Perspective, Continued.

So after my "experience as an expat" conversation with the lady in the spot next to me at the boot sale (back up and read the previous post if you need to catch up) I was glad that I brought my lap top so I could work on edits for my book during the lulls if I needed to. Which I did from then on after that conversation.

But at one point, she did ask me what I was doing and if I was able to concentrate with everything else going on.

So I explained. I was working on a mystery novel, and while the creative part - the writing of new words - needed quiet and solitude (or at least a cozy coffee shop), I had learned to do the edits amidst a plethora of distractions. I have three children, after all, I have to do a lot of things with a plethora of distractions.

She asked if she could read my books anywhere yet -- everyone always asks that when I tell them I am working on a book. I explained that first, I had to find an agent. Then, the agent had to sell it, etc. etc. (I've come to learn that writing the book itself is actually the easiest part of the process.)

She looked at me, and I could almost see a thought bubble above her head that said: "You are insane." 

And then I got some more of her wise words (seriously, go back and read the previous post if you haven't yet.)  Which were, something to the effect of: that's a boatload of work that you have to do for something you might not ever get paid for doing. (I so want to tell you her nationality right now, but again, I won't contribute to stereotypes.)

I calmly explained to her that writing was something I did because it was my passion.*  Something I lived  to do. Something that if I didn't do, I would explode. (Ok, so it wasn't quite as eloquent as that. My memory has built it up just a touch.) But I did tell her that writing wasn't a job for me, it was something I did for fun, not for money. If the money ever came, that would be a bonus.** I explained that most days, I would rather write my own stories than watch television or read a book.

She looked at me skeptically and raised a single eyebrow.

I smiled politely, opened my laptop and got to work. And was so very grateful I had made that trip back into the house to get my computer before I left that morning.

At the time, I remember feeling annoyed that I had to explain myself to her. I even felt a little bad for this lady, who had such a narrow view of the world and her place in it. But now, I look back on the conversation and I am grateful for it. Because now that we are living the reality of a move, and I am receiving one rejection letter after another, and the days have brought more discouragement than not, I think back to this conversation and it reminds me why I'm doing what I am doing. Anytime you have a chance to stop and reflect on your purpose, it's a good thing.

* I need to put in a footnote. A thank you to my Management Professor from the University of St. Thomas who told us -  over, and over, and over again - "to find our passion and pursue it." I know, it sounds simple enough, but to a college kid who is hungover from Thirsty Thursday, and "living in the moment" more than any other person on the planet, it's a good thing to have echo in your head all these years later.

**Ok, I admit, getting paid for my writing would be more than a nice bonus. The validation would be incredible. And seeing my name on the cover of a book is my biggest daydream. But for purposes of this conversation, I stuck with the altruistic explanation.

Perspective

We've been anticipating a move back to the U.S. for awhile now. I think it's just something an expat learns to live with - that uncertainty that at any moment the phone could ring and life as you know it will change. I deal with it the way I deal with a lot of things - live in the moment and enjoy and appreciate what I have while I have it.

But, in the back of my brain, the wheels are always turning and planning. Part of it is the whole "what if we have to move" factor, the other is that we just have a small house and everything in it has to be worth its weight. So one thing I've tried to do while we've lived here, is to cycle the stuff out. By that I mean getting rid of the baby gear, clothes, books and toys that we've outgrown as we outgrow it. Sometimes, I'm too efficient as Miss B will tell you - last spring she pulled a rain jacket out of the garage sale pile that still fit her.  

Garage sales in Belgium are awesome, especially within the expat community. First of all, there are a lot of online outlets, different facebook groups or email groups to reach out to. And after five years, I belong to them all. There are also organized sales, one in particular that is called the Nearly New Sale held twice a year for kids clothes, toys and gear. I'm proud to say that I've sold more than I've purchased at that one. (But that's where nearly all of Miss B's dresses come from. I'm sorry, but why would I ever pay 25-30 euros for a dress when I can get a really cute one there for 4-5 euros?) 

That takes care of the kid stuff, but what about the household stuff? Last spring I discovered the beauty of a boot sale. Boot,  meaning "trunk" for those of us that speak American English. Last spring I purchased a parking space for 25 euros and I could sell whatever I wanted in it. Twice. The first time, I made my entrance fee back with the sale of a stroller. For the second, I had a connection to get a spot at the American school. I brought two car loads to that one and came home with less than half a car. I worked the crowd at that one. If I saw someone looking at something, I immediately threw in an extra item (or several) for half-price or whatever I could negotiate them to walk away with. I even talked a woman into taking a broken camp bed, for free of course, but my recycling conscious self just couldn't throw the whole darn thing away after it broke before we even used it. (Ahem, no, Johnny, it does not hold the weight of your athletic 6'6'' frame.) She probably had to throw it away, the leg was broken. But the point is, I did not have to take it home. Yay!

Wait a minute. I started off this post with the intent of talking about the lady next to me at this boot sale, not the sale it self. 

So as what typically happens at a sale such as this that begins at an ungodly early hour and goes until the afternoon, you start chatting it up with your neighbors during the lulls. Thanks to my wheeling and dealing, I didn't have many lulls, but when I did I started talking to my neighbor. She was a teacher at the school. She thought it was interesting that I wasn't a parent from the school (remember it was the American school) and started asking me about our expat experience in Belgium. I explained that we were in the country indefinitely and when we arrived the children were the perfect age for immersion so we chose a local french school. We wanted them to be able to play with their neighbors and join the local sports teams so we didn't always have to do everything with Americans. (I left out the part about how we never, in a million years, would have paid the tuition that the American school asks. I know the facility is amazing, the teachers are top rate, but it's kindergarten. At the same price tag that I paid for my senior year of college. At St. Thomas.) But I digress. 

I told her that we had a great experience in Belgium, we loved living here, our kids were happy and well-adjusted. She too was an expat (from another european country, I'm not going to name it as I don't want to contribute to any stereotypes in any way) having lived in Belgium for a long time and raising her family here. And then it came up that we were anticipating a move in the near future. And she proceeded to tell me how awful that would be for the children. How horrible it would be to "rip" (her word) them out of the world that they knew and put them in a culture that they didn't know/understand any more. Or never knew (I had told her that Miss B was born here.) 

Ahem. Excuse me?

I explained to her that we felt very strongly that the value in our experience here as expats was two-fold. And that the most valuable enrichment for the children would come after we moved back. After they learned to live life in another country, and then went back to their own. After all, if we stay here, they will only be European, they won't have the other culture to compare it to. The comparison of both cultures, is where you have the enrichment, the value. My husband and I have that, because we knew one first and then the other. The kids don't have that, yet. They only know one. The easy choice would be to stay here. But the growth will come from going back. 

And I also explained that one of the reasons we loved living here so much was because we knew that precious timer was ticking down and we needed to enjoy it and appreciate it while we had the chance. And her response was still, something to the effect of "yeah, but that will suck."

I heard my mother's voice in my ear at that moment and it said, "Only if you let it."

Rocket Fuel.

This entry is to be filed under: Things that would never happen in the U.S.

Last spring, Monkey's class finally got to go to Classes Vertes. We call it "Green Week" at our house, and basically, the kids get to go away to a summer camp setting for a week with their class and teachers. The kids absolutely love it and they come back much more mature and independent, so the parents love it too.

Each time they go, there is a theme. The first year A.J. went, the theme was Robin Hood, and everything they learned was centered around the theme. This year, Monkey's theme was science, and the first day the kids built a laboratory in the woods. They did all sorts of nature experiments and even learned some basic chemistry.

One of the projects was to make a rocket out of a 2L bottle, fill it with a naturally made gasoline of some type, and then shoot it off into "space." Keep in mind that we weren't actually there, so this is all hearsay, but that's the just of what I understood.

A few days after they got back and were settled back into the routine of school, Monkey told me he needed to bring a glass jar to school. Monkey never remembers anything like that, and I was proud of him for remembering something that he needed to take to school, all on his own. So much so that I forgot to ask him why he needed a glass jar in the first place.

A few days later, he brought home his glass jar. Filled with a strange purple liquid. "Be careful with that," he said, when he saw me pulling it out of his backpack, "that can't touch skin."

"Excuse me?" I said, "What do you mean by 'it can't touch skin'."

"Well," he explained, "my teacher said that if it touches our skin, we have exactly five seconds to wash it off with soap and water, and we don't want to know what happens if we don't."

"But what is it?" I asked.

"Rocket fuel," he answered. "I want to make rockets and fly them at home."

Huh. And this came home with you in your backpack?

The jar of purple liquid sat on a shelf for six weeks. I was afraid to dump it down the drain for fear of contaminating the general population's water supply. I assumed that this was the very purpose the teacher had distributed it among the second graders. Every time he asked about flying a rocket, I had about a million and ten other ideas for him to do instead. Mr. Wizard, I am not.

Monkey has long forgotten about flying rockets at home, and so the mysterious purple liquid is now safely disposed of, along with its container. And next time Monkey tells me he wants to take a jar to school, I will be sure to ask why.

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N.

Procrastination: P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-O-N. Procrastination. The putting off of something that should have been done a long time ago. Such as... buying school supplies for three kids. In french.

I usually refer to my school supply lists as the annual scavenger hunt. Because that's what it feels like here. I've never had to buy school supplies in the U.S., my experience is based on what I remember from my own school days. But the lists here are COMPLICATED! Even my francophone friends say-so.  Let's talk about art paper, for example. The list does not say to buy "art paper." It says, something like, "size A4, 224 grams." But in French. Which would be fine except that then, the different papers aren't marked size A4, it's marked 35 cm x 47 cm with a weight of 220 grams. But in French. And it costs 10 euros per pad of paper, so I don't want to buy the wrong one because returning anything here is just a general old pain in the you-know-what. And each list requires two different kinds of papers (colored and white) and there are three lists, and no teacher specifies the same paper in the same way, so that means six different kinds of paper. And that's just the paper.

There is no Target with the giant corner dedicated to any and everything "back-to-school."  My Belgian friends will say, "but what about Carrefour Planet, and their school supply aisles?" To that I say, you don't know Target. And then they will say, "but you also have Dreamland and Club for anything you can't find at Carrefour," and to that I say, exactly my point. It is impossible to buy school supplies here without going to each and every one of those stores. Thus, the reason I call it the annual scavenger hunt.

But this year, I procrastinated. I didn't even look at the lists until last week. Sigh. I paid for that. Over the years, I've developed a strategy. My strategy is that I try to figure out as much as I can on the list by myself, and then at each different store, I pick one item that I have no clue about, and then I ask an unsuspecting clerk to help me with that one item. If they are nice, I push it to a second item.

This year, I actually knew what everything on the list was before I went into the stores. Mostly because I made A.J. sit down and read them all and help me. Then, I made them all come to the store with me. I handed the older ones their lists and pointed them in the right direction within each part of the school supply aisle. Divide and conquer, I thought. Not really. It was a lot of me yelling "focus" and "No, Miss B, you don't need [a stapler/white out tape/file cabinet/insert whatever-other-obnoxious-item-she-was-holding-at-that-particular-moment]. But I never needed to call on any sales staff for assistance. I was proud.

But we managed to get through most of it. We still needed a few things, but I knew that Dreamland would have the grid paper (specified 1cm squares) that the boys both needed and a few other things. My confidence restored, we saved that for later in the week. Only, when we got there, they were out of the right paper. For this, I decided to ask a clerk. She took me to the shelf I had just been staring at, shook her head and said "pas encore" (no more) and then she ran. I'm not kidding, she ducked away from me before I could ask for anything else. I hadn't planned on asking for anything else, but she never would have given me a chance. I spotted her a few minutes later, hiding in a different aisle checking her watch. (It was almost lunch time.)

I guess back-to-school shopping isn't just hard on the moms that have to do it.

This year's statistics so far: five different stores, two items to return/exchange and a couple more to get. I'll figure it all out. Eventually.

Even after all this time, I still miss Target.

Car Trouble.

Once a car reaches a certain age, it has to pass an annual test. Last spring, our car was due for this "controlle technique," it's called. John's travel schedule was hectic, so I volunteered to handle this whole process and cleared my schedule to do so.

I went, I waited, I spoke french - although it was automotive words, so I didn't speak enough of it or very well. And after the mechanics determined this very fact, they stopped talking to me. I was waved through the test and pointed in the direction of the office to pay the bill. It was only after the big red document came off the printer that I realized I failed.

The people in line behind me tried to help me understand what the problem was, but the information was vague. Something about the headlight alignment, and something else about the parking break. Bottom line, I had two weeks to get it fixed and back to the testing center. I drove straight to a mechanic's shop with my paperwork, where I secured an appointment, for the first available time - which was sometime the next week. They assured me they could fix everything to retake the test and pass.

I went to the appointment, and was surprised to be out within the hour. With only a 15 euro bill for something to do with the lights. "But what about the break?" I asked. "Oh, we don't do that here," I was told, "you'll have to go to the dealership," they said. Hmm. So I drove straight to the dealership. And begged for an appointment for sometime that week. Then I told them I would wait with the car. They hate when people stay with the car, they always want us to drop it off and then it usually takes them three days. Not so easy when you only have one car.

I had one day after the dealership to get the car back for my retest. I went to the dealership, prepared for a long day, and to my surprise, was out of there before lunch. With enough time to go get the car retested. Did I mention it was all before lunch?

Success!

This was all a boring build-up to get to the next part. The following week, the car made that "clicky-clicky" noise indicating that one of the turn signals was burnt out. Sigh. When I took my driver's ed class, I think we learned basic car maintenance, like how to change a lightbulb. But now, when I pop the hood of our Chevy, the inside is so complicated, you can't even see how to open anything near the lightbulb, let alone change it.

On the way to school, the boys tutored me in all the ways to say "light bulb" in french. I drove back to the garage that fixed the light alignment. They were my buddies now. Feeling more confident with my automotive words, I asked for them to change the lightbulb. I used every word that A.J. taught me. Me and the mechanic, we both nodded our understanding. He even had time to fix it right then.

I got back in the car, turned out of the parking lot and heard the "clicky-clicky" noise again. I turned back into the lot and went back into the shop. This time, they got the guy that spoke english. Turns out, the original guy (the one that nodded and smiled a lot) thought I meant I had a leak in my tire and he tested the tire for leaks. There weren't any. No kidding. They said they'd be happy to fix the lightbulb, but didn't have an appointment for that until later that afternoon.

Are you kidding me? How many Belgian mechanics does it take to change a lightbulb, anyway?

I drove home, handed the keys to John and said "I give up. You're in charge of getting the lightbulb changed."

And guess what? Just yesterday, the same lightbulb started making the clicky-clicky noise again. I think it's a conspiracy.

Oui, mon chéri, Paris!

Last spring, we took the kids to London for a weekend. It was an amazing trip, because London is where John and I went for our honeymoon. And this was the first time where all of the kids were ALL old enough to appreciate the city and remember it.

We took them to a Thai restaurant that we ate at when we were on our honeymoon, and the SAME lady still works there/owns it. John makes several trips to London throughout the year, and tends to frequent the same places, so she easily remembered him, and was beyond flattered that he brought his family back to see her.  We went to a show - The Lion King. They were all fun at the theater, but Miss B especially. I assumed she would connect with the actors and dancers, she is all about being on stage. But instead, she turned to me halfway through and asked "Mommy, where do all the dress-up clothes come from?" I explained that there was a costume designer, and she insisted on knowing the name of the person in charge of the costumes. That was pretty cool.

Wait a minute. Wasn't this post was supposed to be about Paris? Hold on, I'm getting to that part.

Monkey especially loved the Natural History Museum in London. He would have looked at, and read about, every single rock if we'd let him. None of the rest of us are really big museum people --Something about large crowds and patience levels I think. And it was a whole lot of rocks. But Monkey was thrilled and couldn't get enough, and it broke my heart to have to hustle him through faster than he would have liked.

I left thinking, we've got to get this kid to the Louvre.

So for his First Communion present this spring, monkey got a train ticket to Paris. It was a tough job, but I volunteered to "take one for the team" and go with him. Monkey and me on our very own overnight date to Paris. I bought a museum pass that would get us in and out of several different museums over the course of two days, the Louvre included - without waiting in line. I cleared my head so I could answer any and all questions he might ask, and ask he did. I stopped counting when we were waiting on the train platform. To leave La Hulpe. He was already at 53.

My favorites: At the Musee d'Orsay he asked: "Mommy, is the fence around this statue electric?" No, I answered. Three second pause. "Oh, you're right. It's not."  And also from the Orsay: Mommy, why didn't they call this room the "naked" room.  All the people in these paintings are naked.

It was a delightful two days. We walked in and out of museums, just because we could. We made two visits to the Louvre, the first day to the Egyptians and the mummies, and the second day to see the Mona Lisa. We made two visits to the Orsay. We saw Monet at the Orangerie. He asked room monitors questions, in french, to their utter delight. He made friends everywhere (just like his father does). He was a fun dinner date. He bought souvenirs for his brother and sister, with his own money. The only disappointment was when he lost his sunglasses (it is monkey after all, it wouldn't be a trip if he didn't lose something.) And also not being able to find a good nighttime view of the Eiffel Tower (that subway line was closed for repairs and even though we walked forever, we just couldn't see more than the top.) Oh well, I explained, that just leaves us something to do for next time. He agreed.

I will forever be thankful for those 36 hours with my monkey.

The Battle of the Slugs, Continued.

Go back a post or two if you need to, just to catch up and get the background on the slug situation.

But just a quick recap: The beer bowls didn't work. Well, it worked but it didn't really make a dent in our slime population. It wasn't enough. Plus, we were basically just providing free booze to the neighborhood creepy crawlies.

I'd really rather not do poison if I can help it. It's definitely not the first tool I grab in an infestation situation. (See a previous post about rats.) But I've learned to never say never, and sometimes, you've just got to do what you've got to do to take back your garden.

And it was time to take back the garden. I sprinkled it around and it actually smelled good. Let's see what happens, I thought.

Um. The next 24 hours revealed carnage I never thought possible.

So, whatever it is they ingest, causes extra slime trails. Our patio, was a spiderweb of crystalized slime trails.

And.

For some reason (I think it's a conspiracy) they prefer to live out their last moments in the wide-open. As in they come out to the patio (or the middle of the boys football space/net - lots of bald grass spots) to die. And this, mind you, is an extra-oozy, disgusting, writhing death. (I felt bad, really, I did.)

The result was, that we had to implement a "slug-removal squad." Yep. That would be me with a shovel. I have to go around and flick the slimeballs into the bushes before anyone will go outside to do anything. I've been doing this all summer.

We thought the situation was under control. Until the other night, when we had to do another round of chemical warfare. So there I was, the next morning, flicking sluggy critters into the bushes.

Sigh. This is what my life has become.

But then. An amazing thing happened. My three children, who up to this point had been whining and complaining about something or other (for sanity purposes, I stopped listening to the whiney voices sometime last month) banded together.

Somehow, they came up with this system of water and buckets and they worked together....just a minute, let me say that one more time, they worked TOGETHER to clean-up the crystalized slime trails that covered the back yard.

So I did what only a good mother would do. I took that as my cue and slipped into the house, unnoticed. Leaving them collaborating and using their imaginations to fix the backyard.

And it was beautiful.