Side Effects and Little Reminders

I have a confession. Christmas prep this year is really overwhelming.

I know, I know. Christmas prep is always overwhelming. There's shopping, presents, parties and plans. Baking and christmas cards, and all of the other necessary Christmas trappings. And all to manage in the four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. And Oh. My. God. I haven't even mentioned the Elf on the Shelf. The other night John asked me where ours was and I begged and pleaded with him to forget about it for this year. I just don't think I can be responsible for the creative antics of a plastic elf right now.

Because I am overwhelmed beyond the trim and trap. As a matter of fact, if our time abroad taught me anything, it's that the little details aren't always so important. The problem that I'm having, is that little reminders keep sneaking up on me. Reminders of what we were dealing with last year at this time.

For example, last week, when I pulled out the Advent Calendars, they were only half finished. They stopped at December 12, the day our movers came to pack us up. I put on a winter jacket for the first time this year, and found a chestnut in my pocket. They used to fall along the path on the way to the chateau. And earlier this week, we decorated our Christmas tree. Miss B didn't recognize any of the ornaments. Because the last time she got to decorate a Christmas tree she was only 3 years old. On the positive side, I only have to superglue one ornament back together this year. That tally has definitely gone down since the last time our family decorated a tree.

Every one of those reminders jolts me back to what we were doing last year at this time, and it physically hurts my heart and brings tears to my eyes to remember. I think about all of the traditions we are missing back in Belgium. I think about our old house, always so cozy at Christmas. I think about the moving stress. And how painful it was to look at hundreds of white boxes stacked in every spare space. (And yes, there were hundreds. Remember? They took apart our couch and it alone went into five different boxes. I think the dining room table was in ten.) I think about all of the goodbyes we had to say, everywhere we went. Goodbyes that seem like forever goodbyes because now Belgium seems so very far away.

Sigh. Deep breath. Maybe, I could use the distraction of the mischievous plastic elf.

One year since our move, we are in a good place. My little family has done such an amazing job with the cultural adjustments. My kids are thriving in their new school and activities and we are so proud of them. There are new career options that weren't available to us before. I am beyond grateful for new friends and exciting opportunities. And the chance to be around family. But the little reminders still sneak in and stab at my heart when I'm least expecting it. I don't regret any of it. We were so lucky to have the opportunity in the first place. I think...it's just one of those side effects that come from letting your heart live in two different places at once.  

It's Not About the Food.

Thanks to likes of Norman Rockwell and Martha Stewart among many other leading, defining forces in Americana, everyone has an image in their head of what the perfect Thanksgiving should look like. There are family recipes that must be prepared just so. There are certain dishes that have to be on the table…or it’s just not right.

This is our first Thanksgiving on American soil, ever, as a family (because when we moved over there, we gained an extra kid). This is the first Thanksgiving in our little family history, where my kids don’t have to go to school. This is the first Thanksgiving where my kids got to talk about the holiday in school -- about what it means, about what it is. Today is our first Thanksgiving.

When we celebrated Thanksgiving in Belgium, we pieced together our dinner with the traditional favorites, as best we could. Just go back to an entry from last year, where I blogged about how we were on our very own episode of Amazing Race, and the road block challenge was: Go buy a turkey. If I remember correctly, our bird last year came in pieces because we found a turkey breast at one grocery store, and the legs at another. It certainly was easier to cook it. And forget all of the extra fancy side dishes. We were lucky to get cranberries from a friend who had access to the American army base (thanks, always and forever, Dan). Add in mashed potatoes and gravy and we called it good. 

All of that taught me, it’s not about the food. So today. So what if someone forgot the marshmallows that go on top of the sweet potatoes. It will still taste good. And who cares if Aunt Betty decided not to bring THE Jello salad this year and instead opted for a suspect Kale dish instead. It’s not about the food.

As we pack up to go to my brother’s house, I know my mashed potatoes are too lumpy. And after six years of having to make my own pumpkin or pecan pies from scratch (with imported canned pumpkin and/or hard-to-find brown sugar) this year, I blissfully went online and pre-orded my pumpkin pie for pick-up yesterday at 10am. The uniform swirls of whip cream on top look glorious. I can’t even eat because it’s not gluten-free, but I don’t care. This year, our family gets us at Thanksgiving (lumpy mashed potatoes and all). This year, my kids get to see their cousins and grandparents for Thanksgiving.

For us, today, it’s not about the food.

Coffee Cups.

Ok, someone needs to explain to me about the coffee cups. When did Americans decide to start walking around with their coffee mugs? Not the thermos mugs, the ceramic ones right out of their kitchen cabinets?

I get that we have a "to-go" culture. I get that everyone likes their coffee in their car and this is why we have coffee shops on every block. Heck, we even have coffee shops with drive-thrus.

But really, why do all of the parents feel the need to walk their kids into school with their coffee mugs in hand? Yesterday at my daughter's ballet class after school, a mom was still carrying her coffee mug with her there, too. When did the "to-go" mugs disappear anyway? The thermos ones ones with the lids  that actually kept it warm. Doesn't coffee get really cold really fast when you start walking around with the mug outside? And what if you drop it? And what about spills? And how the heck do you even fit it in the car cup holder?

Once, John was watching a soccer (football) match in Belgium with his coffee (thermos) mug in hand. It was a cold, early morning match. And one of the other dads asked why he had a cup and if it had whisky in it.

In Belgium coffee was a treat. A break. There was no such thing as coffee "to-go"and I can count on one hand how many Starbucks existed in the ENTIRE COUNTRY. And two of these were at the airport.

When you ordered coffee at a coffee shop, they served it on a tray, with a cookie. Or maybe a piece of chocolate. Or at my most favorite cafe in La Hulpe, they even served their coffee with a little amuse bouche of chocolate mousse. Yum. But the treat part wasn't what made it special, in fact, most of the time I couldn't even eat the cookie. (Stupid gluten allergy.) It was the attitude. It was the idea that this was a chance to sit down for a minute and drink a cup of coffee. It didn't have to take long, just a few minutes. But it was a break from your day to have a cup of coffee.

 Americans, I challenge you to take a coffee break. Tomorrow morning, when you drink your cup of coffee, go SIT DOWN somewhere. Sip from your coffee cup, take a few minutes to think about your day or even read your phone. Surely you can find a few minutes to try it. Trust me, you'll like it.

Relapse

I am always homesick for Belgium when we have a rainy day. And today is a rainy day.

I suppose it's normal to have a relapse. I suppose that it's normal for that relapse to hit about now. A month into the new school year, the shiny new shoes are not so shiny. The reality of homework and routines have set in.

We had a brilliant, glorious summer. Filled with festivals and fairs, family and friends. The weather was sunny and perfect. It provided a lot of distractions and excitement.

Today, when I pulled up to the curb in front of our house, I watched a city worker attach a long, red and white pole to the fire hydrant on the corner. The reality of what's in our very near future, set in. For my Belgian friends who might not know what this means, it's so the fire department can find the fire hydrant when that corner becomes a mountain of snow and ice. Yes, we Americans are nothing if not efficient.

That red and white pole is about six feet tall. I know last year's winter was especially harsh, but really? Does it have to be six feet tall? That's a bit excessive, don't you think?

I suppose it's time to tackle some of those projects I never got to this summer because we were having too much fun.

But maybe they can wait just a little longer.  There's a fire in the fireplace and rainy days make really good writing days….

Blessings and Backpacks.

The first day of kindergarten is a big deal in the United States, and at our new school especially. Most children go to preschool here, but usually it's only a half-day program a few days a week. When it's time for that five-year-old to finally go off to school all day, every day... as you can imagine, there is quite the emotional build-up. "My baby is going off to school" is the common sentiment. One which the likes of won't be seen again until that same baby goes off to college. Like I said, it's a big deal.

Since Miss B was already on her third year of kindergarten (maternelle) in Belgium, we just sort of rolled through all of the pomp and circumstance here. The Kinders didn't start on the same day as everyone else. On the second day, she went to an hour of orientation, which mostly seemed to be about the meeting for the parents. I think the school wanted to get us parents off to the right start. And even though I might have rolled my eyes, I really appreciated it because as a new family it sort of made me feel official, like we finally belonged here. After all, last year we just jumped into the middle of everything.

Miss B's first official day of school was the following day, the third day of school for everyone else. And when it finally came, we were saying "enough already, let's get this party started." To say we were ready is an understatement. (Miss B was more ready than anyone in our house for summer to be over and school to start.)

Finally, on that first day of school, the Kinders, most of them with proud happy faces, got into one of four lines. They waved at their parents and Miss B blew me kisses. All around me, other mothers struggled to hold back their tears. The three-year-old standing next to me cried loudly for her big sister, wanting to go too. "You have to wait your turn,"said her mother. "And I thought I would be the one crying today," she told me with a laugh.

The bell rang, and the big kids waited, patient. This was a special day. The first line of kindergartners started moving and everyone in the whole school started clapping. Like little rockstars, they marched through the door, waving to anyone who would wave back.

I wasn't expecting to be hit with emotion. Miss B had already been to school, everyone at our house was excited and grateful that she finally got to go to school as an American kid. But as Miss B's line began to move forward through the doors of our new school, I realized. I realized that she would never get to join Madame Christine's line of première primaire (first primary) kids marching into their first day of primary school at Saint-Joseph, like her brothers did before her. There would be no "blessing of the backpacks" this year. Miss B was never going to learn about the alpha letters, or go on a classe verte trip. And so many other things...

As I fought back the tears behind my sunglasses, I waved as my own kinder took her turn to proudly march through the door. Her empty Hello Kitty backpack bobbed up and down behind her...the tattered yellow "approved cabin baggage" ticket still attached.

Home Again. Home Again.

There were so many highlights from our summer. But one of the best has to be a special trip that AJ and I got to take at the end of June.

We got to go home. That's what it felt like when we got off the plane in Brussels. Familiar. Like we were home. 

AJ's fifth grade class in Belgium had an overnight bike trip the last week of school (the last week in June.) At the beginning of the year last year, AJ's teacher gave him the permission slip and AJ tried to give it back. He explained he wouldn't need it because he was moving. It started the wheels turning. I knew that school in Minnesota would be finished by the end of May. I talked to his teachers and they assured me that if he was able to make it back, he would certainly be allowed to go on the bike trip. 

In the middle of a frozen January, two of us were feeling especially homesick. It was a good time to purchase frequent flyer tickets for a trip in June. Having those tickets, and knowing we'd be able to go back to Belgium sooner than later, helped the two of us immensely.

We landed on a Sunday morning. Belgium was playing in a World Cup match that very night and we went with friends to a BBQ. (It was the closest I've ever seen the Belgians have anything close to a Super Bowl Party). In the twenty minutes before the match start time, we almost got in five different automobile accidents. Everyone was in a race to get to their destinations before game time.

I know jet lag was a factor, but within a few minutes of being at the party -- seeing old friends and catching up -- I was instantly reminded of something that had been easy to forget. I forgot how hard we had to work, every single day, just to understand a portion of what was going on around us. My French came back in a hurry (although not as good as AJ's did) and we had a great week.  

At the end of the week, with a full summer of fun ahead of us, we were ready to go home to Minnesota again. With the comfort of always knowing we can always go back home. 

The sound of silence.

Did you hear that?

My point exactly.

Nothing.

It is the blissful sound of silence. Three little people are back to school (ok, so two little people and one middle schooler). My youngest FINALLY got to start school as an American kid.

When the summer began, three long months stretched out before me. It made me nervous. How was I going to fill all of those days? (Summer vacation in Belgium is only 8 weeks.)

I will be the first one to tell you that our first American summer in six years was absolutely perfect. And while I was sad to see it come to an end, we were ready too. Those days flew by. I don't think I completed a single one of the projects I meant to do this summer, there just wasn't enough time. I didn't have any time to work on my new writing projects like I thought I would. I couldn't keep up with the blog entries I meant to post here.

But in one week the tide has turned. John started a new job. The kids are back at school. And I am getting myself back into balance. Part of that balance is catching up with a few entries here.