out of his parking spot, when really I was trying to find a pen and paper to write down his license plate number.
After an hour-and-a-half at the police station AJ and I had successfully filed a police report. We had a close call and almost got turned away, when the flustered desk officer didn't want to take a report that wasn't in french, but we prevailed. I am grateful that I have a personal interpreter in the form of a really cute 8-year old. While he was initially excited to see what a police station looked like, I'm sure the novelty wore after the first ten minutes. But I couldn't have been more proud when, after an hour into it, he turned to me and said "mom, I can see why you made me come with you."
So the car will get fixed and maybe the irresponsible teenager will get a good lesson in owning one's actions. And now AJ and I can add "visit police station" to the long list of "things we got to do in Belgium."
Friday, March 23, 2012
Me? A Blogger?!
I've had my first press coverage. My blog (yes, this one) was highlighted with a review in Rendez-vous magazine. Rendez-vous is an online quarterly publication of the AWCB (American Women's Club) of which I guess you could say, I am an active member.
http://awcb.org/rv/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=224:blog-review&catid=2:tech&Itemid=4
I've never considered myself a "blogger" before. But someone else called me it first, and I suppose that multiple blog entries a month qualifies? When I hear the word "blogger" I have this image that pops into my head of a Gen-Xer tech whiz sitting at a fancy computer with lots to say about the world going on around them. The last part is certainly true - the part about having lots to say...sometimes it's even more than I expected. I guess it's time to let go of the admittedly stereotypical image I've created in my mind.
This blog began as a way for me to keep in touch with our friends and family back home in the United States. I knew that we were embarking on a life changing experience, and I wanted to give them a window into our life here so they would still "know" us when we return - whenever that may be. Over the years, it has evolved. Now, I also see it as a way for our new friends here, especially our Belgian friends, to understand more about where we come from. And maybe even why we think the way we think, or do the things we do.
After doing this for several years, I have unintentionally set a few guidelines and rules for myself. First and foremost, I respect the privacy of others, namely, my friends. I am conscious that while I am alright with announcing my opinions and ideas for all the world to see, others that I talk to on a daily basis might not be.
Also, I try really hard to express opinions and observations, without passing judgment. If there is one thing I've learned over the past few years living in a different culture, it's that there is more than one way to skin a cat. (If you are using a translation tool to read this, I apologize for the obscure expression). There is more than one way to accomplish something, and while I might certainly have an opinion to express, it's not my place to pass judgment.
So I guess it's official. I am a blogger. I'll go ahead and add it to the ever growing list.
http://awcb.org/rv/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=224:blog-review&catid=2:tech&Itemid=4
I've never considered myself a "blogger" before. But someone else called me it first, and I suppose that multiple blog entries a month qualifies? When I hear the word "blogger" I have this image that pops into my head of a Gen-Xer tech whiz sitting at a fancy computer with lots to say about the world going on around them. The last part is certainly true - the part about having lots to say...sometimes it's even more than I expected. I guess it's time to let go of the admittedly stereotypical image I've created in my mind.
This blog began as a way for me to keep in touch with our friends and family back home in the United States. I knew that we were embarking on a life changing experience, and I wanted to give them a window into our life here so they would still "know" us when we return - whenever that may be. Over the years, it has evolved. Now, I also see it as a way for our new friends here, especially our Belgian friends, to understand more about where we come from. And maybe even why we think the way we think, or do the things we do.
After doing this for several years, I have unintentionally set a few guidelines and rules for myself. First and foremost, I respect the privacy of others, namely, my friends. I am conscious that while I am alright with announcing my opinions and ideas for all the world to see, others that I talk to on a daily basis might not be.
Also, I try really hard to express opinions and observations, without passing judgment. If there is one thing I've learned over the past few years living in a different culture, it's that there is more than one way to skin a cat. (If you are using a translation tool to read this, I apologize for the obscure expression). There is more than one way to accomplish something, and while I might certainly have an opinion to express, it's not my place to pass judgment.
So I guess it's official. I am a blogger. I'll go ahead and add it to the ever growing list.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Four years ago today...
Four years ago today, an American family of four arrived at Midi train station with a lot of luggage and a cat. In hindsight, the train idea was not very smart, but we got here eventually. A few weeks later, our dog arrived (jet lag and all) and we settled into our home in La Hulpe.
Now, four years later, we've had to say goodbye to the dog and cat (Monkey's allergies - and his head full of hair for that matter), but we have an extra kid. And while she may not be Belgian by nationality, she is Belgian by heart. Miss B's first words were chocolate (ca-ca) and baguette (ba-bette) and they remain her favorite foods to this day (along with frites). I refuse to let her try a sip of her daddy's beer, because I'm sure, by deduction, that would be a favorite too.
While we might have to work a little harder than we thought to keep them American, our children have embraced life here. They love their soccer teams (their own, of course) but they also cheer for Barcelona and Man-U (Manchester United) and know all of the players in between. They speak french much better than their parents (even Miss B) and often serve as translators for said parents whenever the need arrises. Last year, we even had AJ sit in on his little brother's parent-teacher conference to help us out.
And despite challenges like cultural differences, language barriers and homesickness, we will be forever grateful for the amazing opportunity and life lessons we've learned in our short time here. We will be especially thankful for the life-long friends we've made along the way.
Now, four years later, we've had to say goodbye to the dog and cat (Monkey's allergies - and his head full of hair for that matter), but we have an extra kid. And while she may not be Belgian by nationality, she is Belgian by heart. Miss B's first words were chocolate (ca-ca) and baguette (ba-bette) and they remain her favorite foods to this day (along with frites). I refuse to let her try a sip of her daddy's beer, because I'm sure, by deduction, that would be a favorite too.
While we might have to work a little harder than we thought to keep them American, our children have embraced life here. They love their soccer teams (their own, of course) but they also cheer for Barcelona and Man-U (Manchester United) and know all of the players in between. They speak french much better than their parents (even Miss B) and often serve as translators for said parents whenever the need arrises. Last year, we even had AJ sit in on his little brother's parent-teacher conference to help us out.
And despite challenges like cultural differences, language barriers and homesickness, we will be forever grateful for the amazing opportunity and life lessons we've learned in our short time here. We will be especially thankful for the life-long friends we've made along the way.
A Heavy Heart.
My heart hurts.
Earlier this week, there was a horrific accident -- a bus crashed in Switzerland. It was filled with Belgian students, returning from a school ski trip. More than half of the people on the bus - 28 were killed and 22 of them children. Twenty-two. I can hardly even think about it without tears filling in my eyes.
This is such a small country. That's a lot of kids. They were 11 and 12-year olds (sixth graders) from two small catholic schools in Flanders. All of the adults perished, two bus drivers and four teachers. The tragedy hit the entire country, but it's impossible not to know someone that was personally affected. John plays hockey with guys from Heverlee, one of the villages.
I know that it's not easy for Americans to relate to school trips like that, especially for younger students. I never, ever went away for a school trip, except for a weekend retreat and that wasn't until high school. It's just not something that American kids have the chance to do.
At our school here, the younger primary kids go to "classes vertes." They don't leave the country, but they do get on a bus and go away with their class for a week at a camp setting. AJ came back from this experience (his first trip, a few years ago) a completely different kid. After just four days away, he was more mature, more independent. This year, our calendar says that the fifth and sixth graders are going to Amsterdam for their trip.
When I take the kids to school in the morning, Miss B and I usually walk AJ and Monkey down to their playground. Monkey typically needs a bit of assistance, whether it's with his swim gear (on Tuesdays, they take the bus to the swimming pool first thing, and a few weeks ago when I didn't walk him all the way to his classroom, he forgot to take his swim bag to the pool, even though he had it with him) or his gym sack (on Fridays, they put on their muddy boots and walk across the pastures to the recreation center up the road for gym class.) Anyway, after we help monkey get settled, Miss B and I usually sit on a bench and watch the big kids run and play before we go up to her class room.
This week, I sat and watched the sixth graders on the playground, and I could hardly do it without crying. There are probably only 22 kids in the entire sixth grade class at our school. I cannot even imagine what it would be like to have them just gone. These faces -- while I don't know a lot of their names -- I've watched them grow up over the last four years. One of the teachers that was killed sounded a lot like Avery's teacher. He was popular with students and parents, and lived for his students. He started a blog, just for this trip for his students and encouraged them to post messages for friends and classmates back home. That's almost an entire class and teacher, just gone. Forever.
My heart breaks for the parents and siblings of the lost children, for their schoolmates they left behind, and for my adopted country of Belgium.
Heaven has 22 new angels that I wish hadn't been called away so early.
Earlier this week, there was a horrific accident -- a bus crashed in Switzerland. It was filled with Belgian students, returning from a school ski trip. More than half of the people on the bus - 28 were killed and 22 of them children. Twenty-two. I can hardly even think about it without tears filling in my eyes.
This is such a small country. That's a lot of kids. They were 11 and 12-year olds (sixth graders) from two small catholic schools in Flanders. All of the adults perished, two bus drivers and four teachers. The tragedy hit the entire country, but it's impossible not to know someone that was personally affected. John plays hockey with guys from Heverlee, one of the villages.
I know that it's not easy for Americans to relate to school trips like that, especially for younger students. I never, ever went away for a school trip, except for a weekend retreat and that wasn't until high school. It's just not something that American kids have the chance to do.
At our school here, the younger primary kids go to "classes vertes." They don't leave the country, but they do get on a bus and go away with their class for a week at a camp setting. AJ came back from this experience (his first trip, a few years ago) a completely different kid. After just four days away, he was more mature, more independent. This year, our calendar says that the fifth and sixth graders are going to Amsterdam for their trip.
When I take the kids to school in the morning, Miss B and I usually walk AJ and Monkey down to their playground. Monkey typically needs a bit of assistance, whether it's with his swim gear (on Tuesdays, they take the bus to the swimming pool first thing, and a few weeks ago when I didn't walk him all the way to his classroom, he forgot to take his swim bag to the pool, even though he had it with him) or his gym sack (on Fridays, they put on their muddy boots and walk across the pastures to the recreation center up the road for gym class.) Anyway, after we help monkey get settled, Miss B and I usually sit on a bench and watch the big kids run and play before we go up to her class room.
This week, I sat and watched the sixth graders on the playground, and I could hardly do it without crying. There are probably only 22 kids in the entire sixth grade class at our school. I cannot even imagine what it would be like to have them just gone. These faces -- while I don't know a lot of their names -- I've watched them grow up over the last four years. One of the teachers that was killed sounded a lot like Avery's teacher. He was popular with students and parents, and lived for his students. He started a blog, just for this trip for his students and encouraged them to post messages for friends and classmates back home. That's almost an entire class and teacher, just gone. Forever.
My heart breaks for the parents and siblings of the lost children, for their schoolmates they left behind, and for my adopted country of Belgium.
Heaven has 22 new angels that I wish hadn't been called away so early.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
An American Girl goes to a concert in Brussels: Wilco.
I've been to my fair share of concerts. Minneapolis is a great venue for all sorts of music, from outdoor festivals, to First Ave to stadium settings, the whole range. But concerts here are unlike anything I've ever experienced.
Last week, we went to see Wilco (for those not familiar with the band, their most popular songs are "Box Full of Letters" - late 90's, "Heavy Metal Drummer" - summer 2003 and more recently "I Might" from their new album, The Whole Love.) I've seen Wilco preform before. One of my top ten favorite concerts of all time was Wilco at the Orpheum (or maybe it was the State Theater - I get them confused) for the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Tour. Last week, we were twenty feet away from them at the Ancienne Belgique.
Anything at the Ancienne Belgique (for my Minneapolis friends, think First Ave) also makes it easily onto my top ten list. To get to see a band that has steadily gained fame in the United States, but is not as well known in a foreign country, like the Counting Crows or Wilco, means you get to see them in a club venue like they would have played in the United States before they were well known.
We've found the best seats (well, not seats, spot to stand) in the entire club. The first balcony, as close as you can get to the stage (which we got just moments before they went on stage). From our viewpoint, not only were we twenty feet away from the band, but we had a bird's eye view of the entire floor.
And wow. Concert goers here are so different than in the United States. They are conservative, to say the least. Their spot was their spot. No one tried to move closer to the stage. They were almost standing in straight rows going back from the stage. Personal space was completely respected. No one moved. Not very many sang. That's not something this Minnesota Girl can relate to. They clapped and cheered, of course. And after an hour or so into it, when Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy asked if everyone was having fun, people shouted a few different songs, but that was about it.
It's not necessarily a mosh pit kind of band, but looking out over this crowd with such a respect for personal space, I wondered if there had ever been such a thing as a mosh pit within these walls.
Now I'm not out of control by any means, but I hopped a little, and I bopped a little, and I definitely sang along. Some songs, I sang more loudly than others. At the brief pause before the final set, I turned to the Dutchman next to me and asked if he had ever seen them before. Twice, he answered. And then he said "you obviously have."
As an expat, I am thankful for a lot of things. On that night at the Ancienne Belgique, I was thankful for the chance to see a favorite American band, in a small European venue. I was thankful to have a good babysitter that meant we could venture into Brussels for a night out.
But I was mostly thankful that the lyrics were in my first language and I could easily sing along -- which was something I'd never even thought about before.
Last week, we went to see Wilco (for those not familiar with the band, their most popular songs are "Box Full of Letters" - late 90's, "Heavy Metal Drummer" - summer 2003 and more recently "I Might" from their new album, The Whole Love.) I've seen Wilco preform before. One of my top ten favorite concerts of all time was Wilco at the Orpheum (or maybe it was the State Theater - I get them confused) for the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Tour. Last week, we were twenty feet away from them at the Ancienne Belgique.
Anything at the Ancienne Belgique (for my Minneapolis friends, think First Ave) also makes it easily onto my top ten list. To get to see a band that has steadily gained fame in the United States, but is not as well known in a foreign country, like the Counting Crows or Wilco, means you get to see them in a club venue like they would have played in the United States before they were well known.
We've found the best seats (well, not seats, spot to stand) in the entire club. The first balcony, as close as you can get to the stage (which we got just moments before they went on stage). From our viewpoint, not only were we twenty feet away from the band, but we had a bird's eye view of the entire floor.
And wow. Concert goers here are so different than in the United States. They are conservative, to say the least. Their spot was their spot. No one tried to move closer to the stage. They were almost standing in straight rows going back from the stage. Personal space was completely respected. No one moved. Not very many sang. That's not something this Minnesota Girl can relate to. They clapped and cheered, of course. And after an hour or so into it, when Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy asked if everyone was having fun, people shouted a few different songs, but that was about it.
It's not necessarily a mosh pit kind of band, but looking out over this crowd with such a respect for personal space, I wondered if there had ever been such a thing as a mosh pit within these walls.
Now I'm not out of control by any means, but I hopped a little, and I bopped a little, and I definitely sang along. Some songs, I sang more loudly than others. At the brief pause before the final set, I turned to the Dutchman next to me and asked if he had ever seen them before. Twice, he answered. And then he said "you obviously have."
As an expat, I am thankful for a lot of things. On that night at the Ancienne Belgique, I was thankful for the chance to see a favorite American band, in a small European venue. I was thankful to have a good babysitter that meant we could venture into Brussels for a night out.
But I was mostly thankful that the lyrics were in my first language and I could easily sing along -- which was something I'd never even thought about before.
The Culture of Food.
Is there really anything more cultural than food?
I can't believe that I am still talking about this article, but there was one last point the article raised, and it's worth mentioning. The Wall Street Journal parenting article talks about snacking and specifically, raised an example about two families traveling together, one from France and the other from the U.S. In the American family the children helped themselves to the refrigerator whenever they wanted. The author raised a point about delayed gratification and tied it into patience.
But it is so much more than just that. I agree that Americans could stand to learn a little bit about delayed gratification. The immense amount of credit card debt is evidence of that. But thanks to the economic crisis of the last few years, us Americans are already getting a tough lesson in that department.
But with respect to food. Maybe snacking is a sign of an inability to delay gratification. But is that really a function of parenting failure or is it more that Americans just have a different culture with respect to food? So maybe, the conclusion should instead be that the attitude towards food in one culture or another lends itself to better parenting within that culture.
In the United States, in general, food is very casual. We are also a culture that "is on the go," so our food is also, "on the go." There is an emphasis on doing things fast. For example, the aisles in the grocery stores are filled with quick dinner ideas and "minute meals." There are all kinds of fast food options, some more healthy than others. Even sit down restaurants encourage diners to eat within an hour so as to "turn over" the table. I know, I used to be a waitress. And after watching a few seasons of Mad Men, I also think that sometimes, U.S. advertisers makes us think that we need to have all sorts of specialty products in order to make a fast dinner. By living for a few years without some of those fancy products, I've realized that cooking something fresh, or even all from scratch can be just as fast. But I digress.
What I've noticed about living here, is that meal time is more formal. Restaurants here never, ever rush people through a meal. In general, dinner is late, so that families can eat together once everyone is home from work. The focus is on sitting together, having conversation and enjoying the food. Wine is almost always served at dinner (not just for special occasions or on the weekend) and it's also not unusual to have wine or beer at lunch. It's not that we don't have special family dinners together in the United States. But in my family growing up, we were on the go during the week and focused on our family time (and enjoyed our dinners together) over the weekend.
For lunchtime, lunches are typically smaller here, usually I send a sandwich, juice and a piece of fruit. The lunch boxes here are easily half of the size of those in the U.S. But the children also take a snack to school, to have in the middle of the morning. I usually send something fun, like a waffle or cake - which reportedly is what all of the other kids bring for snack time. There is also a snack in the afternoon, and again it's usually a time to have cake or something sweet. This doesn't really spoil dinner, because again, dinner is served much later. In general, portions are smaller (in part because food is more expensive) and children are encouraged to clean their plates. I was raised on the clean plate theory, and with prices here, I more than understand the concept of not wanting to waste food.
But how does one take the best of both cultures, and use it to be a better parent? Personally, I try to take some of the best ideas I've observed and learned from living in the culture here, and apply it to our family life with the idea that we are still Americans, and some day we will be again living on U.S. soil. I'm not sure if it makes me a better parent or not, but we are living through an immersion experience and it's always good to have options and try new things, right?
If I send something sweet as a snack for school in the morning, then usually the dessert in their lunchbox is a piece of fruit or applesauce (which is also considered dessert here.) Once a week, the kids have hot lunch at school so they can get used to eating something different, under different cultural requirements (i.e. they usually have to clean their plates.)
I never require my children to clear their plates at home. Our rule is that they have to try at least one of everything. IF we were going to live in Europe forever, I would be a card carrying member of the clean plate club. But I know that some day we will probably be living back in the U.S. With the giant portion sizes in the U.S., I really want my children to learn to listen to their own bodies, and be able to recognize when they are full and stop eating. So we don't always clear our plates here, and I don't feel the least bit guilty about it.
When John isn't traveling, we try to always eat as a family, even if it's a little bit later than we are used to. We are lucky, because with John working from home, his "commute" is to walk down the stairs. Although, that time in the evening (between 4 and 6pm) is usually his busiest due to the time difference, and it's his best time to be on the phone to the U.S. so sometimes it's hard for him to break away. We try to aim for between 6 and 6:30, sometimes it's even later.
But the later we eat, the crabbier my kids get if their bellies are hungry. Besides, as Americans, in our to-go, non-delayed gratification culture, we LOVE our snacks. I don't want to give that up. And again, if we are going to eventually move back to the U.S., then my kids need to learn responsible snacking. So at our house, the kids have an after school snack, like a yogurt, or maybe a cookie or treat. Especially if they had fruit in their lunchbox. As we get closer to dinner, the healthier our snacks get. Sliced apple, or cucumbers. An orange or piece of cheese. The closer we get to dinner, I choose snacks that I wouldn't mind them actually eating for dinner.
I also almost always make popcorn when we have family movie nights. I grew up with that and it was a special family tradition. I'm excited to make that a tradition in my family now. Not to mention, I make really, really good popcorn (if I do say so myself.) I've been told on more than one occasion from several different people that it is "so American," to allow that. But guess what? I'm American. An American that LOVES her popcorn with a good movie and I will never, ever, give it up for anything.
So to wrap up this entire discussion on the incendiary Wall Street Journal article. I think it's easy to make a declaration that one culture or another is superior. It's easy to conduct studies, gather opinions, and form conclusions. Living as an expat in another culture opens a window into different ideas, such as restaurant culture and mealtime. The author of this parenting book (Pamela Druckerman) was lucky to have this opportunity. I feel lucky every single day (even the tough homesick ones) because I know that I get to do something that not a lot of people have the chance to do. But as a fellow expat, who is also a writer and considers herself a good American parent, I suggest that Ms. Druckerman, in authoring a parenting book, also has a responsibility. Not just to present the cultural differences that make the french better parents and declare opinions sure to incite and inflame passions. But also to tell us Americans how to apply those concepts within the confines of our own culture. I sure hope her book does this, because the Wall Street Journal article surely didn't.
I can't believe that I am still talking about this article, but there was one last point the article raised, and it's worth mentioning. The Wall Street Journal parenting article talks about snacking and specifically, raised an example about two families traveling together, one from France and the other from the U.S. In the American family the children helped themselves to the refrigerator whenever they wanted. The author raised a point about delayed gratification and tied it into patience.
But it is so much more than just that. I agree that Americans could stand to learn a little bit about delayed gratification. The immense amount of credit card debt is evidence of that. But thanks to the economic crisis of the last few years, us Americans are already getting a tough lesson in that department.
But with respect to food. Maybe snacking is a sign of an inability to delay gratification. But is that really a function of parenting failure or is it more that Americans just have a different culture with respect to food? So maybe, the conclusion should instead be that the attitude towards food in one culture or another lends itself to better parenting within that culture.
In the United States, in general, food is very casual. We are also a culture that "is on the go," so our food is also, "on the go." There is an emphasis on doing things fast. For example, the aisles in the grocery stores are filled with quick dinner ideas and "minute meals." There are all kinds of fast food options, some more healthy than others. Even sit down restaurants encourage diners to eat within an hour so as to "turn over" the table. I know, I used to be a waitress. And after watching a few seasons of Mad Men, I also think that sometimes, U.S. advertisers makes us think that we need to have all sorts of specialty products in order to make a fast dinner. By living for a few years without some of those fancy products, I've realized that cooking something fresh, or even all from scratch can be just as fast. But I digress.
What I've noticed about living here, is that meal time is more formal. Restaurants here never, ever rush people through a meal. In general, dinner is late, so that families can eat together once everyone is home from work. The focus is on sitting together, having conversation and enjoying the food. Wine is almost always served at dinner (not just for special occasions or on the weekend) and it's also not unusual to have wine or beer at lunch. It's not that we don't have special family dinners together in the United States. But in my family growing up, we were on the go during the week and focused on our family time (and enjoyed our dinners together) over the weekend.
For lunchtime, lunches are typically smaller here, usually I send a sandwich, juice and a piece of fruit. The lunch boxes here are easily half of the size of those in the U.S. But the children also take a snack to school, to have in the middle of the morning. I usually send something fun, like a waffle or cake - which reportedly is what all of the other kids bring for snack time. There is also a snack in the afternoon, and again it's usually a time to have cake or something sweet. This doesn't really spoil dinner, because again, dinner is served much later. In general, portions are smaller (in part because food is more expensive) and children are encouraged to clean their plates. I was raised on the clean plate theory, and with prices here, I more than understand the concept of not wanting to waste food.
But how does one take the best of both cultures, and use it to be a better parent? Personally, I try to take some of the best ideas I've observed and learned from living in the culture here, and apply it to our family life with the idea that we are still Americans, and some day we will be again living on U.S. soil. I'm not sure if it makes me a better parent or not, but we are living through an immersion experience and it's always good to have options and try new things, right?
If I send something sweet as a snack for school in the morning, then usually the dessert in their lunchbox is a piece of fruit or applesauce (which is also considered dessert here.) Once a week, the kids have hot lunch at school so they can get used to eating something different, under different cultural requirements (i.e. they usually have to clean their plates.)
I never require my children to clear their plates at home. Our rule is that they have to try at least one of everything. IF we were going to live in Europe forever, I would be a card carrying member of the clean plate club. But I know that some day we will probably be living back in the U.S. With the giant portion sizes in the U.S., I really want my children to learn to listen to their own bodies, and be able to recognize when they are full and stop eating. So we don't always clear our plates here, and I don't feel the least bit guilty about it.
When John isn't traveling, we try to always eat as a family, even if it's a little bit later than we are used to. We are lucky, because with John working from home, his "commute" is to walk down the stairs. Although, that time in the evening (between 4 and 6pm) is usually his busiest due to the time difference, and it's his best time to be on the phone to the U.S. so sometimes it's hard for him to break away. We try to aim for between 6 and 6:30, sometimes it's even later.
But the later we eat, the crabbier my kids get if their bellies are hungry. Besides, as Americans, in our to-go, non-delayed gratification culture, we LOVE our snacks. I don't want to give that up. And again, if we are going to eventually move back to the U.S., then my kids need to learn responsible snacking. So at our house, the kids have an after school snack, like a yogurt, or maybe a cookie or treat. Especially if they had fruit in their lunchbox. As we get closer to dinner, the healthier our snacks get. Sliced apple, or cucumbers. An orange or piece of cheese. The closer we get to dinner, I choose snacks that I wouldn't mind them actually eating for dinner.
I also almost always make popcorn when we have family movie nights. I grew up with that and it was a special family tradition. I'm excited to make that a tradition in my family now. Not to mention, I make really, really good popcorn (if I do say so myself.) I've been told on more than one occasion from several different people that it is "so American," to allow that. But guess what? I'm American. An American that LOVES her popcorn with a good movie and I will never, ever, give it up for anything.
So to wrap up this entire discussion on the incendiary Wall Street Journal article. I think it's easy to make a declaration that one culture or another is superior. It's easy to conduct studies, gather opinions, and form conclusions. Living as an expat in another culture opens a window into different ideas, such as restaurant culture and mealtime. The author of this parenting book (Pamela Druckerman) was lucky to have this opportunity. I feel lucky every single day (even the tough homesick ones) because I know that I get to do something that not a lot of people have the chance to do. But as a fellow expat, who is also a writer and considers herself a good American parent, I suggest that Ms. Druckerman, in authoring a parenting book, also has a responsibility. Not just to present the cultural differences that make the french better parents and declare opinions sure to incite and inflame passions. But also to tell us Americans how to apply those concepts within the confines of our own culture. I sure hope her book does this, because the Wall Street Journal article surely didn't.
Friday, February 24, 2012
More about French Parenting
I know. I just blogged about this darn article. But like I said, it has made me think and there is more to say.
I consider myself a good mother, but after I read this article, I immediately began to question my own parenting skills. I found myself yelling more, re-thinking my house rules. Which in turn utterly confused my children. It made me stop and ask myself "what the heck am I doing and why?"
Why did it make me feel so insecure? I realized that when we moved here, as part of my process to adapt to a new culture, I rejected parts of my own American-ness. I was insecure in a new place, trying to fit in. This article brought a lot of those initial insecure feelings back to me. Over the years, I have learned to overcome that insecurity, and instead embrace both cultures and try to see, and apply, the good from both.
I suppose the point of a good parenting book and/or article is to provoke thought and make you examine your own parenting methods. The author raises some interesting points, and it puts reading this book on my ever-growing "to do" list. But while she raised some good points, there wasn't much about "how" or "what" us American parents can actually do about it to ultimately become better parents. (At least in the article there aren't any answers, maybe we have to buy the book to find that out?) Meanwhile, let me shove past my initial defensiveness and insecurity and maybe I can take what I've learned here to try to help with that.
I consider myself a good mother, but after I read this article, I immediately began to question my own parenting skills. I found myself yelling more, re-thinking my house rules. Which in turn utterly confused my children. It made me stop and ask myself "what the heck am I doing and why?"
Why did it make me feel so insecure? I realized that when we moved here, as part of my process to adapt to a new culture, I rejected parts of my own American-ness. I was insecure in a new place, trying to fit in. This article brought a lot of those initial insecure feelings back to me. Over the years, I have learned to overcome that insecurity, and instead embrace both cultures and try to see, and apply, the good from both.
I suppose the point of a good parenting book and/or article is to provoke thought and make you examine your own parenting methods. The author raises some interesting points, and it puts reading this book on my ever-growing "to do" list. But while she raised some good points, there wasn't much about "how" or "what" us American parents can actually do about it to ultimately become better parents. (At least in the article there aren't any answers, maybe we have to buy the book to find that out?) Meanwhile, let me shove past my initial defensiveness and insecurity and maybe I can take what I've learned here to try to help with that.
For example, restaurants. In the article she talks about restaurants and how the french children behaved while hers didn't. Here's what I've noticed about restaurants. Unlike in the United States, there aren't a lot of concessions made for children in restaurants. Most restaurants don't open until 7pm. They don't serve children's drinks in plastic cups with lids and silly straws. You are lucky to find a highchair, and in some cases, a children's menu. At first glance, this makes it appear that children aren't welcome in restaurants. This is not true (well, most of the time it's not true). A lot of it relates to cultural difference, but more than that it's that the expectations for children are higher. So we adapted and here's how.
At home, I threw out most of my sippy cups and lids. (I saved two or three, for sick kids that need to take water to bed and for airplanes.) Every night, I set the table with glass glasses and real silverware, even Miss B gets a table knife. If a glass breaks, it breaks. If it spills, it spills. It's practice for those nights at other people's houses or a restaurant. On special occasions, my kids even get a wine glass for their sparkling apple juice. If having a wine glass or a knife is going to be a novelty at a restaurant, of course the kid is going to bang the knife against the glass. If it's something they see every night at dinner, they know what to do with it. (We're still working on not banging them around, but I grow more and more confident every day.) This "practice" isn't just good for the kids, it makes me more confident as well. When we go out I'm not just waiting for the glass to break or the drink to spill. I have faith and confidence in them, which not only means that I can let them talk to their friends but I get to do the same.
When we go out, I always make sure I have my own markers and paper for the kids to use to color while they wait. And when I look around the restaurant, I see that other parents do the same. And some kids even have their little faces glued to a Nintendo DS system (we try not to resort to that, but there have been times I have stuck my iPod loaded with Blues Clues episodes in my purse...just in case). No booster seat? No problem. That backless toddler booster car seat that Monkey uses works perfect at the table for Miss B.
If we're going out late, I make sure my kids have a substantial snack about two hours before. By that I don't mean cakes or cookies. I give them a snack that would maybe even qualify as dinner if it had to. Like a small sandwich or cheese roll-up. The point is that it's not enough to really "be" dinner, but enough to tide them over and keep their blood sugar in check so they are not crazy and screaming when we sit down to the table. It's also enough for me to not care too much about how much they actually eat at dinner.
Which raises another interesting topic that she also brings up in her article, "snacking." But this really is about another entirely new cultural difference, that really deserves its own blog entry altogether.
But do I really dare devote another blog entry to this? Oh, I suppose if I must, I must. To be continued....
Friday, February 17, 2012
Superior French Parenting
An excerpt from Pamela Druckerman's book entitled "Bringing up Bebe: One American Woman Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting was published in the Wall Street Journal last week under the provocative title "Why French Parents are Superior" and it immediately popped up on FB being shared by several of my expat friends.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204740904577196931457473816.html?mod=WSJ_hps_RIGHTTopCarousel_1
As an expat mother in a francophone culture (I am careful not to say French because France and Belgium are very different) this article made me think. Over the last week I have had a chance to process a few thoughts and come to terms with a few things.
The article sites (and basis its premise on) an interesting study comparing "similarly situated" American and French mothers and who considered parenting "more unpleasant." The answer was the American parents. To this, I ask, how "similarly situated?" It is easy enough to say it is so, but really, how similarly situated could they be? Because even if you are looking at working mothers in the same income bracket, there are inherent cultural differences that make them not so "similarly situated."
Here in Belgium, working mothers make up a good percentage of the workforce. Here, the work culture is very different. They work less hours, take longer lunches and have more vacation. Family comes before the job and there is a better work-life balance. I would hazard a guess that working mothers here in Europe have less job-related stress than in the U.S.
But let's compare stay-at-home moms. I know more about that anyway. Here, (and again I mean Belgium, I don't know about France) children begin school at age 2.5. There is structured, early childhood education. Children learn routines, they learn to listen to a teacher, they learn to take direction from other adults and follow rules outside of home. They learn independence. But so do their mothers.
It is much easier to be a stay-at-home mom here in Belgium. I remember my early days as a mother in Minnesota, being shut up in the house with two very little children. My husband traveled a lot, or worked late hours. Any activity we did, required me to organize it. My life was my children because it had to be. I was frazzled and worn out. I was overjoyed when AJ started preschool at age 3, and that was two mornings a week for a couple of hours. Just enough time for me to run a few errands with just one baby. Here, having Miss B go to school at age three opens up new worlds for me. I have time to volunteer, I have time to pursue my own interests, and even more important, she loves it too. We have a better balance and I am a better mother for it.
Now let's talk about housework. The only moms that I know in the U.S. that have cleaning ladies are the ones that work. Cleaning ladies are really expensive. Here, everyone has help (well, everyone except me that is, but I have control issues). And it's not just a cleaning lady, but more of a housekeeper. It is affordable and tax deductible. Housekeepers do more than just clean the house. They help with laundry, ironing and special house projects. Having someone to help around the house on a regular basis, in my opinion, would also relieve a lot of stress on those American mothers.
I argue that French and American mothers could never be considered similarly situated. And that makes comparing their parenting styles like comparing apples to oranges. For those working French moms, take away their housekeepers and give them a cleaning lady. Add an extra ten hours into their work week. For the stay-at-home moms, take away their housekeepers. Keep their children home until age 5, with maybe just a couple of mornings of preschool thrown in for a break. Give them an extra month of kids home on summer vacation. Then report back to me about how pleasant they think parenting is and I'll listen.
But maybe a better idea is not to take anything away from anyone. Maybe a better idea is to acknowledge that there is a better way to balance work and home, and well...parenting. Maybe that's something in which the french are superior.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970204740904577196931457473816.html?mod=WSJ_hps_RIGHTTopCarousel_1
As an expat mother in a francophone culture (I am careful not to say French because France and Belgium are very different) this article made me think. Over the last week I have had a chance to process a few thoughts and come to terms with a few things.
The article sites (and basis its premise on) an interesting study comparing "similarly situated" American and French mothers and who considered parenting "more unpleasant." The answer was the American parents. To this, I ask, how "similarly situated?" It is easy enough to say it is so, but really, how similarly situated could they be? Because even if you are looking at working mothers in the same income bracket, there are inherent cultural differences that make them not so "similarly situated."
Here in Belgium, working mothers make up a good percentage of the workforce. Here, the work culture is very different. They work less hours, take longer lunches and have more vacation. Family comes before the job and there is a better work-life balance. I would hazard a guess that working mothers here in Europe have less job-related stress than in the U.S.
But let's compare stay-at-home moms. I know more about that anyway. Here, (and again I mean Belgium, I don't know about France) children begin school at age 2.5. There is structured, early childhood education. Children learn routines, they learn to listen to a teacher, they learn to take direction from other adults and follow rules outside of home. They learn independence. But so do their mothers.
It is much easier to be a stay-at-home mom here in Belgium. I remember my early days as a mother in Minnesota, being shut up in the house with two very little children. My husband traveled a lot, or worked late hours. Any activity we did, required me to organize it. My life was my children because it had to be. I was frazzled and worn out. I was overjoyed when AJ started preschool at age 3, and that was two mornings a week for a couple of hours. Just enough time for me to run a few errands with just one baby. Here, having Miss B go to school at age three opens up new worlds for me. I have time to volunteer, I have time to pursue my own interests, and even more important, she loves it too. We have a better balance and I am a better mother for it.
Now let's talk about housework. The only moms that I know in the U.S. that have cleaning ladies are the ones that work. Cleaning ladies are really expensive. Here, everyone has help (well, everyone except me that is, but I have control issues). And it's not just a cleaning lady, but more of a housekeeper. It is affordable and tax deductible. Housekeepers do more than just clean the house. They help with laundry, ironing and special house projects. Having someone to help around the house on a regular basis, in my opinion, would also relieve a lot of stress on those American mothers.
I argue that French and American mothers could never be considered similarly situated. And that makes comparing their parenting styles like comparing apples to oranges. For those working French moms, take away their housekeepers and give them a cleaning lady. Add an extra ten hours into their work week. For the stay-at-home moms, take away their housekeepers. Keep their children home until age 5, with maybe just a couple of mornings of preschool thrown in for a break. Give them an extra month of kids home on summer vacation. Then report back to me about how pleasant they think parenting is and I'll listen.
But maybe a better idea is not to take anything away from anyone. Maybe a better idea is to acknowledge that there is a better way to balance work and home, and well...parenting. Maybe that's something in which the french are superior.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
A Belgian Winter
After the longest cold spell since the winter of 1941, our frigid temperatures have turned into a Belgian winter. The cold here is always described as different than the cold in Minnesota. A 0 degree Celsius temperature reading here (32 degrees F) is not the same as a Minnesota 32 degrees F. I haven't been able to figure out a good way to explain it.
Now I have a way to describe it. On Monday, we woke to the freezing cold temperatures we had been enduring for more than a week. I went about my day and by afternoon the temperatures were on the rise. I sat in my kitchen next to the heater and as the temperature outside rose, I got colder and colder. A chill came over me. A chill that I hadn't felt in a couple of weeks. No, I wasn't getting the fever that's going around. My body was readjusting to the Belgian winter. The dampness set in. It is a completely different kind of cold. Bone-chilling. Even though the temperatures outside have risen, it just feels cold all the time and the sun is gone.
It makes me sad to see all of the dead pansies and crocuses everywhere. It's sort of like Old Man Winter (whom we haven't seen at all this year) saying "Ha. You thought spring was almost here but I am having the last laugh."
Today we've had fits of rain. It will rain in a solid downpour for ten minutes. Then it stops and the sun might even come out for a minute or two - just long enough to tease you. Then it starts to sleet or rain again. It's Wednesday, so the boys have soccer practice. It had been cancelled for a few weeks during the subzero temps and frozen field, but now the field is thawed. I fully expect Monkey to come home with three layers of mud - one for each layer of clothes I made him wear.
I hope spring arrives soon. We haven't had the pleasure for very long Mr. Winter, but I'll be happy to see you go.
Now I have a way to describe it. On Monday, we woke to the freezing cold temperatures we had been enduring for more than a week. I went about my day and by afternoon the temperatures were on the rise. I sat in my kitchen next to the heater and as the temperature outside rose, I got colder and colder. A chill came over me. A chill that I hadn't felt in a couple of weeks. No, I wasn't getting the fever that's going around. My body was readjusting to the Belgian winter. The dampness set in. It is a completely different kind of cold. Bone-chilling. Even though the temperatures outside have risen, it just feels cold all the time and the sun is gone.
It makes me sad to see all of the dead pansies and crocuses everywhere. It's sort of like Old Man Winter (whom we haven't seen at all this year) saying "Ha. You thought spring was almost here but I am having the last laugh."
Today we've had fits of rain. It will rain in a solid downpour for ten minutes. Then it stops and the sun might even come out for a minute or two - just long enough to tease you. Then it starts to sleet or rain again. It's Wednesday, so the boys have soccer practice. It had been cancelled for a few weeks during the subzero temps and frozen field, but now the field is thawed. I fully expect Monkey to come home with three layers of mud - one for each layer of clothes I made him wear.
I hope spring arrives soon. We haven't had the pleasure for very long Mr. Winter, but I'll be happy to see you go.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Boots.
When I first arrived in Belgium, I was in awe of the fashion. I noticed that women always looked pulled together, yet it was effortless. Even the moms that I knew stayed home, were wearing skirts with boots, or jeans with pumps. It's not just moms at school. It's women everywhere of all ages, in the grocery store, running errands or going about daily routines.
I let their fashion sense be contagious. It's all about the choices. In the morning, I choose my dark jeans over the old faded ones. I choose any pair of jeans over (cue the embarrassed whisper: sweat pants.) I choose an oversized sweater instead of a sweatshirt. I choose my tall boots over my running shoes. I throw a scarf around my neck. I soon realized that it doesn't take that much effort and the clothes are just as comfortable. Nothing even has to really match. In fact, it's almost better if it doesn't. The result is sort of a haphazard effortless fashion. But personally, I noticed that I felt so much better about myself. There is a confidence that comes with just taking a minute to be conscious about my appearance. It is well worth the minute.
But sometimes I wondered. What would happen if you put Belgian women in the throws of a Minnesota winter? What would change about their apparel choices if they had to dress for snow and ice? Does necessity require that fashion be sacrificed?
With this week's cold spell, I had a chance to answer my own question. Yesterday, I made a point to look at everyone's feet. There is the usual wide variety of boots, of course. Suede, faux fur, etc. etc. Most of them were fashionable, yet practical. But I saw one kind of boot that I hadn't seen for awhile: hiking boots. This morning I dug my own pair of hiking boots out of the storage box in the basement. My report is that they are excellent for slippery cobblestones. And they still look nice with my dark jeans and sweater.
I let their fashion sense be contagious. It's all about the choices. In the morning, I choose my dark jeans over the old faded ones. I choose any pair of jeans over (cue the embarrassed whisper: sweat pants.) I choose an oversized sweater instead of a sweatshirt. I choose my tall boots over my running shoes. I throw a scarf around my neck. I soon realized that it doesn't take that much effort and the clothes are just as comfortable. Nothing even has to really match. In fact, it's almost better if it doesn't. The result is sort of a haphazard effortless fashion. But personally, I noticed that I felt so much better about myself. There is a confidence that comes with just taking a minute to be conscious about my appearance. It is well worth the minute.
But sometimes I wondered. What would happen if you put Belgian women in the throws of a Minnesota winter? What would change about their apparel choices if they had to dress for snow and ice? Does necessity require that fashion be sacrificed?
With this week's cold spell, I had a chance to answer my own question. Yesterday, I made a point to look at everyone's feet. There is the usual wide variety of boots, of course. Suede, faux fur, etc. etc. Most of them were fashionable, yet practical. But I saw one kind of boot that I hadn't seen for awhile: hiking boots. This morning I dug my own pair of hiking boots out of the storage box in the basement. My report is that they are excellent for slippery cobblestones. And they still look nice with my dark jeans and sweater.
A Minnesota Winter
We are in the middle of a deep freeze here in Belgium. It is Minnesota winter weather, no question about it. Glorious sunshine during the day, but below freezing temperatures. The daytime temperatures are sub-zero (but in celsius). We haven't quite reached daytime temps of sub-zero farenheit, and I pray on behalf of the handful of little kids at school that still aren't wearing hats or mittens, that we don't.
While the cold makes it harder to get out of the house in the morning, I appreciate that we've got a break from the outdoor football practices and matches. It was nice yesterday to bring the children home at lunch yesterday and just let them play away the afternoon.
Up until a week ago, we were on track to skip winter altogether. The bulbs were already starting to grow. I even saw flowers on the ones growing at school just after the break, it was so strange to see flowers growing in January. We hadn't had a single snowfall. We had snow last weekend, and got to use our snow boots, snow pants, snow shovel and sleds at least once for the year. But I'm pretty sure the little flowers aren't faring so well. I know that my pansies didn't make it.
Strangely enough, this weather has made me homesick for Minnesota. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because John is heading there for work this week. Or maybe it's because we just booked our tickets to come back for a visit during spring break. Or maybe it's the rare stretch of extended winter sunshine during what is usually a dark and gloomy month.
I have learned to take the weather here in stride. Often, I deal with the dark and rain by telling myself that at least it's not cold. But this week, I am dealing with the cold by being thankful for the sunshine.
While the cold makes it harder to get out of the house in the morning, I appreciate that we've got a break from the outdoor football practices and matches. It was nice yesterday to bring the children home at lunch yesterday and just let them play away the afternoon.
Up until a week ago, we were on track to skip winter altogether. The bulbs were already starting to grow. I even saw flowers on the ones growing at school just after the break, it was so strange to see flowers growing in January. We hadn't had a single snowfall. We had snow last weekend, and got to use our snow boots, snow pants, snow shovel and sleds at least once for the year. But I'm pretty sure the little flowers aren't faring so well. I know that my pansies didn't make it.
Strangely enough, this weather has made me homesick for Minnesota. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because John is heading there for work this week. Or maybe it's because we just booked our tickets to come back for a visit during spring break. Or maybe it's the rare stretch of extended winter sunshine during what is usually a dark and gloomy month.
I have learned to take the weather here in stride. Often, I deal with the dark and rain by telling myself that at least it's not cold. But this week, I am dealing with the cold by being thankful for the sunshine.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Swan.
The Ugly Duckling was a poignant story from my childhood -- what awkward pre-adolescent doesn't identify with the poor, lost swan, ridiculed and laughed at by the other ducks. When the ugly duck actually turns out to be the graceful swan, and the envy of all the others...who doesn't hope for that? It made the swan a mythical creature for me.
Swans are regal, graceful. We see them a lot here, usually in pairs, off in the distance on a lake (by Minnesota standards though, lakes here are actually more like ponds.) They float with ease, their necks curved in elegance. They demand attention. If I passed by and saw them on a certain lake (pond), I always found myself looking for them again when I passed by the same place.
During the holiday break, Miss B and I took a lot of afternoon walks around the lake (pond) at the Chateau. She was going through the tough transition of giving up her afternoon nap, I was on a hiatus from running as the result of a hip injury. A walk was a chance for her to relax in the jogging stroller, a little exercise for me and for both of us, fresh air and a break from the boys and it greatly improved both of our demeanors. I usually packed a lunch box for her - and it became our stroller picnic. We always brought our stale bread for the ducks and after we walked around the lake (pond) she would feed the ducks.
There are mallards here, and these little black and white ducks that are cute, but rather mean. We are partial to the mallards, Miss B likes them because she can tell which ones are the mommies and which are the daddies. I like them because they are mallards - Minnesota ducks. The black and white ones peck at the mallards and steal the bread right out of their beaks. I know, it's nature and survival of the fittest and all of that, but I don't care for rewarding that kind of behavior, even if they are only ducks, so whenever possible we find duck feeding spots that only have mallards.
One day, there were two swans, right in the middle of all of the ducks. What an amazing opportunity to see a swan up close, right? I was happy that we brought bread that day. At least I was happy until the swan tried to eat my three-year old. It hissed and made noises that I've never heard a bird make before. It stomped on all of other ducks in its path to try to get closer to us. We threw the bread and ran.
I know that "hate" is a really strong word, so I choose it very carefully and use it sparingly. But I really think that now I hate swans. I hate that something could look so beautiful and graceful from afar, and up close be so nasty that I feared for my daughter's life just because she happened to be holding a chunk of crusty stale baguette.
It has made me think. How many times in our lives does something look so beautiful, so desirable and covetable from afar, but up close it turns out to be ugly and nasty? Watch out for the swan, I say.
Swans are regal, graceful. We see them a lot here, usually in pairs, off in the distance on a lake (by Minnesota standards though, lakes here are actually more like ponds.) They float with ease, their necks curved in elegance. They demand attention. If I passed by and saw them on a certain lake (pond), I always found myself looking for them again when I passed by the same place.
During the holiday break, Miss B and I took a lot of afternoon walks around the lake (pond) at the Chateau. She was going through the tough transition of giving up her afternoon nap, I was on a hiatus from running as the result of a hip injury. A walk was a chance for her to relax in the jogging stroller, a little exercise for me and for both of us, fresh air and a break from the boys and it greatly improved both of our demeanors. I usually packed a lunch box for her - and it became our stroller picnic. We always brought our stale bread for the ducks and after we walked around the lake (pond) she would feed the ducks.
There are mallards here, and these little black and white ducks that are cute, but rather mean. We are partial to the mallards, Miss B likes them because she can tell which ones are the mommies and which are the daddies. I like them because they are mallards - Minnesota ducks. The black and white ones peck at the mallards and steal the bread right out of their beaks. I know, it's nature and survival of the fittest and all of that, but I don't care for rewarding that kind of behavior, even if they are only ducks, so whenever possible we find duck feeding spots that only have mallards.
One day, there were two swans, right in the middle of all of the ducks. What an amazing opportunity to see a swan up close, right? I was happy that we brought bread that day. At least I was happy until the swan tried to eat my three-year old. It hissed and made noises that I've never heard a bird make before. It stomped on all of other ducks in its path to try to get closer to us. We threw the bread and ran.
I know that "hate" is a really strong word, so I choose it very carefully and use it sparingly. But I really think that now I hate swans. I hate that something could look so beautiful and graceful from afar, and up close be so nasty that I feared for my daughter's life just because she happened to be holding a chunk of crusty stale baguette.
It has made me think. How many times in our lives does something look so beautiful, so desirable and covetable from afar, but up close it turns out to be ugly and nasty? Watch out for the swan, I say.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
There once was a little old lady...
Have you ever noticed those little moments when your life intersects with another person - a stranger - on a regular basis? The first time I ever noticed it was as a child, when I would stare out the window on the bus or during the morning carpool and I would see the same people every day going about their own daily routines. In high school, my carpool would drive by a certain bus stop on the way to school, the same three people would be waiting for the same bus when we drove by. I never knew who they were or where they were going or anything about them at all, but they mattered to me because I saw them every single day in the same place.
When that started to happen here, it made me feel as if we belonged. We were no longer outsiders looking in, this was our home, our town, our people. When I leave to pick up the children from school every day, I can tell if I'm early or late based on where the old man walking his dog is on his route. On Sunday morning, the same husband and wife walk by our house every week at 9h30, with their walking sticks, clearly on their way for their weekly hike at the chateau. There are two old shetland ponies that live somewhere on the other side of town. Their owners take them for walks and they just passed by our window for their Sunday walk.
There is one little old lady that I see regularly, that has become a hero of sorts. She is short, but not too short. She is not fat, but she's not thin either. She has glasses and short gray hair that she wears in a perm, but often it is covered with a rain scarf just like my grandma used to have. I usually see her on the route to or from school, about half way between our house and the school. She is usually dressed in a skirt, with nylons, black short "sensible" boots and a gray trench coat. Sometimes I see her walking, pulling her grocery tote along behind her. I've seen her hitchhiking once or twice, which makes me smile and think of my Great Aunt Rosella who used to hitchhike from Belle Plaine to bingo at Mystic Lake. But my absolute favorite of all, is when I see her on her white motor scooter. She wears a matching white helmet that seems to fit just right over her black glasses. And she honks the little "beep beep" horn at everyone she passes along the way.
That's it, my mind is made up. When I'm 80, I'm going to get myself the motor scooter that my parents forbid me to have when I was 16, and I'm going to ride around town and "beep beep" the horn at everyone I see.
When that started to happen here, it made me feel as if we belonged. We were no longer outsiders looking in, this was our home, our town, our people. When I leave to pick up the children from school every day, I can tell if I'm early or late based on where the old man walking his dog is on his route. On Sunday morning, the same husband and wife walk by our house every week at 9h30, with their walking sticks, clearly on their way for their weekly hike at the chateau. There are two old shetland ponies that live somewhere on the other side of town. Their owners take them for walks and they just passed by our window for their Sunday walk.
There is one little old lady that I see regularly, that has become a hero of sorts. She is short, but not too short. She is not fat, but she's not thin either. She has glasses and short gray hair that she wears in a perm, but often it is covered with a rain scarf just like my grandma used to have. I usually see her on the route to or from school, about half way between our house and the school. She is usually dressed in a skirt, with nylons, black short "sensible" boots and a gray trench coat. Sometimes I see her walking, pulling her grocery tote along behind her. I've seen her hitchhiking once or twice, which makes me smile and think of my Great Aunt Rosella who used to hitchhike from Belle Plaine to bingo at Mystic Lake. But my absolute favorite of all, is when I see her on her white motor scooter. She wears a matching white helmet that seems to fit just right over her black glasses. And she honks the little "beep beep" horn at everyone she passes along the way.
That's it, my mind is made up. When I'm 80, I'm going to get myself the motor scooter that my parents forbid me to have when I was 16, and I'm going to ride around town and "beep beep" the horn at everyone I see.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Holiday Hangover
On Saturday night, we were invited to a neighbors' house for happy hour. Happy "hour" turned into several hour(s) and at 10 o'clock at night our kids were finally home and tucked into their beds. I should have expected as much. After all, we were with an Irishman. Yesterday, came with evidence that I cannot actually "drink champagne all night" like I originally boasted early on in the Saturday evening outing.
It turned out to be a good metaphor. For the last week, my entire family has suffered from holiday hangover. It was next to impossible to get out of bed in the morning. No one felt like doing much of anything all day, every day. It required extra effort to go outside, even if the sun was shining. We ate what was left of the Christmas cookies. We went made frequent visits to frite guy. We recovered, and it took an entire week.
Today, the kids went back to school. John left on a trip for work. We all dragged our feet this morning, but everyone was ready, sort of. We never reached that point where we made each other so crazy that we looked forward to today. It was more like it was just time to go back to our regular lives. And we did.
It was a pretty awesome vacation doing absolutely nothing.
Shortcuts
The kids went back to school today, after two weeks of Christmas vacation. I think it was the first time where we haven't had visitors from the U.S. during the break. Grandma came before Christmas, for three weeks, including Miss B's birthday, but was home in time for Christmas Eve.
We loved every minute with Grandma, and really appreciated the time we could spend with her - in those special weeks in anticipation of Christmas. But when she left, I realized that having a visitor right up until the few days before Christmas means those few days before Christmas become jam-packed with last minute holiday preparations.
Not to brag or anything, but I breezed through these last couple of days without stress, thanks to the shortcuts. Upon reviewing my mental list, and realizing there just weren't enough hours left in the countdown for the cookies I wanted to make, presents I wanted to wrap, food I needed to prep for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners. Go skating, at the rink in town with the family? Of course! Who wants to miss out on that! Go to lunch with a good friend? (that, by the way, was supposed to be a back-to-school lunch date and was pushed back all the way to Christmas). Of course!
Thanks to the shortcuts.
I took shortcuts wherever possible. Knowing my patience level with baking in general, let alone cutout Christmas cookies, I only mixed a half batch of dough. It was brilliant. Just at that point where I was getting sick of rolling out dough, and pressing in the cookie cutter shapes, I was done. Choosing just two of the essential shapes (trees and stars), helped my decoration assembly line go much faster as well. It would have made the Ford company proud. When it came time to make John's favorite christmas cookie, I shortcut that as well. I only baked one sheet of cookies - enough to put on a christmas cookie plate - and I saved the rest of the dough to bake after Christmas. There were still plenty of cookies, and no one cared that most of the cutout cookies looked the same.
My dinner prep shortcuts worked as well. I sauteed one giant pan of onions, portioning them out and adding mushrooms and garlic to one pan for the risotto, and celery to another for the stuffing. My Christmas day dinner list was whittled down to the bare essential turkey trimmings - potatoes, vegetable, stuffing and gravy. I was glad to have saved a cup of cranberry sauce in the freezer leftover from Thanksgiving, and even more glad to remember that it was there.
All in all, it was a wonderful Christmas. For the most part, free of the stress I usually shoulder, trying to make everything "perfect." I was happy to settle for "adequate" in the details, and I think my family was pretty happy about that as well.
We loved every minute with Grandma, and really appreciated the time we could spend with her - in those special weeks in anticipation of Christmas. But when she left, I realized that having a visitor right up until the few days before Christmas means those few days before Christmas become jam-packed with last minute holiday preparations.
Not to brag or anything, but I breezed through these last couple of days without stress, thanks to the shortcuts. Upon reviewing my mental list, and realizing there just weren't enough hours left in the countdown for the cookies I wanted to make, presents I wanted to wrap, food I needed to prep for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners. Go skating, at the rink in town with the family? Of course! Who wants to miss out on that! Go to lunch with a good friend? (that, by the way, was supposed to be a back-to-school lunch date and was pushed back all the way to Christmas). Of course!
Thanks to the shortcuts.
I took shortcuts wherever possible. Knowing my patience level with baking in general, let alone cutout Christmas cookies, I only mixed a half batch of dough. It was brilliant. Just at that point where I was getting sick of rolling out dough, and pressing in the cookie cutter shapes, I was done. Choosing just two of the essential shapes (trees and stars), helped my decoration assembly line go much faster as well. It would have made the Ford company proud. When it came time to make John's favorite christmas cookie, I shortcut that as well. I only baked one sheet of cookies - enough to put on a christmas cookie plate - and I saved the rest of the dough to bake after Christmas. There were still plenty of cookies, and no one cared that most of the cutout cookies looked the same.
My dinner prep shortcuts worked as well. I sauteed one giant pan of onions, portioning them out and adding mushrooms and garlic to one pan for the risotto, and celery to another for the stuffing. My Christmas day dinner list was whittled down to the bare essential turkey trimmings - potatoes, vegetable, stuffing and gravy. I was glad to have saved a cup of cranberry sauce in the freezer leftover from Thanksgiving, and even more glad to remember that it was there.
All in all, it was a wonderful Christmas. For the most part, free of the stress I usually shoulder, trying to make everything "perfect." I was happy to settle for "adequate" in the details, and I think my family was pretty happy about that as well.
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