You can take the girl out of Minnesota...

Last week we had yet another blizzard, which meant another day off from school and another mountain of snow to shovel out from under. Every single time I've shoveled snow this winter, I've thought about two things: 1.) This is why I never complained about the rain in Belgium; and 2.) If I ever buy another house in St. Paul, it will not be on a corner lot.

Last weekend I was thinking these exact same things as I shoveled the long sidewalk along the side of our property. It was a huge snowfall, and the plows were behind with clearing the streets. And seriously, all of us, snowplows and homeowners alike, are running out of places to put the snow. It is everywhere.

A car (minivan) turned onto our unplowed street and promptly got stuck. I did what any decent Minnesotan does when this happens: I went over and offered to push. I probably don't have to tell you that me pushing all by myself didn't do a whole heck of a lot (it was kind of a big minivan in a lot of snow). But within minutes, a college kid driving by stopped to lend a hand. Together we almost had it. Then, my neighbor walked by with his dog. We were so close, but the tires were slipping and spinning on all the new snow so I ran to my front porch, took two of our ten million flat empty boxes, and placed them under the tires where they were slipping. Viola! The car was free to go on her way (which turned out to be the closest available parking spot on the plowed side of the street.) I can tell you that it's not the first time I've pushed a stuck car out of a snowdrift, and I'm sure it won't be my last.

The whole incident reminded me of a snowy day in Belgium a few years ago.

Let me start by saying that the women in Belgium are among the most classy and sophisticated I have ever met. They are effortlessly fashion forward and I spent six years in quiet admiration. Throughout this whole time, on behalf of improving the image of Americans everywhere, I tried my best to rise to their level of style and grace.

On this particular day, I failed miserably.

It had snowed, and a tiny bit of snow in Belgium causes chaos and confusion. In fact, during our first snow storm back here in Minnesota, we left the house for school and the kids stared in amazement out the windows as our short drive to school took exactly the same amount of time as it always did.

"Mommy!" they said. "The cars are driving! In the snow!"
"Yes, I know," I answered. "It's Minnesota."

But I digress. Back to this particular snowy day in Belgium.

After a thirty minute (6 km) drive to school, I was dreading going back through traffic to get home. When I reached my car, I could see that a mom (who could have easily walked on a Paris runway as a model, except that she was probably too short and petite) was miserably stuck in her parking spot. She was driving (or rather, trying to drive) a Mini-Cooper. Her wheels were spinning hopelessly on the cobblestones. But I could see exactly where she was stuck. "Let me push," I suggested, (but in my not-so-great French.)

"Push?" she repeated, a look of horror on her face. "Umm…Oui" I answered, but my confidence faltered in seeing the look on her face. But at that point, it was too late not to try. Plus, I'm not the sort of girl that backs down from a challenge. But even though it was only a Mini, I couldn't push her out by myself. She got some tire-net, snow-things from her trunk and put them under the wheels. "These will help," she said. But I knew (from experience) that she had them in the wrong spot - behind the back wheels instead of the front. When I tried to explain, she shook her head in a very determined way (that the French are very good at) to say that I was wrong.

After which I could only shrug and let her try to figure it out on her own. I left that day feeling like I let my fellow Minnesotans down in the worst way: not being able to get a car unstuck from two inches of snow.

But last week, after the worst blizzard I've seen in a long time, and the minivan crunched over my boxes to freedom, I redeemed myself.

Buffalo Wings, Chocolate Torte and Chameleons

Lately, John and I have been enjoying one of the best parts about being back in Minnesota: Grandma Sue. Grandma Sue has been coming to town a lot lately, to see all of the grandkids. When she comes to town, she divides her time between our house and John's sister's house and is happy to stay with the kids while John and I enjoy a quick night out. It helps with the monotony of a long winter, for all of us.

Last night, was just such a date night. We usually keep it simple and last night was no different. I really  wanted beer (there is a great new American gluten free beer) and buffalo wings (no Buffalo wings in Belgium.) We found our way to a local pub. They specialize in a variety of beer and their menu is more European than most around here, but I held out hope that they still had wings. They did. And they had my beer, all three different "flavors" (for lack of a better word.) Thus, it was a perfect destination for our date night.

Their sophisticated beer selection and "European" menu (as well as their location on the edge of downtown) attracts young professionals. Corporate climbers and attorneys, that sort of crowd. We bellied-up to the bar and ordered. Our afternoon and evening thus far had been about driving kids to ballet, making sure homework was done, feeding grandma and the crew and herding everyone through baths and showers. Then it was "grab the keys and get out the door without looking back." I had a lipstick in my purse and I swiped it over my lips in the car. I am in desperate need of a haircut, and I'm always cold, those two factors combined mean I haven't taken my hat off my head since we arrived in Minnesota in December. In other words, we weren't exactly all decked out. But one thing I learned about living in Belgium, is that a nice sweater, a cute scarf or hat, and a pair of boots goes a long way to looking pulled together. And in Minnesota in the middle of winter, functionality often wins out over fashion anyway, so we fit in just fine. I wasn't worried.

The bar was crowded, but most everyone trickled out over the course of the night. There was a young couple near us at the bar that were obviously on a date. He was dressed uber-cool and had dark thick, stuck-his-finger-in-an-electrical-socket-type-hair and black rimmed glasses. If I had to guess? New lawyer. (No judgment intended, I used to be one myself once.) His date was a petite blond, wearing a sweater vest. If I had to guess? Kindergarten teacher.

John hadn't wanted any wings (he'd eaten a lot of the dinner I had set out for the kids.) So I worked my way through almost the entire plate of wings. (I hadn't eaten a single bite of the kids' dinner, I was saving myself for the wings.) But the date-couple had shared some sort of amazing dessert. So John leaned over to ask, "Hey, what did you guys order for dessert? Was it ice cream? It looked really great." And uber-cool-guy answered in the most pretentious, arrogant voice I've heard in awhile, "No, it was the chocolate torte." I think his nose turned up in the air a bit as he said it too.

John gave a slight nod of his head and a small polite laugh and said, "Thanks." Then he turned to me and we laughed. We couldn't help ourselves. For the next five minutes, we whispered to each other without caring what anyone thought. And we could not stop laughing. Uber-cool-guy shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I felt bad for him. Really, I did. No one likes, nor deserves to be, laughed at, especially someone who is obviously trying so hard to be impressive. But it was just so funny.

In those moments of laughter I realized what we must look like to him: me in my stocking hat, sitting at the bar drinking local beer from the bottle and eating wings, and asking about what we thought was the ice cream dessert. I certainly didn't look like the lawyer I once was.

What he could never have known, was that we were two Americans who had lived the last six years in central Europe, recently stateside again and out to enjoy some of the American specialties we had missed for so long. How could he possibly know, that last spring I took a cooking class taught by my friend from the kids' school who had trained as a French chef. In that class, I learned how to make a chocolate torte from scratch, by melting butter and dark French chocolate and I had done so by only speaking French. And don't even get me started on the collection of French wine and champagne, smuggled carefully via suitcases over the course of several trips and waiting patiently in our basement. Reserved for only the most special of occasions from here on out.

I think it is safe to say that John and I have mastered the art of blending in. After years of living and traveling abroad in a post-9/11 world, we have learned to fit into whatever scene surrounds us, in the moment. It's a skill that I am rather proud of -- I would rather not stand out in a crowd. At this point in my life, I am much more comfortable blending in…like chameleons. Last night, I was happy to let the spotlight shine on the lawyers and young professionals who were excited to be out, enjoying the more exotic choices on the menu and drinking fancier drinks. We looked exactly how we wanted to look...like two cold midwesterners, with a chance to sneak out for a quick beer and a plate of wings. If that means we don't deserve Mr. Uber-Cool's approval, so be it...we will probably just laugh it off.

But I have this message to Mr. Uber-Cool, and a reminder for all of us, myself included: be careful not to judge. For you never know, the person sitting next to you might just be a chameleon.

First Impressions.

Now that all of the moving posts are over, it's time to move on to some fun stuff.

One of my favorite parts of moving back, has been watching and observing the reactions of the kids. Just seeing what they notice. They are pretty insightful about some things, and just plain funny about others.

For example, one of the first comments Miss B made to me (keep in mind she was born in Belgium, and the last time she'd been on U.S. soil was almost two years ago) was, "Mommy! The toilet flushers here are so cool, they are little handles!" (In Belgium, most of the toilets flush with a button on top. Something, I don't think I ever even noticed until she made her comment.)  That was followed a few days later with, "Mommy! The toilet paper here is SO soft!" Ahem. Apparently I should have invested more money in my toilet paper purchases there.

I should do an entire post about commercials, but I can't wait. During the first official week in our house, A.J. said, "Mommy, the commercials here say really important things about life, but then it's for something stupid like toothpaste."

There are a lot more commercials here. Monkey calls them "previews". "Mommy," he said. "There are just too many previews, I don't like all of the previews." It took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. And one day, he tracked me down where I was unpacking boxes, to tell me, "Mommy! Did you know there is a vacuum without cords on TV?"

And speaking of commercials/previews, we are not used to tuning them out. I would guess that most American kids have figured out that commercials are the time to run to the bathroom or whatever, at least that's what I always used to do during the commercials. Not my kids. My kids have not yet developed the skills to tune them out and are instead completely riveted to the commercials. Entranced. And as a result, I've found myself having to explain a lot of things that I never expected to have to explain. Like erectile disfunction. And vaginal dryness. (And no, we weren't watching anything obnoxious, we were watching Modern Family reruns on cable.) But seriously, do we have to have commercials for that stuff? Can't people just slink through the pharmacy and find what they need without being so informed?

One day last week, A.J. came home from school, very excited. "Mommy," he said. "Today I learned how to open my milk." Mental head slap. I've tried to anticipate and preempt some of their challenges, like explaining the Pledge of Allegiance. But opening his milk carton is not something I ever would have thought to show him. But of course they didn't have milk cartons in Belgium. They don't drink milk with lunch in Belgium (only breakfast) and anyway, milk is in bottles there, not cartons.

Ok, and I will end with this. Last week we were coming back from dinner and came across the radio station Kool 108. This is the "oldies" station that my mom always used to listen to when I was in high school. It was music from the fifties and sixties and maybe even the early 70's if they were feeling bold. And now? Kool 108 still calls itself the oldies station. But they play music from the 80's. And John and I sang along to Don Henley's The Boys of Summer, at the top of our lungs, all the way home.

I guess...it's official.

We still have a few boxes here and there. Ok, a lot of boxes. But I am officially calling this move over. Funny, I just looked at the date today. February 19, 2014. Two months ago today, December 19, 2013, we flew from Brussels to Minneapolis, to our new/old home.

It is a little strange, but also comfortable to be back in the same house. As I put stuff away into the very cupboards that I emptied six years ago, I feel like I have a chance to make good choices. Better, wiser choices. Some of the stuff is going back into the same spot. A lot of stuff is going out the door and not coming back. If there is one thing I learned living in a sparse house for five weeks, we just don't need all the stuff we thought we needed.  

I made it official today. I changed my location settings on all of my social media forms -- Twitter, Facebook and here on this blog. My heart has this dull ache that comes and goes, and it has been particularly strong today. For six years, my location, Brussels, has been a primary defining factor of my identity. That's what I was doing, that was my purpose. 

It's the same feeling I had when I finished college, or even law school. That feeling like you don't exactly know what's coming next. There is all kinds of uncertainty, apprehension. And it's different now too, because we've got little people. My focus has been on them, making sure they are doing ok. It doesn't leave much room for figuring out what's next for me. 

But if history has taught me anything, it will be something. A new challenge. Another reinvention, just around the corner. It will be hard to top the last experience. But I have a lot of faith that I will figure it out. 

 

Our Nomadic Journey, Part 3: Let's just be done already.

Can we please just get these blog posts about the move over with already?

Yes, I know. At this point in the whole process, I was ready to be done with anything and everything having to do with a move.

But, slight problem, we still had to wait for our furniture. And in the middle of it all, there was this weather phenomenon they are calling "the polar vortex." From what I understand, that's just a fancy way of saying, colder than hell. No wait, bad analogy -- hell is supposed to be hot. Whatever. All I know, is that Minnesota experienced temperatures that rivaled the North Pole, right at the same time we were trying to move in and get settled.

So here we were, in our new/old house, with minimal furniture. We had mattresses, and a table and chairs from storage, and a camping chair. And a giant television. I probably don't have to tell you that there were a lot of arguments about who got to sit in the chair. Although, we do have a fireplace in our new/old house, and laying on a blanket in front of the fireplace was a pretty good alternative to the chair.

Meanwhile, school kept getting cancelled because the temperatures were so cold, it was dangerous to go outside. I was happy that we had air shipped the wii, and that Santa brought Isabelle "Just Dance" for Christmas. But unfortunately, this also meant delays for our container. It was coming from port via rail to Minneapolis, and the sub-zero temperatures meant the rails couldn't operate.

We finally got word that our furniture was here, but because of all of the delays, the company had a difficult time finding a driver to deliver it. They finally did, on a Friday at noon. Of course we had six inches (sorry, I converted to the metric system for a lot of things, but I will forever measure snowfall by inches) of snow the night before, so it was a snow emergency. For my Belgian friends, that means that we had so much snow, the city needs to plow all of the streets. To do this, there are rules about where you can park your car at night, and then different rules for the day. Of course, during the day of a snow emergency, there is no parking on the street in front of our house. And we were about to have a container delivered. Right there. Thankfully, my genius of a husband thought to call the city to ask. Good thing he did too, or we would have had a $500 fine from the city.

I felt physically ill watching this truck pull up to our house on a Friday afternoon. I was there when they packed it. I knew exactly how many boxes were in that container. I knew what our house in Belgium looked like the day before the container came -- stacks of white boxes everywhere. And even though our house here is almost the same square footage as our house in Belgium, the rooms are very different. There was no way, they would be able to unload that truck in four hours without a whole lot of chaos.

Our movers here had never seen anything like it. Every single piece of our furniture had been taken apart and put into a box. Our couch, was in six different pieces. Same for our beds, dressers, dining room table, shelves -- everything. If our movers in Belgium could have taken apart our mattresses, they probably would have.

So I fought hard against the Type A personality that dictates most of my life choices, and opted for plan B. I left. John and I had already agreed that under no circumstances, were the movers going to be allowed to leave until we at least had beds to sleep in that night, and a couch to sit on for the weekend. I knew I was leaving the house in good hands. I picked up the kids from school and we went to my sister-in-law's house for the rest of the afternoon. And hid. And in the end, that choice was probably a better one for my marriage. We got back to the house in the evening and they were still getting the last of the boxes in the house and shoving them into whatever tiny spaces were left.

It took all four of the mover guys to figure out how to put the couch together. And I don't think I've ever been so happy to have a couch before.

In this whole chaotic moving mess, we just keep trying to find the good where we can. And it's usually the little things that have counted for the most.