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.

Please stop saying that!

We are having a glorious Minnesota summer. In my humble opinion, the weather has been absolutely perfect. But that's not hard for me to say, given that we moved back during one of the worst winters in record history. Also consider that for the last six years, we lived through the cool and rainy Belgian summers.

I have to admit, I was nervous going into summer. In Belgium, the last day of school is at the end of June, leaving only two months for summer vacation. Looking at the calendar as our last day of school approached the first week of June, I got nervous. What was I going to do with all of those days?

We had a great start. John took Monkey to Alopeciapolloza in upstate New York, leaving them a few days to tour NYC. The day after they got back, I took AJ back to Belgium for a week (more on that in an upcoming post). We had a week back together again as a family for the 4th of July festivities, and then John and I took Miss B to my cousin's wedding in Alabama. Each kid got one-on-one travel time, and the ones left behind got to bond with each other (and Grandma Sue at one point or another.) It was great.

Except for when they were all back together under the same roof, they had to learn how to get along all over again. I shouldn't have been surprised, the same thing happens to me and John after he's been on a long trip. For one solid week, it was a constant battle. I think we are through the worst of it now.

Now, we start the summer camps. Last week, Miss B had a French Immersion camp. We also finished up two weeks of swimming lessons. Next week, Miss B gets another French camp, and Monkey gets to go to Theater. This week, we have absolutely nothing. No swimming lessons, no soccer practice, no soccer tryouts, nothing. I'm so excited!

There's just one thing. I've heard people out and about, starting to complain that the summer is almost over. To that I shout, "It is NOT! We still have one month left! And it's the best part! We haven't even had the State Fair yet!"

If this were Belgium, we went back to school after two months of summer. If you translate that to our summer this year, we would be finished with our two months of summer and we would be starting school this week.

But instead, we still have one month left! Yay Summer! (Check back with me in three weeks, I'm sure I will be saying "Yay! School!") I think it will be just enough time…which will make it a perfect summer.

Confessions of a Terrible Soccer Mom. Part 1

Here is my first confession: I entitled this blog a Part 1, and I don't even have a Part 2 yet. I just know that I will probably need one, because I sort of suck at being an American Soccer Mom.

Let's start with the schedule. In Belgium it was easy (I never knew how good I had it!) Practice two days a week at the same time, same place (our Club's field, five minutes away) and matches on Saturday. Even when their practice schedules overlapped, everything was always at the same field. Here, we've got soccer three days a week, Monkey is Monday/Wednesday, AJ is Tuesday/Thursday. And they each have a practice on Sunday. They are never at the same place twice, and matches are always evenings during the week. Sometimes on the opposite end of downtown, meaning a rush hour traffic battle.

In the beginning, before the matches really started, the planned practice was only an hour long. With the drive time, it made more sense to stay and "watch" (or sometimes try to run a quick errand) during that hour. Often, I would fight hard to get to be the one to "drive" - just so I could have that hour to sit by myself, or run an errand, ALONE. Confession: when I stayed to "watch," I didn't really watch. I worked. Reading my manuscript on my kindle, or reading a book for background research, or catching up on emails. I was the only parent not cheering for my kid at practice, and despite the sideways glances, I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.

When the matches began, everything changed. (Just when I had it all figured out.) The practice times and locations changed. We even have two different "home" fields that we play on - on opposite ends of town. They have two different colors of jerseys. They have to wear one and bring the other for all matches. One team uses red for away. "It's easy," they told me when I once asked how to know what color to put on him, "Red = road." Yeah, it's easy if you can remember which team uses that method, because the other kid's team doesn't do that.

At the end of the day, I could use a personal assistant, just to help me manage the schedule. And if they show up wearing a clean jersey, that's the right color and not their brother's number, I feel a  major sense of accomplishment. Purple shorts and purple socks were so much easier, especially after several years and we had collected several sets of both.

We've been meeting people non-stop for the last six months. I am bombarded with new names and faces on a regular basis. Parents at school. Parents from ballet. Parents from soccer. It's getting much better, but I can't always remember which names go with which faces from which team. Maybe if I hadn't had my nose in a book at practice, it wouldn't have taken so long.

I did, however, finally start remembering to bring my camping chair to the matches here. In Belgium, we just stood for the match. I liked that, actually. Less stuff to schlep. And when it started raining, it was less stuff to get wet. You just popped open your umbrella or pulled up your hood. And you could move around when the teams switched goals at halftime. But here, everyone parks themselves and sits. And without a chair, you have no way to claim your space.

So the first day I remembered to bring my chair to the match, I was faced with a major dilemma. As I walked over to the field with my camping chair slung over my arm, I realized there were two separate sets of parents. Which group were the parents of my team? I honestly had no idea. My pace slowed as I tried to figure it out. I could only imagine how awkward it would be to choose the wrong set, and have to get up out of my chair and move it to the other group. Oh well, I figured, it would make a good blog entry if that's what happened.

In the end, I chose correctly. And now, I even know most of the parents by name. (Or at least know which kid they belong to.) Just in time for the season to end, and get a new team for Fall.

Taking Turns

My expat friends in Belgium, always complained to me about the road rage of Belgian drivers. I guess I never drove on the Ring (highway) there as much as I do here, but I just never saw that. Not compared to here. For the most part, I always found that Belgian drivers were especially courteous.

For example, at our new school. We don't have a bus, and there are 900 students at our school (of course, keep in mind that it is a Catholic school, so there are some really big families). In any event, there are a lot of cars trying to turn down the same street at the same time. My first week of school, images from the 80's movie Mr. Mom, kept flashing into my mind. Do you remember the scene where he takes the kids to school and the kids keep telling him, "You're doing it wrong." And the other moms are screaming at him, "South to drop off, north to pick-up you moron!" Well, that's what I felt like our first week of school.

But anyway. In Belgium, whenever there was a back-up of traffic, drivers would just naturally take turns. There, unlike here, there was usually only one way to get somewhere. In Europe, roads grew organically from well traveled paths and ancient highways that led from town to town. Here, early American city planners had enough space to plot everything on a logical grid. The result there, is that you have to wait in traffic. A lot. And sometimes it's for something as stupid as a delivery truck that decides to block an entire (or sometimes both) lanes of traffic. It's almost like sense of camaraderie develops. An attitude that "we're all in the together, let's work it out together". With a collective disgust for the delivery truck driver, of course.

That doesn't happen so much here. A few weeks ago, a large delivery truck was blocking a lane of traffic on our route to school. We saw it in time to change course, turn down the next street, drive one block down, and get around it easily. Drivers that could foresee the upcoming challenge, get themselves around it, were rewarded with a minimal delay. The drivers who didn't realize there was a problem until it was too late to turn, were stuck. And I found myself thinking, "it sucks to be them."

On the way into school, we turn right down the "west to drop-off" street. And obviously, because we are turning right, we have the right of way. There is always a line of cars waiting to turn left. I always let a car from the left lane go before me, just like I learned from driving in Belgium. But no one else ever does. This amazes me. Especially because we are all parents of kids at the same Catholic school. Which sort of makes me think we should follow higher standards of courtesy or something. Not to mention we're all going to see each other in the parking lot in a minute.

My Belgian and/or French friends would say this is an example of Americans being rude. (They say that a lot.) But I don't think that's it, exactly. I just think that in the mornings especially, we are so focused on where we are going and what we are doing, that we don't always pay attention to what's going on around us. But maybe we should pay attention a little more? So that we can take turns if we need to.

Monkey would be able to tell you how many times I've said to myself (out loud, so of course the kids were eavesdropping): "I can't believe no one here takes turns, I need to blog about this." Because I said it enough that he started counting.

So now that school is out, and our mornings are quiet again, I can cross "blog about taking turns" off my end of the school year list.

Coming up next: Reasons I'm a Terrible Soccer Mom.

May Day, Fail.

So today was May Day. In Belgium, May Day is a bank holiday and the sun was probably shining so everyone probably had a nice day off from school and work. With maybe a picnic at the Chateau, or a lovely day sitting in the garden sipping French rose wine. Sigh.

Today in Minnesota, I wore my winter coat. I didn't even want to take it off when I got inside the house. I am just so tired of being cold.

In any event, I completely forgot about the May Days of my childhood. The ones where we would leave little baskets of popcorn and candy for our friends in the neighborhood, by ringing their doorbells and running to hide before they could see us. It was the only day of the year where ding-dong-doorbell-ditching was ok.

I forgot about those May Day... until tonight.

The wind outside was blowing. The storm clouds were rolling across the sky, threatening, but not quite delivering anything but darkness.

We're having one of those crazy weeknight weeks where one kid has soccer practice right over dinnertime. The other two were having a dinner date in the kitchen and I seized a quiet moment to run down to the laundry room. (I know, I know. But I promise, we still try to make sure there are more family dinner nights than not.) Anyway, I heard Monkey and Miss B calling me, with terror in their voices.

"Mommy! Someone is knocking on our BACK door! Who could be knocking on our BACK door?!" Miss B's lower lip quivered and as far as they were concerned, I couldn't get to the back door fast enough.

When we opened the door, the branches on the naked lilac bush were waving, but we didn't see anyone, anywhere.

But a small, handmade construction flower lay at our feet. And I remembered.

I explained the May Day tradition to the kids with a smile, and promised that next year we would do better.

So to whichever neighbor thought of us tonight, and successfully left a May Day greeting without getting caught, thank you.