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."
Friday, May 4, 2012
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.
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