In Expat Parentis - A Family Abroad

Last days

2010-04-29T17:45:00.005+02:00

Difficult day today - last day of school. Difficult enough, but it was also "Sports Day" when the whole school traveled to a sport park and ran around in the sun all day - unusually hot and sunny. Then the buses broke down and they had to walk a mile or more back to school. Then the goodbyes...

Then several friends had the gall to try to give me little presents, which was terribly inconsiderate since it only makes me cry. Jeez, guys. I hope you'll understand that my inability to open them until I'm safely ensconced back in the States is only my own personal weakness; for all the English in my blood, I inherited no stiffness of upper lip and I prefer not to make a complete fool of myself. Oh wait, too late. I'm already "that" mum anyway, aren't I?

Violenschool families, we'll miss some of you more than we can possibly say.

Of bikes and belletjes

2010-03-15T09:32:00.002+01:00

I remember when we first arrived in this, the land where the bike reigns supreme over all other modes of transport, I brought with me a certain confidence that I'd manage on the endless red bikepaths of the nation without too much difficulty. I mean, I've put in many a mile on my bike, hundreds of 'em on the bike paths and streets of Chicago. Yes, it's a different world here, but how different can it be?

O, the hubris.

The first thing you notice is that everyone is riding around sitting bolt upright on their bikes in a posture that might even have made me snicker quietly to myself in my cool Chicago ten-speed or mountain bike-riding days. I mean, assuming I were the kind of person who snickered. Then you see a huge number of people riding sort of duck-footed such that their heels are situated squarely over the pedal and take most of the weight. You'll also often see people riding with their knees turned out so that they resemble a big kid riding on little sister's trike. Again, let's just say it's not the least amusing thing I've ever seen.

And then I got my Dutch bike and started sitting bolt upright myself, quite simply because I didn't have any choice. The first thing I noticed was that my wrists weren't aching every time I got off my bike. The second thing I noticed was how much my knees thanked me for riding with my heels instead of the balls of my feet on the pedals. Score one for looking silly.

Then you have the rules of the road. We learned those fabulously silly arm signals in elementary school: Right arm bent up = turning right. Right arm straight out = turning left (which was the one I always thought was dumbest... I'm pointing right to turn left?). Arm bent down = slowing or stopping. I was all prepared to dust them off for use here, but I happily found that they use the far more sensible method of pointing in the direction they intend to go as they approach an intersection or roundabout. One more point for Dutch pragmatism.

I have to say, though, that I'm not a huge fan of the rule of the road that allows two bikes riding side by side. Any situation involving human beings having to yield the right of way seems to work out badly no matter where in the world you are, but in this country in particular it seems that right of way on the road or bike path is protected with the same vigor as I would expect for, say, the right to freedom of speech. Or the right to breathe. I also find difficult the mechanics of riding in such close proximity to another person, but that's my own personal hangup. The Dutch seem to manage this brilliantly, probably because they learn to ride literally alongside their parents who keep a hand on their shoulder to help keep them going at a decent pace.

This brings me to the bell. Riding on Chicago's bike paths a decade ago (or so, ahem), the convention when passing was to warn the passee with a nice little "on your left" or the occasional "on your right." Ringing a bell would have been anathema, the rough equivalent of honking a horn at another car before you passed them on the interstate, or "you're in my way so I'm passing and, oh, by the way, screw you." In The Netherlands, the ding of the bell is ubiquitous. It's perfectly in keeping with the value they place upon verbal bluntness: "If you're in my way, I'm going to let you know." Heck, a bell is an efficient way of indicating passing, but do you really need to ding every single person you're passing as you're blowing down the path? Maybe I'm just too slow and that's why I bike along to the accompaniment of a gypsy band of belletjes. (Okay, I'm not quite that slow.)

At any rate, when you hear a ding behind you, resist the instinct to turn around to see where it's coming from. If you are walking, evacuate the bike path and/or brace yourself for the jetwash of a VERY closely passing bike. I've had my handlebars nicked twice by exuberant passers, sending both of us veering unpredictably -- not a pleasant experience. So it's been almost three years, but I still cringe almost every time I hear a bell; I was already habituated or something and am squarely into the age of inability to relearn my stimuli.

All of this brings me to a recent day when I was walking back from Avery's doctor appointment. There we were walking along in a semi-crowded area near the market when I heard a bike bell pinging nonstop. My first thought was that it was a small child whose parents were loathe to tell it nee because I've had that kid behind me on the bike path before... ooh. Then the offender came into view, a middle-aged man on a bike rented from the station who was inexplicably blasting down the bike path with an extremely grumpy expression ringing the bell nonstop although there was no one remotely near him. I had just enough time to wonder to myself whether there was some reasonable explanation for this when the middle-aged woman in front of me said for everyone's benefit,

"Ja, je heb wel een belletje. Je heb 't wel."

I laughed aloud. It's something you might say to a child, so it came off as mildly sarcastic and confirmed for me that, no, this guy was a weirdo. It translates roughly as "Yes indeedy, you've got yourself a bell there." That, in a nutshell, is why I'm happy to have learned the beetje of Dutch I have... confirmation that I might actually, occasionally recognize the cultural outliers.

Stone soup

2010-01-28T21:15:00.006+01:00

Dylan and I read the book Stone Soup the other night at bedtime, and ever since he's been relentlessly asking when we can make stone soup for dinner. Well, tonight when I couldn't come up with any reason we couldn't, we finally made it.

The story is, of course, about how otherwise hoarding villagers come together to share their food and make a delicious soup. Our equivalent was the collaborative spirit in which the siblings undertook their task. They hit upon the idea of using one of the rocks we brought from our old house as the stone in question (after a thorough cleaning, of course), and then followed the "recipe" in their Asian-themed book. Although we were fresh out of cloud ear and mung beans, we managed a tasty chicken noodle stone soup... not bad for having no ingredients to start with [wink, wink].

A bit of Christmas repartee

2009-12-13T12:32:00.002+01:00

Just now as I was getting lunch ready, Dylan came in and asked:

"Mom, can I crawl under the Christmas tree and pretend to be a present?"

"Er, no objection here, Dylan."

"Okay, I just want to see what life is like under a tree for a while."

He proceeded to lay quietly under the tree for a few minutes, gazing up through the branches and humming. Not a bad way to pass the last bit of a December Sunday morning.

Evolution

2009-12-12T23:30:00.005+01:00

We've been living here in the Netherlands more than two years now, which amazes me. In some ways I still feel like such a novice, but I suppose that sense is less feeling like a novice and more feeling like an outsider. Learning the language certainly mitigates the outsiderness, but there is always that undercurrent of feeling resented and/or tested by the locals that I can't quite get past. Nevertheless, we're a far cry from the people we were two and a third years ago when we landed on this continent with the eight suitcases carrying all our "moving budget" let us bring from home. Heck, we've actually managed an intranational move in that time, and that alone would have been unthinkable a few years ago. But it's the more ineffable ways in which we've absorbed this culture that have me thinking this week.

This week I sat in astonishment after hanging up the phone with the doctor -- this time not so much because of what they said as what I did. My daughter has a prescription from her neurologist for a medication she has to take every day. When we moved from Utrecht to Hilversum I was told that all prescriptions would "automatically transfer with the files." Great. Well, despite requests filed in triplicate, no files arrived in Hilversum. I have proceeded to spend literally weeks phoning doctors and pharmacies trying to get two of them in any combination to speak to each other, something that is evidently impossible. When she was down to only three days' supply of the medication this week, I called the neurologist's office again.

Hi, I've moved and I need to get my daughter's medication refilled, and my huisarts says he needs to have something from the neurologist because the prescription didn't transfer.

I hereby quote the receptionist's response:

What do you want me to do? Do you think the doctor is standing here just over my shoulder?

This is one of those responses that would have left my jaw hanging two years ago, so I was astonished to hear myself delivering something along the lines of the following:

No, I don't, in fact, think the doctor is there over your shoulder, but I have been to your office and do know that you have my daughter's file within arm's reach behind you, and I also know that you're on the phone with me right now, so you could easily pick up the same phone and call the huisarts to confirm my daughter's medication and dosage as it reads in the file. Although this requires you to expend some effort on my part, it does not require the doctor to be standing over your shoulder.

In case it's not immediately obvious, this is not something that well-mannered people say to each other where I come from. In some areas close to where I come from, such responses in the tone in which I delivered this one may, in fact, encourage receptionists to reach for the panic button or firearm concealed in a desk drawer. Nonetheless, without missing a beat the receptionist responded casually:

Indeed you're right. Let me see if I can get Dr. Janssen on the phone.

And, badda-bing, I was on hold and she was making a phone call. Of course, Dr. Janssen wisely did not answer the phone on her day off (this is the land where even anesthesiologists work 8-5 after all) so I had to make a second plea for this receptionist to call my doctor. Didn't expect it to happen. It didn't happen. But I actually got someone to do something, and this is long-awaited progress.

Because she didn't make the call, when I showed up at the apotheek for the refill I was informed there was none. I was able to talk to our doctor again, who said he wasn't comfortable prescribing this medication without having some sort of confirmation she was actually supposed to have it. This is the point at which, I believe, it would be in order for him to make a phone call -- doc-to-doc, as it were -- to the neurologist's office, or have one of his staff do it, right? No. I was supposed to conjure up something for him. No amount of wheedling or cajoling worked here because I simply didn't understand the finer points of the Dutch medical system (what, the doctors don't talk to each other??!?). Fine.

Using my honed Dutch sensibilities, I came back after doc had left for the day (this was Friday) and talked to the receptionist at his office. In standard fashion, despite having made eye contact with the receptionist I did have to step forward and rudely interrupt what appeared to be an extremely important conversation with the mailman about what the weather was likely to be over the weekend and whether they would have to use the wool scarf or something else. That done, receptionist said she could write a stopgap prescription, and did. I walked across the hall to the apotheek and gave it to the pharmacist. She said she didn't have the medication, but she could order it... on Monday. I said my daughter needed the medication before that.

"Oh well," she said, "it probably won't hurt her to go without it for just a few days."

I fancy that what I felt at that point must be something like what David Banner experiences when he becomes the Hulk.

"Actually, it would be an immense problem. What other pharmacies might have the medication? From whom would you order it? Where else can I take this prescription so I can get it for her?"

She looked up with mild surprise, as if realizing for the first time that perhaps I might NEED this prescription.

"Oh, well, let me make a phone call."

She disappeared for all of three minutes and then sent me about four blocks away to another pharmacy. Again, I know I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto, but where I come from those in pharmacies do a little thing I like to call active problem solving. My home pharmacist would have suggested unprompted that I try X pharmacy down the street. As I say, lesson learned and mission accomplished. You have to just put on that mantle of entitlement and be pushy beyond belief to get anything done here, and I might just have gotten it figured out.

Ain't sweet, but sure ain't bitter

2009-12-08T01:08:00.002+01:00

I have a new pet peeve, and that is cheerful blogs from people who have just moved to this country and want to gush about how wonderful everything is and, better yet, chide any expat who complains because they're not trying hard enough to assimilate and appreciate. I'm not miserable, but I am a truth-teller... and that's ostensibly a very Dutch value. The Dutch do not like Pollyanna and I don't either, so really I have more in common with them than the Pollyannas, now, don't I? (All of these people to whom I refer are also childless, which I believe makes all the difference in the experience of the move. I would probably have sounded more like them had I moved here at the age of 24 as a newly-married young adult ready to take on the night life.)

At any rate, I don't walk through (most of) my days railing about the misery of life, but as it's turned out the more interesting -- and thus, bloggable -- aspects of living here have involved the thorny patches we've had to deal with. There is a great deal to love about living here, especially if you are blessed with a healthy and ironic sense of humor. One of the best parts of moving somewhere perceived as different or exotic is that it makes you more conscious of the humor and preciousness of the quotidian ANYWHERE, even in the town where you grew up. It doesn't matter how exotic the locale, life with children ultimately boils down to obtaining and preparing three squares a day, tidying and doing laundry, and getting them diapered and/or to and from school. Hopefully they're absorbing the values you want them to absorb and seeing some cool stuff along the way.

We are not -- nor are the Pollyannas -- cooler than anyone else for having undertaken the madness of a transatlantic move. We are a bit wiser of the world and immigration restrictions (which might cause me to argue that those who stayed put made the wiser decision for their families), we have gotten more cheap Gouda than we ever believed we could stomach, and we are a bit closer to Italy. And that last one, ladies and gentlemen, just might be enough to make all this worthwhile.

Gezellig? Me??

2009-11-24T10:10:00.000+01:00

Jen, you made my day today when you came into my dingy, light-deprived little abode in need of tidying and pronounced it gezellig (cozy/homey). And I didn't even have any candles lit or cookies baked! Ah, the things to which we aspire...

I had an orchestra in Amsterdam...

2009-11-15T22:07:00.003+01:00

Played Beethoven, Schubert, and Saint-Saens in a lovely church in Amsterdam today. I couldn't believe how many people crammed into the church and paid €15 a head to hear an amateur orchestra play, especially when the tempo for a couple of movements of Beethoven's Fourth got so out of hand that it began to sound like a runaway county fair orchestra... but for the most part I was impressed and proud. It was the first time my family has ever seen me play violin in public, too, with the exception of a couple school functions. I do wish for their sake that it hadn't been a three-hour concert, but c'est la vie. The 12-year-old soloist on Saint-Saens was worth every penny even if everything else had been horribly out of tune and tempo -- she is utterly phenomenal. Just picture a tiny little girl playing this, and weep.

Settled.

2009-09-26T17:22:00.000+02:00

Finally, we've settled enough into the new place to contemplate doing things with our spare time that don't involve moving furniture around or trying to magically rearrange 108 square meters of stuff into 75 square meters of space. Oddly, this new place already feels like home in a way that Utrecht never quite did. Maybe it's the old-Dutch character of the 1930s tussenwoning. Maybe it's that we live on a tiny street on which the neighbors all know and actually talk to each other. I think, though, that it's most likely the fact that our immediate environs are now rife with friends. The kids are still reveling in their ability to have buddies from school over to play, to say nothing of having their mother say "sure" when they're asked to come over after school. For our own part, being within biking distance of social evenings that might involve a couple glasses of wine and easy train distance of, say, an amateur orchestra in Amsterdam, has opened up entirely new options. Life.

Verhuizing hiatus

2009-08-24T10:52:00.002+02:00

Sorry for the lengthy hiatus, but it's been an eventful few weeks. We've questioned our sanity for making any changes to what often feels like a precariously-balanced existence, but we're almost moved to Hilversum now. Although we've taken a hit in square meterage and are going to miss our outdoor terrace, we think the 1930s condo is quite a bit more sfeervol than the new style architecture in Leidsche Rijn. Even better, school is now just a short (albeit rather nervewracking with Dylan) bike ride away rather than an hour's drive. All that remains now is to get it gezellig enough to have people over...

What's that sucking sound?

2009-07-13T21:06:00.003+02:00

That'd be every last cent leaving your pocket while you try to make any sort of business or government related phone call in The Netherlands. I am continually amazed and appalled at how businesses here try to suck money out of merely-potential consumers in a way that'd be a death knell for an American business. I'm not thrilled about it, but I understand that actual physical space here is limited enough that I can't expect free parking everywhere I want to shop. I will thus happily trade proximity to my parcels for historical and environmental preservation. Paying money to find out when a business is open, though? Are we the only ones who find it a bit counterproductive for a business owner to charge us to find out when we can come in and spend our money?

Here, in no particular order, are my favorite (most ignominious) examples of having to pay for phone calls.

1.) The website that touts itself as having the cheapest airline tickets available does not have the capability of searching multileg flights (a la every non-Dutch travel website I've ever checked). If you want to book city to city, you have to call their 0900 number and pay 45 cents a minute. Yes, that includes that half hour you have to hold before they answer.

2.) When we first moved here, we purchased the majority of our new little European household at IKEA. We didn't have a car and couldn't quite get the beds and bookshelves onto our bikes (ha), so we paid through the nose for delivery several days hence. On the appointed day, the kids and I sat in our curtainless, light fixture-less, telephone-less (don't even get me started on utilities) condo for eight hours waiting for the delivery truck to arrive. After hours of sitting on bare concrete floors, the truck never showed. My only option was to call their 0900 number and pay an additional 25 cents per minute to be told that our delivery truck driver LIED and told them he came and we weren't there and that we'd thus have to pay another exorbitant delivery fee plus a penalty if we wanted the thousands of euros of our stuff we'd already bought. Talk about adding insult to injury. In the end, we (Jeff) convinced them that it'd be in their best interests to attempt delivery ONCE before attempting to charge us more money for our stuff, but they got their money for the phone call, by golly.

3.) After having paid over €800 in fees, we were still required to pay 25 cents per minute to make the mandatory phone calls to check on the status of our immigration applications. That really added up when you figured in that we had to call an office to make an appointment for a slot of several hours one day when we would have to sit by our phone waiting for a call from another person at that office who would... make an appointment for us to call the person we needed to talk to. I honestly could not make this stuff up if I tried.

4.) And last but not least, my absolute favorite: If you witnessed a crime and want to assist the police in solving it, you can pay 20 cents a minute (that's a discount!) to call their crime solvers line. Yes, I'm sure it weeds out some of the false leads, but I have a feeling that there are a few people out there cheap enough that they don't particularly feel like paying a witness tax to help the police do their jobs. Holy counterproductivity.

Best things to do with a euro

2009-06-25T13:42:00.003+02:00

I'm making a list. I'll be checking it twice, but spending it only once. I'm collecting a list of the best kid-friendly things to do with a euro. Here it is so far:

6.) Go to a kinderboerderij.
5.) Go to a speeltuin.
4.) Shop at a vlooienmarkt.
3.) Shop at the kringloop.
2.) Get a kunststof bloemetje to wrap around the handlebars of your fiets.

And my favorite for last:

1.) Get an ice cream cone at the gelato shop on the Groest in Hilversum.

Avondvierdaagse: another lesson in Dutch culture

2009-06-12T22:22:00.008+02:00

Aislin was begging me to be able to do the Avondvierdaagse event this year with all her buddies. Since I (usually) can be cajoled into doing activities that have no equivalent back home -- for the cultural value, y'know -- I agreed to go along with it despite a few logistical issues for us.

A little background: Avondvierdaagse (A4D) is a four-evening series of walks that each Dutch city or group of smaller towns sponsors each May or June. Thousands of children and their parents walk together through the countryside each evening after school for four consecutive nights, and at the end the kids who have sucessfully completed each of the walks receives a medal. The 6- to 9-year-olds walk five kilometers (3 miles!) each night, and the 9 and ups walk 10 kilometers. Little Dylan, who is actually too young to participate this year, decided he was not going to let Aislin have all the fun; he insisted on walking the 5K. With great apprehension and visions of toting him on our backs for many miles, we consented to let him try.

Okay, so you now have the basic parameters. Here's what may not be immediately obvious. Since the school year lasts into the month of July, this is all done during a school week. The kids do a full day of school, eat some dinner, bike/walk/ride to the A4D site, mill around until the start, walk for a few hours, then bike/walk/ride home to do homework, take bath, and go to bed. Then they get up the next morning and start the whole thing anew. Since we live in a different state instead of in town like all the other walkers, we have the added benefit of a 30-minute drive home (what was I thinking?!?). It also bears mention that the weather in June in the Netherlands is not particularly reliable. More like a blustery March in North America -- 50-60 degrees, windy, and likely to be wet.

The first night I was organized to a fault. I had a substantial dinner packed so that after playing for a few extra minutes after school we could drive from Hilversum to Nieuwegein to pick up Jeff, eat dinner on the castle grounds, then drive back to Hilversum for the start of the festivities. Thusly fortified, we all took off on the 10K, Avery bouncing along the rooty forest path in the stroller sans shock absorbers. We had to pad her head with a blanket so she wouldn't have shaken baby syndrome by the end of the night. Padding or no, it became clear that it might be a better idea for Avery's head and Dylan's homeostasis to cut through and join the 5K crowd, though Aislin persevered with her group of buddies. All in all, it was a nice evening walk through the forest; just us and a couple thousand of our closest friends. We were home by 9:30, in bed by 10:00. Late, but doable.

I let them sleep in the next morning and we got to school a wee (ahem) bit late. After a freak head injury at school that day, though, the doctor decided that Aislin had better forego the walk that night. Although I was looking forward to another evening in the woods, let's just say that I wasn't crushed with disappointment when we got home and into bed at a normal time without walking a quarter-marathon. Especially when we started hearing the thunder.

On the third night Jeff was working and couldn't watch Avery, so again I let Aislin walk with her buddies in the 10K and took Dylan on the 5K with Avery in the sling and a backpack on my back. I was a little loaded down, but we were prepared, darn it: drinks, snacks, bottle for the baby, raincoats, camera... in short, about fifteen pounds of everything you might possibly require for an evening walk in the woods with two young children. Except an umbrella.

The delightful school group behind us was yelling "doorlopen!" ("walk through!" i.e. "let us through, you slowpokes") at our group from the time we departed, evidently unaware that we could walk only as fast as the group in front of us...? When we reached the first bottleneck, a gate that allowed only one person at a time through it, their shouts grew more heated as if we were personally responsible for the pace. Shortly after, one of the adults started yelling in Dutch at one of our smaller kids toward the back who happens not to understand Dutch. I turned around and smiled that they might need to be patient with the little legs. The woman's response to me is unprintable in civilized discourse. After carrying on insulting me in particular in Dutch for a while, this woman then proceeded to teach the six- to eight-year-olds around her to start chanting at us, "Move your ass! Move your ass!"

"What's 'Move your ass' mean, Mommy?" inquired Dylan.

"Oh no, dear," I responded, hustling him further forward in our group, "they're saying 'Mow your grass.'"

"Oh," he panted as he jogged along at my hastened pace. "Are you sure?"

Pleasant evening walk, indeed. Oh well, once in the middle of our pack we carried on some slightly less hostile conversation.

And then, just as we reached the kilometers-long clearing, it started sprinkling. The initially refreshing shower quickly became drenching deluge, and under thousands of feet the dirt path was suddenly mudslog. Avery, who had never before had issues with things on her head, decided she didn't want to leave her hood on, so her grumblings shortly turned to outright protesting... all of which began to make this cheery evening stroll feel a bit like a death march (except to Dylan, who rather enjoyed the rain and kept it entertaining for everyone around).

One of the teachers in our group insisted on giving me her umbrella, and another pointed out a nearby shortcut. Les enfants and I diverted course, made a bottle for the youngest, and plodded on down a new path sans madding crowd. Dylan only asked to stop once, and I was able to cajole him on after only a minute or so of leaning up against a bench. It wasn't until a couple of A4D officials on bikes showed up and asked if we wanted a ride back to the starting point that I realized how hilariously bedraggled we must look. I consulted Dylan about the ride, but he begged to "finish the race." The man looked at me incredulously, glanced at Avery with eyebrows raised, then back at me. "Wij lopen." We'll walk.

You could see the amusement in his shoulders as he rode off.

A few minutes later, they were back. They rode about a hundred meters past us and stopped, then the amused guy whipped out his cell phone and proceeded to take a couple of pictures of us. God only knows where those will turn up.

At any rate, after a two rounds of "The Ants Go Marching," we made it back to the starting point where we huddled in a little dugout thingy and fortified ourselves with cereal bars while we waited for Aislin to make it back. She and Karna finished the whole 10K, but returned with tales of their new head injuries inflicted by the rough-housing boys and then went to the bathroom and threw up. The docs the next day decided that any concussions were mild at best, but I didn't cry too hard when ours opined that we might have to forego A4D the next night. Thankfully, Aisie still got her medal at school on Friday to prove that she lived through the experience. Since Dylan is actually one year younger than those allowed to participate, he got nothing but the pride of knowing that we never had to carry him even once, and that he is now just a little more Dutch than he was before. That, thank goodness, is enough for him.

Belangrijkste Nederlandse tradities

2009-06-02T08:37:00.003+02:00

I recently read in one of our local newspapers a list of the most important Dutch traditions, according to a study undertaken by the Instituut voor Volkscultuur in 2008. Let's see how we're stacking up here.

Pakjesavond (Dec. 5, when Sinterklaas comes and gives presents to everyone)
Putting up the Christmas tree (this is apparently often done on Christmas Eve, or at least the tree is lit for the first time on Christmas Eve -- no wonder we got such weird looks last year when we had ours lit two weeks before Christmas!)
Queen's Day (celebration of Queen Beatrix's birthday on April 30 that ends up being a big patriotic holiday)
Oliebollen
Easter eggs (who knew this was a Dutch thing? But maybe we should've figured it out since the Dutch word for Easter is "Paas!")
Carnaval (i.e. Mardi Gras)
Beschuit met muisjes
Candles on cake
Sint Maarten
Eating herring

All in all, I don't think we're doing too badly here in getting the cultural experience. And just because it shows up on the list doesn't mean you're going to get me to down raw herring whole like a sword swallower.

Milestones

2009-05-09T21:13:00.002+02:00

I think that any parent of a child more than a few years old has experienced that certain objects or places that seem perfectly innocuous, even boring to adults, a child will find endlessly entertaining. The "shell park" is one of those places for us. To me it looks like a few worn, fiberglass blobs, but the kids are always begging us to take them to this holy grail of parks. It's about a ten-minute bike ride away, so we don't go too often since there are at least a dozen parks (no exaggeration) nearer us than that.

Tonight, though, we yielded... and for the first time ever, Dylan rode his little bike, training wheels and all, down our streets and the bike paths to get there! (It was also Avery's first extended bike ride in the seat, but that was far less noteworthy at the time, somehow.) Dylan is really close to riding without the training wheels, but he just needs that last little bit of confidence.

They then had loads of fun chasing each other around these asymmetrical thingies, which just goes to show once again that a parent is no judge of fun.

Nemo

2009-05-03T22:06:00.004+02:00

John and Ashlie are here visiting, so we decided on a special treat: a visit to the Nemo science museum in Amsterdam. The building itself is a pretty spectacular contrast to most of the Amsterdam skyline; it's supposed to evoke the big ships that have visited the harbor for centuries. The kids liked the interactive exhibits, but it was rather crowded since school's out at the moment so there was a little more than the usual amount of shoving required to get to utilize the more popular exhibits. They loved getting to blow bubbles bigger than their bodies, and they waited for something like 20 minutes to get to use the "elevator" that utilized kid power to turn a huge screw and raise them a whole floor. Here's Aisie trying to decide whether she'd rather use 1, 3, or 5 pulleys to lift her body weight.

I was surprised to find that I'm still far more prudish than I ever would have suspected pre-parenthood when I saw the exhibits intended for teens. We decided to steer our non-teens elsewhere after we saw the posters depicting the different sexual positions. Then there was the video exhibit where you push a button to "feed" doses of different drugs to a woman dancing like she's in a club. Each dose causes her to dance differently -- more quickly if you give her cocaine, more languorously if you give her marijuana -- and is accompanied by practical advice for taking said drugs (a la "If you take two hits of ecstasy you might find yourself very thirsty, but be sure to rest and not to drink too much.") I mean, seriously?! It was a caricature of what people expect of Amsterdam, or the outrageous asymptote that American conservatives would conjure up to try to keep sex and drug education out of the schools. Pretty hilarious.

At any rate, the rest of the museum was more than enough to do in a day. Nemo also has a huge roof where you can just go and enjoy a pretty incredible view of downtown. It would've been great to have slightly warmer weather, but the kids weren't deterred from running through the water. Heck, we were going to get wet from the rain anyway.

Oh to be young enough not to notice your impending hypothermia.

Hoofin' it

2009-05-03T13:03:00.003+02:00

We've had everything from Great Danes to Jack Russell-Dachshund hybrids to one very grumpy-looking cat walked past our house on leashes, but this was a new one this morning...

Off to the land of Vlaai and stinky cheese

2009-04-29T23:07:00.025+02:00

Since Jeff managed to get a week off at the same time the kids are out of school, it's clearly time for us to get ourselves out of town again. This time we set our sights on Limburg, southernmost province in The Netherlands, and more specifically the city famous for its Belgian influence, confluence of old and new architecture, and its treaties: Maastricht.

In our typical, painstaking fashion, we spent at least half an hour researching the city and planning the day. Okay, we spent hours perusing the Museumkaart website to see what attractions were, well, most attractive, but we didn't really start until yesterday. That didn't leave us much time to become experts on Maastrichtian history, but we did find some summaries of the highlights that we read in the car. (Should I be admitting, much less memorializing these things? Are we so spoiled with the riches of our environs?)

In my (ahem) exhaustive research, I did discover that the only cemetery for American soldiers in the Netherlands is located just outside Maastricht in Margraten. We put it on our list, but unfortunately ran out of time to see it. It's incredible to me to think that there are 8,301 American boys buried in the polderlands, and even more incredible to realize that that staggering number is such a small fraction of the total wartime casualties on this land. The omnipresence of the effects of World War II is deeply affecting and has permanently changed my understanding of both history and the European psyche. But I digress.

Jeff and I went back and forth with each other as to whether we should visit the Roman catacombs (his vote) or take a tour of an old coal mine (my vote). As usual, because I have the most patient and accommodating husband on Earth, I got my way. I actually would have enjoyed the catacombs as well, but was more than a little deterred after reading two separate reviews by tourists who described going there during the posted opening hours and having to bang on the door to summon a caretaker who then refused to let anyone enter, even the group who had reserved a time. So off to the Valkenburg coal mine we trundled.

We bought our tickets and sat down on this bench here to wait for the appointed time, in the meantime dazzling Dylan with the largest Mosasaurus jaw ever found. Unfortunately, we quickly found that the promised English-language tour was, well, nonexistent. The only time they managed some English for us hapless tourist types was to warn us that we might want to cover the baby's ears because they were turning on some really loud machinery, then it was back to Dutch-only. I actually comprehended a pretty significant portion of what was said, but not quickly enough to relay it to the rest of the family. The poor kids tried their best to stay attentive, but there's only so long you can look at rock walls and big machines without having a clue what's going on, and this tour was a good, solid hour of time we could have spent walking around downtown Maastricht on a gorgeous spring day...

It was cool and all, but I think I have learned my lesson. Next time, Jeff wins.

After emerging from the mine we did have time to go to the Museum of Natural History, which was smallish and evoked the collecting fetish of the Victorian era elites with its countless taxidermy specimens of everything from fetal bears to Chinese pheasants. It also, however, held another mosasaurus jaw and a few other dinosaur skeletons, and that was enough for the budding paleontologist among us. Aislin and I enjoyed the live animals, but I have to say that she enjoyed these bees far more than I (that's a hive behind her)...

While Jeff and the kids lingered inside, Avery and I enjoyed the garden outside which shares a canal with the university's music department. Listening to the students practicing violin, flute, voice, piano, and more brought back such happy memories of all the college practice rooms I haunted in Gambier and Chicago. Nothing like having the free time and the wherewithal to go down to the music school and play for hours on end, except having the good fortune to happen upon other people doing the hard work for you.

Then it was back through the cobblestone streets of the medieval district of the city (Dylan got a little tired, as you can see) and on to stroll the riverfront outside the old city walls. The goslings and ducklings were out, and there were plenty of meandering curves, random sculptures, and old climbing trees to fill the rest of the afternoon. We had enough time to enjoy a little picnic next to the petting zoo and listen to French-language radio for a while before hitting the road back north. It was so picturesque that I'm having a really hard time picking out just a few images to put up here.

It would have been completely uneventful, but this evening is the beginning of the April 30 Koninginnedag festivities, so the A2 got all tangled up with the people leaving work early to get started with the merrymaking. Because a.) the kids had been so good, b.) we were all getting a little hungry, and c.) we had imbibed enough culture today that we felt it might actually counteract any ill effects, we decided we would treat the kids to a stop at a McDonald's. We decided to eschew the traffic of the A2 for a little jaunt through nearby s'Graveland, where our GPS promised a McDonald's within mere kilometers of us. Looks like we should buy the updated maps because, after driving the wrong way down a verboten bus lane (culminating in a tortured five-point turn with a bus waiting) and then making several circles through one-way alleys and some guy's driveway, we were forced to conclude that the promised golden arches must have closed their doors. By this time, s'Graveland was starting to block off roads to make the entire downtown a pedestrian zone, so we thought we should probably make our escape before we ended up spending the night there. Thankfully the arches are nearly as ubiquitous here as in North America, so it was a short ten minutes to the next set. Playplaces at interstate exits: a little piece of home abroad.

Needless to say, all the running around and so-called food had the intended effect and we had a carful of sleeping children long before we reached home. Not too shabby for a half-hour of planning.

Sororophilia

2009-04-28T19:42:00.000+02:00

Big sisters put up with a lot...

...teach little sisters to make funny faces...

...and how to pose for the camera, too.

Good karma

2009-04-21T20:37:00.005+02:00

Every once in a while, particularly in the middle of spring, you can see why people would actually want to live in the land of the neighborly note. The weather has been absolutely gorgeous for the last couple of days, and that certainly contributes to a certain elevation of mood. Today Avery and I had a great meeting with some friends in Soest about a new project we're working on, and the drive from Hilversum to Soest was just gorgeous through the Utrechtse Heuvelrug forest and past the Paleis Soestdijk (which, having just looked up the absurd entrance prices, I can safely say I will never visit). Then Avery and I went to Nieuwegein and had lunch at the castle with Jeffrey, followed by a lovely walk to see all the zillions of flowers newly in bloom around the grounds. Next it was off to pick up the kids from school, where I ran into a couple of friends who were headed downtown for some ice cream, so we took a little walk to get some gelato from the newly-reopened gelato shop. There's just something about watching your sticky kids run around in a consummately European square in the shadow of a neo-Gothic cathedral that can make you appreciate the whole adventure again.

Big Rooster is Watching...

2009-04-19T15:01:00.003+02:00

During a Sunday stroll at Rijnhuizen today, I paused to sit with Avery on a bench while Dylan and Aislin "fished" in the canal with the longest sticks they could find. As usual, I was soon mobbed with the chickens and roosters that roam the grounds. One especially cheeky fellow was standing right next to the bench's armrest and eying me, I swear. I held his eye for a while before shaking myself out of it and reminding myself that it was just a rooster. Jeez, Amy, getting nervous about a stupid bird. Then the instant I turned my head away to grab something from the pram -- BOOM -- that sucker jumped right up onto the arm of the bench with a look of ominous challenge, inches from my arm and the baby's head with his three-inch spurs, clucking with those long guttural caws. I leapt farther into the gravel than I thought I was capable of, particularly while holding a five-month-old fast and, before he could hop into the pram as he seemed to be contemplating, we were outta there.

These roosters are advancing to the next level of consciousness, I swear. They're starting to turn on us. Giving me the heebie-jeebies.

The Neighborly Note

2009-04-11T22:50:00.004+02:00

I am coming to learn that the Neighborly Note is a Dutch tradition with a rich history. What is it? Although it sounds as if it does frequently serve as a new resident's first contact with the neighbors, it is not a friendly gesture of invitation for koffie en koekje. While considered by its author to be richly informative, it is not an introduction to the homeowners' association rules.

No, the Neighborly Note is a short missive of vitriol and censure penned by cowardly neighbors who claim to have witnessed some violation of rule or propriety. Most often it is deployed on a garbage can or a windshield, perhaps on an offending bike, but always it purports to issue from someone with moral authority -- indeed, superiority -- and often it strikes an uneasy balance between informativity and threat. More than one friend has gone to retrieve the garbage can only to find the note informing them that their can has been left out for an hour too long (don't even consider preparing dinner for hungry kids before pulling in the can) or a paving stone too far to the right.

Well, a banner day in our household: we've received our first Neighborly Note! Our rental company changed the frequency that our key fob uses to open our parking lot without fixing our fob, so we're consigned to parking on the street until they get around to fixing it. When I returned home from the grocery store this afternoon I parallel parked. I got out and popped the back, checking to make sure I'd have room behind the car to get our formidably large pram in and out, then walked home.

When Jeff went back to the car later, he found a note under the windshield wiper. Unable to read the Dutch, he brought it in to me to make sure it wasn't anything important. He says now that, had he known what it said, he never would have informed me it existed. I have been known on occasion to take these things a little too closely to heart...

So the writer claimed that her husband had seen me hit her car whilst parallel parking and censured me for adding insult to injury by daring to walk away like a coward. She proceeded to threaten that she would be watching me and would follow me home if need be in the future. The note, of course, was unsigned.

Where does one even begin with this? My van has a tow bar on it whose knob would cause real damage to a car if I so much as touched it -- so it's quite clear I didn't touch their damn car. Next there's the fact that, at best, the alleged witness had to have been behind curtains fifteen feet away in the nearest abode, and I defy anyone to demonstrate that they could see bumper touch bumper from that vantage... much less from further away. Then I love the fact that the person who accuses me of being a coward doesn't bother to sign the note or give any identifying information. If this grave offense was, in fact, witnessed, why on earth didn't this person just come out and talk to me then? The mind boggles. What idiots.

Yes, idiots. Sorry, but when this crap comes along, the gloves come off.

A Treatise Upon Driving in the Polderlands

2009-04-08T16:55:00.009+02:00

A few observations about driving in this country now that I've spent an inordinate number of hours doing so. Just to set the mood, here's my darling girl taking care of my APK ticket (that was completely unjustly issued since the stupid dealership where we got the car screwed up our first appointment and scheduled the second one too late (it's already been appealed, lost, and finally paid, if you're really curious)).

First, it's remarkable that there are any unscathed hubcaps left in this country. People will constantly park down one (or both) side(s) of roads that are barely two lanes to begin with, so driving down said roads when someone else wants to come the other way invariably ends with one or the other of you pulling over a full, square, four-inch curb and fully onto the sidewalk (whose shell-shocked pedestrians barely even take note of the multi-ton vehicles veering toward them anymore) while the oncoming vehicle -- and usually several others speeding behind it -- passes in perilous proximity.

Note that yielding the right of way is considered a sign of weakness. This dynamic results in numerous pointless face-offs between dueling drivers which block the entire thoroughfare. Whenever possible, others of us -- those we will deem the weaker, if perhaps more rational drivers -- will simply drive around them on aforementioned sidewalk and leave them to stew at each other's bumpers.

Similarly, any traffic snarl involving cars quickly becomes a veritable Shriner's Circus of smaller vehicles -- mopeds, motorcycles, and bikes -- weaving in and out among the stopped traffic. I now consider it to be my in-traffic entertainment.

While I'm on the subject of motorcycles, I must mention that Dutch law not only fails to forbid, but actually encourages motorcyclists to engage in behavior that appears designed to kill them off. Perhaps we can call it "traffical selection." If traffic slows to anything slower than about 30 mph -- which it frequently does even on interstate/autobahn-sized roads -- you'll immediately see motorcycles pulling out of their lanes and essentially creating a third lane along the lane lines between the two slower lines of cars. They're typically slaloming to avoid side mirrors and the occasional driver who dares to change lanes. After enough time driving here I've come to expect it to happen and automatically watch out for them, but jeez-o-man, it still strikes me as unnecessarily dangerous. Why not let them take the shoulder or something? It's especially fun when teenagers on scooters decide to pull this stunt in city traffic. A corollary to this rule is that when you get to a red light in city traffic, all two-wheeled vehicles will speed between the lanes of traffic and take the first spot in line. Again, perhaps this is a conspiracy to thin the herd a bit, specifically selecting for the people who are interested enough in getting places first that they'll take fantastically stupid risks to get there.

Another favorite of mine in this nation in which traffic so predictably stops unpredictably (can you follow that?) that it's a continual political issue and a nexus of odd experimentation. Drivers are frequently stranded in intersections even when they are the first one through the light because traffic suddenly grinds to a halt. Now, it is beyond me why such a nation would insist on placing traffic signals so far before the intersection that that drivers stranded just over the line but not yet in the intersection have no way of knowing when the lights have changed. This has created an elaborate system of hand signals that friendly drivers will use to indicate to the haplessly stranded soul when they might consider proceeding. The unfriendly ones, of course, just lay on the horn.

Horns are also utilized whenever a light has been green for more than 1.5 seconds and traffic has not yet surged forward. Look down to change the radio station at a red light at your auditory peril. And do always remember that traffic lights are simply there to show you where the finish line of this leg of the race is, so be prepared if you're in pole position.

The rule I miss the most: Right Turn On Red. I will say, though, that it does seem a fair trade to exchange it for putting more potential drivers on bicycles since right-on-red is forbidden so that bikes can have their own traffic priorities.

The rule that has given me the most fits: Traffic Coming From the Right Takes the Right-of-Way. I do like that there aren't as many stop signs, but this rule usually means that you have several people all speeding madly toward an intersection so that they can all try to make sure they beat the car that might take the right-of-way from them. It sometimes precipitates another Dutch standoff (see paragraph 2, above), this time four ways instead of two.

A close second is the idiotic practice of painting these double lines forbidding merging on interstates until the last five hundred meters or so before a split. You can literally feel the drivers on both sides of the lines amping up into a frenzy for the kilometer before the lines change to dotted, at which point every vehicle seems to feel it necessary to merge immediately and is willing to slam on brakes to make it happen immediately. It doesn't take a genius to realize that chaos ensues. I have seen more pointless traffic jams at these sorts of merges than anywhere else.

Okay, on to things I like. I like that the interstates have automated speed limit signs that slow traffic down before they get to a jam. I like that they don't pollute their landscape at every exit with a slew of gas stations and truck stops. I like that far more people obey speed limits than in any other country I've driven in. I like that people actually use their turn signals. I like that the cars are generally smaller. And I'm beginning to be a convert on roundabouts used appropriately, although they do pop up in some really stupid places and cause some unnecessary traffic jams. (I love that it's acknowledged by their designers that they are more dangerous than a conventional intersection.)

Finally and most outstanding is that their roadside assistance is actually that; rather than merely sending a tow truck to drag you to the nearest hack, they have these fantastic vans that are basically roving mechanics who can fix all basic problems and most major ones there at the side of the road. I'd love to see AAA plug a leaking radiator, refill your coolant, change your oil, and get you back on the road in less time than Jiffy Lube could do the latter. Go, ANWB!

Lentetijd

2009-04-06T20:44:00.005+02:00

Spring, glorious Spring. There are, of course, the tulips and lammetjes (Mary had a little...). But the best part is that all the children have come out of hibernation and filled the courtyard with their little fietsen and ballen and all the sounds of a schoolyard, and this year there are even a few of the kids calling to our kids to come play. Once you make it through those endless winter nights, the long spring days almost make up for it.

Daddy's fixed Dylan's bike, so Dylan's out there making up for lost time in his own inimitable fashion -- the knee pads were his own idea:

Avery was inside playing for a while, but when we all gravitated outside she got lonely. I fetched the new sunhat and she basked in the late afternoon sun in her pram. Since she doesn't enjoy laying down in it (or anything else!) anymore, we rigged up something a little different:

I couldn't even get a picture of Aislin, who was running around with her little buddies. She's met a couple of girls around her age who just moved in down the street a month or two ago. They were born here, but their mom is American so they speak English quite well. It does make me wish there were some easy way of getting Dutch lessons for the kids because it's so clear that they could make neighborhood friends easily if the language weren't in the way all the time. They do pretty well anyway, but you can get only so far on two-word exchanges. At any rate, it's really nice to have kids yelling their names over the hills and ringing our bell, and I'm slowly conquering my American-parent fear of letting the oldest out of my sight so she can go ride her bike around the block.

A Therapeutic Rant of No Interest to Anyone But Me (and maybe an expat or two)

2009-04-06T15:12:00.008+02:00

I'm over the health "care" in this country. If a doctor is on a break, even the most pressing emergency is going to have to wait. In labor and want pain relief? Better hope it's between the hours of 8 and 5 and not during the anesthesiologist's lunch or smoke breaks. In the last month or so, I've heard literally three stories of desperately ill children turned away from emergency rooms without even being seen by a doctor because 1.) doctor was on break and/or 2.) parents were accused of being panicky. In all cases, the child was back at the ER hours later and admitted to the hospital with some dire illness. The lesson? Be obnoxiously demanding and plant yourself immovably in the doorway of the ER until some doctor gives up and deigns to see you.

Have asthma and need your medication? Better hope your doctor hears wheezing on both your inhalations AND exhalations or else you'll have to take a fruitless week-long course of antibiotics and get a pointless chest x-ray before she'll prescribe any of your desperately-needed asthma medication because, well, your ten years of history with asthma sure couldn't mean that you know what you need when you can't breathe. No, they have no interest in seeing your medical records, nor in investigating treatment options, nor in giving you a simple and inexpensive breathing capacity test that's available in the office. Oh, and despite your repeated requests for explanations in English (because they told you when you registered at this office that this doctor is FLUENT in English and will have no problem communicating in your language) she'll only speak to you in Dutch because, well, you SHOULD understand it by now. No, there is no translator available.

Child have contagious pinkeye and complaining of an earache? They might be able to squeeze you in four days from now... until you call back and get the other receptionist who might be able to squeeze you in tomorrow... until you get the third receptionist who cheerfully informs you that there are spots open all afternoon today. When you are granted said rare audience with the doctor, she informs you that you are "negligent" for keeping him home from school today and that the idea that one would treat a bacterial infection of the eye is "ridiculous." (Try arguing that one with a nation of doctors who believe that vaccinating children for chickenpox is a waste of time.) When she cannot see his eardrum because it's obscured by wax, she makes no effort to clean it to try again but says to come back in a few days if the fever gets higher. Then she cannot pass up the opportunity to make a snide remark about how the five-year-old American child can't speak fluent Dutch because, after accurately following her instructions about coming over and letting her look in his ears he doesn't understand her colloquial command to open his mouth.

Suddenly the ostensibly screwed up, litigation-shaped American system of health care is not looking half bad. I have to say that I have altogether new appreciation for the positive aspects that the threat of a lawsuit might have on the quality of care available to patients...

On the hunt

2009-04-05T21:41:00.005+02:00

The IWCU held its yearly egg hunt for the kids in the appropriately-monikered town of Bunnik today. It was fantastic to get a little taste of holiday tradition with a Dutch flavor; we had to drive literally through an arched tunnel incorporated into an old Dutch building (maybe an old stable?) to get back to the parking lot by the meadows and the pannenkoekenhuis. Next came a communal ten-minute stroll through the forest and polders to get to the field where the eggs had been hidden.

As an aside to be filed in "Things Different from America": Just fathom an event being held for children where the closest parking was a ten-minute walk from the event. I love the assumption by both organizers and participants that the walk is no big deal even for little legs. I hope we don't lose that willingness when we move back across the pond to the land of endless free parking.

We couldn't believe that Aislin was considered to be too old for it, but she took her big kid status in stride and gamely coached from the sidelines until a reasonable interval had passed, whereupon she helped her little brother search through the pasture for his share of the zillion chocolate eggs hidden there. It was a little chilly and foggy, but methinks that's ideal weather for chocolate egg collection. The kids sure didn't mind.

Nog een fijn weekend

2009-03-29T21:59:00.009+02:00

We've decided that Sunday museumgoing has to be one of the finest pursuits for our little family of five. Free parking, cheap travel, new sights, a modicum of education... it's all there. So this weekend we packed up our picnic bag and headed for the mother of all seaports, Rotterdam. We'd picked out a couple of museums that looked good for the kids, but since the time change sort of crept up on us (ahem) we ended up having time for only one, the Maritime Museum.

It was actually a beautiful day for this time of year, meaning that not only did it stop raining for parts of the day, but the sun actually showed itself for a few minutes as well. Approaching Rotterdam was pretty interesting in itself since the city looks so different from anywhere else we've been in the Netherlands. The fact that it's all new since the war is evident in the architecture long before you're downtown: you can see nothing but skyscrapers and modern-looking bridges towering over the suburban trees. Then as you approach the city center, something else becomes evident. Maybe it's the fact of its relative newness, or maybe they really have more street sweepers per capita, but this has to be the cleanest city in the Netherlands.

We parked along the waterfront (which seemed to comprise most of Rotterdam given all the intersecting canals and inlets) and walked a couple of blocks to the museum. We passed this nifty lichtschip, evidently properly called a "lightvessel," along the way. The museum is, appropriately, situated at the end of a smallish canal and has its own 1864 warship moored just outside for its visitors to wander. The kids, however, most enjoyed Professor Plons' play area where they recreated every step of the harbor shipping process. It was way cool. They used cranes to load and unload large "cargo boxes" onto their little carts, then pedaled them through customs (that's douane in Dutch) where they could use a bar scanner to see what "cargo" they were carrying. Aislin got peanut butter, Dylan got pharmaceuticals. Eek. They spent well over an hour investigating every corner of that play area.

Then they headed inside and spent another hour or more checking out every detail of the indoor exhibit/play area, but taking a special joy in commandeering the ball pit where they could feed balls into a vacuum system that sucked them up to the ceiling through clear tubes and then back into a box with a rope attached. When they pulled on the rope, all the collected balls would tumble over the assembled kids. Talk about a recipe for entertainment. Our kids working in concert are a force to be reckoned with on a playground. They had the whole process down to a science by the second repeat. It was no easy feat dragging them away at closing time so that we could eat our picnic on the waterfront by the floating hotel. We finished off with a drive across the iconic Erasmus Bridge which was fantastic, although I think that Prince Claus Bridge in Utrecht might actually be aesthetically superior. Aesthetics aside, we thought we fared brilliantly for a spontaneous Sunday outing.

Oliebollen!

2009-03-26T22:56:00.001+01:00

Aislin helped me tonight to make consummate Dutch treat, oliebollen. Translation: oily balls (eew). We have to say, though, that you just can't go wrong with some sugar-covered fried dough. Mmm, good.

Boy, oh boy, all boy.

2009-03-16T20:56:00.001+01:00

We were having one of those great dinners tonight during which the kids are actually not only getting along, but actively engaging each other and me in conversation (Jeff was working). After Aisie regaled us with tales of her gym class exploits, Dylan was telling us about how he'd built a worm kasteel (a worm castle) in the sand and had repopulated all the residents of the sandbox to these new, er, digs. He stopped midsentence and looked thoughtful, then alarmed.

"Mommy, I have something in my pocket that you're going to guess but only if you promise that you won't be mad at me."

I gave him my skeptically amused askance look and asked why I might be mad. He contemplated this and revised himself.

"I'm not going to tell you what it is, okay? So you just close your eyes now and I'll show Aislin."

"Dylan, is it something alive?"

Long pause. "Probably."

"Probably?"

At this point Dylan gravely pulled open his pocket so he could peer inside to check on whatever might lurk therein, then raised his eyes to me with concern.

"Okay, Mommy," he began, as if I'd tortured it out of him, "it's a worm." He reached in and pulled out a handful of something. When he opened his hand to me, sand cascaded through his fingers until only a sand-clotted worm remained -- a long one, dangling right over Dylan's plate. Dylan gave me his best, innocent, "aren't-I-so-adorable-that-you'll-forget-what-I-did" smile. Little did he know that Mommy has a soft spot for worms.

Since it still showed some vital signs, I told Dylan to repatriate this one before its family missed it. I suggested that the bush just outside the door might be a superior habitat to the sandbox. As he solemnly released his charge back to the wild, Aisie asked why I was laughing. I told her that Dylan reminded me of the time when preschool-aged Aunt Meg came into the babysitter's house with something even better in her pocket... a dead mouse. We agreed that, sand on the plate aside, the worm was a better dinner guest than the mouse.

That's, er, entertainment?

2009-02-26T11:27:00.004+01:00

Now that we have these museum cards, we're gonna get our money's worth, darn it all, so I'm going through their website and trying to see what entertainment might lay in the immediate vicinity. I can read Dutch well enough now to get at least the gist of an article, but there are always a few words I don't know without looking up so I do still plug things into Babel from time to time to see what I might be missing. There is this neat-looking castle in a neighboring town that I was thinking of taking the kids to see this weekend and, lo, there was something in the blurb about a special children's activity, but I couldn't quite figure out what it might mean. Here's what Babel says we can expect:

Also children can itself by them to knight or let maid beat.

Hmm... to be knighted or beaten by a maid? Sounds like an authentic medieval experience for sure.

Now, what exactly are we doing with spoor?

2009-02-22T23:34:00.003+01:00

The best part about attending European schools is the vacation schedule. Since coming back in January we've already had eleven days off school, and I have to say that it tends to break up the bleak midwinter a bit more effectively than the American approach of expecting an unrelenting puritan work ethic out of the kids from New Year's to Easter. I could get used to having a Crocus Break followed by Easter break, then Spring Holiday, not to mention the Ascension Break, Pentecost, and assorted study days...

Anyway, faced with ten days off school and finally in possession of a discretionary pittance after a year and a half of scrimping, we decided to take the plunge and purchase the museum cards we've been contemplating for a year. They let us into something like 440 museums around the country for a year, which should actually motivate us to do a little more weekend exploration of our immediate environs than we've managed as yet. We started with the Spoorwegmuseum -- the railway museum -- in our own downtown, something we expected to be about two rooms filled with some dusty Dutch train memorabilia. Wrongo. They took an old train station and converted it into a museum for antique trains. Then they added a kids' area with assorted potentially lethal amusements and, voila, the perfect place to spend a couple of vacation days. Aisie and Dylan especially liked the boats over to the lighthouse. This picture shows them immediately before Dylan toppled backward and nearly sent his sister plunging into the lovely azure (not) waters. Her threats of retribution were audible nearly as far away as the old steam whistles...

The best part was that after three hours of running around like maniacs among the machinery, I got the ultimate kindergartener seal of approval:

A fowl day on which to valentine

2009-02-14T22:47:00.003+01:00

Having all but forgotten that today was a holiday, Jeff offered to work down at the castle today with some visitors who were less than successful yesterday. As he contemplated leaving this morning, I decided that it might be beneficial for the rest of us to tag along so as to induce a bit of guilt in the scientists dragging my husband away from his family during an unseasonably lovely weekend day. Nothing promotes guilt quite like kids asking when daddy will be able to come home. Especially when you play "Cat's in the Cradle" in the background at the same time on your iPod speakers.

I managed to remember to bring along some bread to feed the assorted poultry populating the castle grounds since this tends to keep the kids busy for many, many minutes and keeping the kids busy for many, many minutes is a priority (although I've finally backed off of my practice of deciding which children's DVD to purchase based on the playing time per dollar since even I have my standards). As always, they enjoyed amassing a flock of jogging roosters by the big canal. The weather today was great, nearly 40 degrees and sunny, but the canals were still iced over ever so slightly.

The chicken commotion eventually attracted the ducks in the area, which flew in for a landing on the canal and appeared to be a bit taken aback by the unexpected ice. They took the landing in the same way they would on water, but sort of slid awkwardly sideways along the ice rather than easing smoothly into the water. Ducks always seem to need to maintain the appearance of composure, so they sort of shook it off in the tail and came waddling up to the kids with a cocky little, "what, you lookin' at ME?" kind of strut. After tossing the bits of bread among the crocuses for a few moments and watching the birds attack it, one of the kids accidentally threw one bit onto the ice. I think we all expected them to consider it a wash like they do when a piece of bread goes out of sight.

Au contraire.

Every duck -- and one especially stupid rooster -- went sprinting onto the ice after the wayward crumb, which was still sliding. As each duck hit the ice, its feet would skitter off in an unexpected direction although each little head would stay cocked toward the moving prize. Two dozen webbed feet scrabbled for purchase, found it, and then were propelled in another unexpected direction... often straight into another duck, which would try to bite at the colliding offender as they slid in opposite directions. It was like dogs after a ball on a hardwood floor. It was like my ice skating performances in elementary school. It was horizontal duck Plinko.

The kids and I howled to the point of collapse and then squatted on the moss until we could see and breathe again. I'm telling you, you've never seen anything this funny. Ever.

The winner of this particular contest was the duck who figured out that he just had to flap his wings and fly over to the bread. Let's hear it for natural selection. As for the rooster, his first step onto the canal took him immediately through the thin ice up to his beak; he barely managed to scrabble his way back out. I hear he's up for a Darwin Award honorable mention. Suffice it to say that the rest of our bread went to the ice dancing ducks. The chickens are just going to have to take it up a notch.

Of enviable lineage

2009-02-08T21:50:00.003+01:00

At the lunch table yesterday I was boring the kids with some tale or another about how something they were doing or had done was something I'd enjoyed doing as a child myself. This prompted Aislin to observe:

"Isn't it interesting how you're basically becoming Grammy, and I'm becoming you, and Grammy's becoming her mom, and so on?"

Then Dylan, not wanting to be left out, piped up:

"Yes, and I'm becoming Daddy, and Daddy's becoming Santa Claus..."

9-1-1? Sorry, but our offices are currently closed...

2009-02-05T18:51:00.006+01:00

Aislin spent about an hour this afternoon captive inside our downstairs bathroom. Something was wrong with the latch on the door and no matter how hard she or I pushed down on the handle, it wasn't enough to open the door. I slipped her a credit card, but try verbally explaining to a nine-year-old how to jimmy a lock ("no, it's really okay to destroy my Borders bookstore card, jam it in there harder, really, I won't be mad..."). I tried disassembling the door handle, but I ended up with several loose screws and an otherwise intact handle assembly. The hinges are engineered in some new space-age fashion that renders them utterly impenetrable to me, at least. So what do I do? I'm renting, so I call the maintenance guy, right?

We-ell, in this country you need to schedule your maintenance issues. Make sure your pipes burst or children get locked in rooms between the hours of 10 and 11 on Monday, Wednesday or Friday because that's the only time the maintenance guy will be accepting appointments. In the interim, find some flat food to shove under the door to your trapped child, or see if you can find protective clothing that'll fit under the door so you can take the blowtorch to it.

Realizing I might not even have a person in the office a few minutes from now, I called at 4:40. The lady on the last five minutes of her shift made sure I understood that I'm SOOOOOOOO lucky that she was willing to call him and see if he was willing to come over. She started out:

"Well, have you tried pushing really hard on the handle?"

[What, does she think I'm a complete moron??] "Yes, ma'am, I have."

"I mean really put your weight on it."

"Yes, ma'am, I have my weight on one side and my daughter's on the other. I have to say that you have installed some very heavy duty handles on these doors, but it's not opening."

"Are you sure it's not locked?"

[Deep breath, Amy.] "Yes, ma'am, I'm quite sure."

"Well can't you take a very large screwdriver and try to push the door?"

[I have no idea where she's going with this, so I lie:] "Oh yes, I've tried that too."

"Well, what shall we do?"

"Ehm, I think I need a maintenance person to come fix the door (!?!!)."

"But Caspar is now working in another building and will be off duty in a few minutes."

So I repeat to her s-l-o-w-l-y:

"My. Daughter. Is. LOCKED. In. A. Room."

Her response:

"Don't you have a husband or something who can help out?"

AAAAAUGGGHH!! Where does one even start here? Clearly not with egalitarianism...

[Deep breath.] "No, my husband is working until midnight."

"Oh, okay then. I'll try to get Caspar, but I can't promise anything. He'll come over if I reach him."

"What if you don't reach him?"

"I don't know. I'm sure I'll reach him, but I am leaving here in about five minutes, so you won't be able to reach anyone."

AAAAAGGGGHH!!

"Right, so when do I need to call the police to come let her out?"

"Pardon?"

"When do I know if he will or will not show up?"

"Oh, in an hour or two."

Thankfully, quittin' time being what it is, Caspar miraculously finished the other job and appeared at our door by 4:58. He disassembled the mysterious hinges, removed the door, and was speeding off by 5:01, our "dank u wel"s trailing in his wake.

Sanguine Aislin, in the meantime, enjoyed having a few minutes unburdened by her brother's attentions to pore over her American Girls catalog. I've informed her that she'd better not get any ideas about making this a habit...

Check your head

2009-02-03T20:02:00.000+01:00

Avery's getting the hang of this head thing...

Pinch me: It's really happened!

2009-01-20T20:35:00.002+01:00

Inauguration Day in our patriotic duds. Here's to change; to being able to wave our flag with pride; to citizenship in a country in which the transfer of power in a hotly-contested election takes place not only inevitably, but peacefully. Yea, Constitution! Yea, Obama! Yea, U.S.A.!

Where Dylan's at

2009-01-17T16:42:00.007+01:00

You'll all be happy to hear that Dylan has two new obsessions: pirates and geography. He has -- entirely of his own initiative -- memorized the names and locations of all the states and has moved on to learning factoids. Dylan would like everyone to be aware that Alaska is far larger than it appears on all the maps of the U.S. and proffers the following picture that he found most helpful in proving once and for all that it's bigger than Texas:

The pirate obsession comes on the heels of Toby's especially enjoyable pirate party earlier this week. Here's hoping that these two new obsessions do not combine in nefarious ways with Dylan's current lack of income...

Also, an exchange this morning after watching him attempt flying side-kicks for the hundredth time.

Me: So, would you like to take some karate lessons?

D: (in that withering, tolerant voice reserved for parental stupidity) No way. I've already watched Kung Fu Panda. I'm way better than Po.

Nicknames

2009-01-16T14:11:00.001+01:00

I've come up with possibly the most convoluted nickname ever for my child, but being as it's my child in question, said nickname has a perfectly rational basis. Here goes:

"Avery," by natural progression of human laziness, becomes monosyllabic "Aves."
I mentally spell "Aves" and recognize it as the Latin name for birds (class Aves).
Being as this little bird was born in the Netherlands, and being as I actually know the word for "little bird" in Dutch, "Aves" becomes "vogeltje."

So Vogeltje it is, you see.

Dylan thinks that "Monkeybear" is more appropriate since she's a monkey that we dress up as a bear.

We'll see which one wins out.

She's little, but she rocks...

2009-01-13T10:19:00.002+01:00

Thanks for a rockin' outfit, Julia R.

Weather. Yes, again.

2009-01-08T11:32:00.001+01:00

I've never seen fog like we get here. I'm sure it exists in plenty of other places on the planet, but in everywhere else I've lived, if you get up in the morning and it's foggy you can pretty much bet the farm that it'll burn off sometime before you eat lunch.

Here, we get fogs that last for 48 hours and more. Case in point: we've had fog for the last two days now, and it's been so cold that the fog has frozen onto everything so that it looks like an ice storm came through. Jeff said that when he rode through the stuff to work yesterday morning, he looked down at one point and realized that he himself was covered in a layer of ice.

This morning on the way to school the sky was so pastel-y and everything else so white that it looked like the fakest high school play backdrop you can imagine -- like you let the freshman take watercolors to the huge rolls of paper and the sophomores take the canned snow to a bunch of sticks and then propped the latter up in front of the former. But it was all real and, truth be told, quite beautiful in a kitschy kind of way. Made me resolve not to get caught without my camera again because the sight was so unbelievable (but don't hold me to that resolution).

I'm amused that the lights on the interstate go out at 8:30 come hell or high water or a fog so thick that it's nearly impenetrable to headlights. One moment you're driving along navigating by a mental sextant delineated by a long line of orange streetlights, the next you're going 60 mph at an invisible strip of road that you'd darn well better have memorized because they're not going to spend valuable tax dollars on lighting a road when the sun could theoretically be up and lighting the way. O, the humanity.

Sunshine

2009-01-07T23:07:00.003+01:00

Verily, ne'er hath a child loved a playmat as this one adoreth hers...

Silver linings

2009-01-06T20:52:00.002+01:00

While driving up to Hilversum today during a clear 8:30 sunrise, I finally figured out how to cast a positive spin onto the fact that I'm living somewhere that has approximately six hours of daylight at this time of year. Since the sun is basically skimming the horizon it means that we've got about two hours of sunrise and two hours of sunset, protracting the so-called "magic hour" of perfect light into half the daylight hours.

Now I just have to get out my camera so that it actually matters.

Resolution complete

2009-01-04T11:54:00.001+01:00

I'm setting the bar low this year. I have resolved to figure out what the heck the difference is between raisins and sultanas, both of which are marketed separately in this country. They look identical, but sultanas are about a third of the price. Lo and behold, I've already completed a resolution. Granted, it feels like cheating since I found an answer so readily on Wikipedia. I know the suspense is killing you, so the short answer is that they're different kinds of grapes. Amusingly, the reason they don't market sultanas as such in the States is because all our raisins come from that varietal of grape... proving that we have cheap, plebeian tastes.

More scintillating information on this important issue here.

Quite Possibly the Worst New Year's Ever

2009-01-02T20:12:00.001+01:00

We already knew we were going to be on a plane over the Atlantic for New Year's, but at least our sense of adventure and love of the eclectic were titillated by such possibility. As it turned out, the need to de-ice was followed by a mechanical failure of some sort that led to us sitting on the tarmac at LaGuardia for six hours. SIX HOURS. With three kids and no food (except for lucky, breastfeeding Avery). I never, ever board a plane without at least a couple of cereal bars and something for the kids to drink. Except last night.

We were soldiers. Our ranks complained not. Thank god for the onboard personal entertainment systems that now carry Spongebob cartoons.

As it turned out, the enforced fast was fortuitous since poor Aislin started decorating the terminal with puke as they switched us from one plane to another. Taking care of her meant that I was blessedly at the outermost outskirts of the ensuing madness. Delta issued us some meal vouchers at 10:30 p.m. with the caveat that we still had to board the plane by 11:00. Hilariously, absolutely every restaurant in the terminal was closed but for one tiny Dunkin Donuts kiosk whose single employee was doubtless absentmindedly rearranging the half-dozen remaining donuts and looking forward to whatever he was going to do in half an hour when his shift was over. Then, out of nowhere, a stampede of approximately 150 angry travelers descended upon the poor fellow shaking vouchers in his face and demanding coffee, croissant sandwiches, and the last shabby pastries with the fervor of those who have been denied the ability to vent their frustrations to the people responsible for their situation... I have never seen anyone of Indian descent look so ashen. I didn't stick around to see if he would wise up and just start throwing food out into the crowd like a zookeeper with the lions to keep some distance between himself and that barking Dutchman...

By the time we took off it was nearly midnight Eastern time, but nobody gave a whit. The flight attendants' festive signage and silly hats were conspicuously absent by the time we replaned, and there was no announcement over the PA. Wise employees, those.

We landed in Amsterdam around 1 p.m. Ugh. The jet lag has lingered this time far worse than any other. The first person who tells me that I'll laugh about this story someday can... can... I'll come up with something really terrible when my brain starts functioning again.

66.6% of our parenthood + 25% of my aunthood = over the cute quotient

2008-12-22T16:07:00.003+01:00

Although the circumstances of our presence in the States aren't the happiest, it's great to get to see everyone and introduce Avery to people who we thought wouldn't see her for months or years. While most of the kinfolk are happy to see the baby, I have to say that Avery's cousin, Miranda, has taken the excitement to entirely new levels. At lunch yesterday I was inundated with questions interspersed with exclamations over the baby's cuteness and wistful comments about how great it'd be to have a baby in her house. She was clearly arming herself with information for the full court press on her own parents...

2008-12-10T21:14:00.002+01:00

I am well aware that baby slings aren't necessarily the norm, but I think they're even rarer here than in the States. In my neighborhood and that of the kids' school, to carry my baby around in some piece of fabric instead of a €500 strol-- pardon me, pram, well, clearly I'm some sort of hippie. But doesn't she look cozy in there (in her little Dutch flag hat that Jenny crocheted for her)?

Aunt Meg got Avery a little snowsuit with teddy bear ears that's not only adorable, but very warm. The other day she was wearing it whilst facing inward in the sling, only her head sticking out although her face was buried in my chest. As I walked the couple of blocks to pick up Dylan from school, I first got the full head swivel from two old people walking past me. I then passed three Dutch kids of about junior high age getting into a car who unabashedly stared as I walked by. I heard one of the girls say to their mom (in Dutch), "Mom, was that lady carrying a stuffed bear?" After I stopped being all proud of myself for understanding enough Dutch to get what she was talking about, I now regularly crack up thinking about all these people who think I'm some crazy lady who can't stand to leave home without my dear stuffed animals strapped to my chest.

Big siblinghood

2008-12-07T21:27:00.004+01:00

Both Aisie and Dylan are getting into this whole big sibling thing, and now that Avery's getting a little head control it's a little easier for them to get to pitch in. Dylan loves to hold her as long as I'll let him:

...and Aislin is educating her in song and dance. She's an excellent babysitter while we're making dinner.

It's Sinterklaas time again...

2008-12-05T21:59:00.005+01:00

The whole Sinterklaas phenomenon has been a different beast this year now that the kids are surrounded by peers who know how this whole thing works. Dylan's singing Sinterklaas liedjes in Dutch (although he's not singing these by Fifty Sint and Snoep Pietje Piet), Aislin's making a surprise (pronounced "surpreeze") for a buddy at school which involves some really complicated wrapping of a very small gift in something like a pinata, and there are generally some expectations of the old Sint this year.

Just as a refresher for anyone who might not have experienced this Dutch holiday tradition, Sinterklaas rides his steamboat from Spain up into Amsterdam each November and then wanders the countryside making sure the kids are behaving and putting candy in the shoes of good little girls and boys. With him are his horse Americo and dozens of Zwarte Pieten ("Black Petes"), Dutchmen in blackface makeup who perform acrobatic feats -- including slipping through mail slots to deliver candy to shoes -- and hurl tiny gingerbread cookies at the crowds awaiting Sint. (Avery is officially a Dutch baby now, having been clocked in the head by one of these pepernoten when energetic Piets flung them into the crowd at Dylan's school celebration... although I suspect a Dutch mom would've had better pepernoten reflexes than mine.) They're generally mischievous -- one of the Piets who showed up at Dylan's school actually broke a window in their classroom, although we're told this really was an accident -- and are warned when they misbehave that they will be reported to Sinterklaas. We are repeatedly assured that there are absolutely positively no racist or slavery overtones to this beloved tradition; I rather like this recent article from Expatica:

When it comes to discussing the Dutch phenomenon of Sint Nicolaas and his feast day, Sinterklaas, on 5 December, many expats go straight for the jugular: his black "helpers", (Zwarte Pieten, singular Zwarte Piet) are really a caricature of black slaves.
A libel, say Dutch traditionalists. To them, Zwarte Piet is Sint's valued companion; his black hue may owe more to his clambering up and down chimneys than his ethnic origin. (Although it is unclear how soot can bring about frizzy Afro hair and big red lips.)

Indeed. Lots of little Dutch children dress up (eek) in their Zwarte Piet costumes for school in the days preceding the December 5 holiday. Well, if the kids are doing it...

And speaking of, they made little Zwarte Piet hats as crafts in Dylan's class this year. They got to bring them home after Sint brought their gifts on December 5. Here's Dylan surrounded by his booty and proudly wearing his hat backwards.

Ach, any holiday that involves consumption of as much sugar as this one can't be all bad. Aisie and Dylan liked getting the huge chocolate initials that are de rigeur for Pakjesavond, the evening of December 5 when Sinterklaas brings gifts for everyone. Note the traditional bottle of wine for each child as well. Yes, that's a joke.

She's figured out how to keep us feeding her.

2008-12-01T21:38:00.000+01:00

Grandpa (aka Bongo) got these great pictures of four-week-old Avery smiling today.

He may have had to take about 30 to get these perfect 2, but who's counting?

Thanksgiving... sort of

2008-11-27T20:31:00.002+01:00

I've got to say that Thanksgiving just isn't the same when the kids have to go to school. We let Aislin play hooky and would have let Dylan do the same, but when it became clear to him that going to Leiden meant missing both show and tell AND the coveted position of line leader (which equates roughly to being the class despot for a day), there was no question that school would win out. I'll tell you, true love is adding two hours to your Thanksgiving commute so your five-year-old can be first in line three times that day. Ms. Karen let me know that Dylan made the most of his status that day, though. Once she found him standing on a chair clapping his hands in the manner that the teachers do to get the kids' attention, utterly in vain, not a single student heeding his call. Another time she overheard him chastising another classmate that he was going to have to send her to the principal's office if she committed some unknown offense once more.

But I digress. It was gratifying to get to repeat our trip to Pieterskerk in Leiden again this year for the polydenominational "service of remembrance" since most of our American holiday rituals aren't replicable in the Netherlands (my kingdom for a pumpkin pie) and there's something extraordinary about getting to walk in the Pilgrims' footsteps on a day that otherwise goes unnoticed by everyone around us. We swear that someday before we move we will visit the Pilgrim archives to see if we're related to the Pilgrims. It was especially cool to get to share it with Mom and Dad, who my siblings were kind enough to share with us for the holiday. I spent a good chunk of the service having to feed Avery in the bathroom, but Dad took over after a while and stood with her at the back of the church.

As it happens, Dad had one of the consummate Dutch experiences while walking three-week-old Avery around the back of the church. An older Dutch woman approached him to coo over the baby. At that moment he happened to have Avery up on his shoulder, gently bouncing her. Like any Dutchwoman worth her salt, she couldn't resist conveying her wisdom and passing her judgment. "You know," she informed the pediatrician and emergency room physician who has testified in child abuse cases, "bouncing a baby like that damages their brain."

I have a little too much of the Dutch in me because I know I would've given her the deep satisfaction of engaging her; I have already run that futile gauntlet in numerous instances in which my childrearing was brought into issue by complete strangers in this country. My father is a far better person than I. His response was something along the lines of a wide-eyed, "Really? Oh my! I'd better be really careful, then."

Unfortunately we hadn't tried to procure a turkey before Leiden, so we were left to seek one out at the largest grocery store in Utrecht at about 4 p.m. on Thanksgiving day. Of course, it's not like Utrechtians are all out there beating down the doors for turkeys or anything... So Jeff and I went into the Albert Heijn and sought poultry. I took my usual tack of searching quietly amongst the refrigerator cases, but he took the bull by the horns and made the most of his Dutch language classes by approaching the guy with the big chef hat behind all the roasting chickens and asking, "Heeft u een hele kalkoen?" (Do ya have a whole turkey?) Despite Jeff's impeccable (?) Dutch, the gent responded in English, "Oh, are you celebrating Thanksgiving? Sorry, we don't have any left." So we got a big roasting chicken instead.

At least Mom brought us both pumpkin and Crisco, so we had a real honest-to-gosh punkin pie with homemade crust to save Thanksgiving from culinary ignominy and prove that a holiday ain't a holiday without Mom.

Playin' the Bongo

2008-11-25T22:50:00.001+01:00

Yes, she's already got Bongo wrapped around that fat little finger. I mean, do you see that knowing smugness in her eyes? She knows she's set.

Dylan waxes poetic about Avery's feet

2008-11-16T15:21:00.009+01:00

You have to figure the last few months have probably been a little confusing for Dylan. When we were going to get the 3D ultrasound in July we psyched Dylan up for the few days preceding the appointment, explaining that we were going to get to see little sister. During a long silence in the car on the way to the appointment, our oversight became clear when his little voice piped up from the back seat with exquisite trepidation, "So are we getting little sister OUT today?" We got that one explained relatively easily.

Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that when we left for the hospital and told Dylan we were going to bring his sister home with us, his response was along the lines of, "Naaaawwww, you're joking!" Caitlin accurately caught the tenor of his initial response upon meeting his new sister for the first time:

He warmed to her quickly, however, and within minutes was asking to hold her and explaining to her all the things he, the big brother, would be teaching her about -- trains, dinosaurs, cooking. He also inspected her various parts and carried on a running commentary about her soft hair and tiny fingers until reaching her little, pink bare feet upon which he exclaimed sweetly:

"Oh, and her feet are like little rats..."

Sigh.

When I clad Avery in these soft leather booties for the first time a few days later (they're fantastic for holding socks on)...

...Dylan inquired:

"Mommy, are these shoes made of couch?"

Yes, Dylan, we've reupholstered Avery's rats.

Daar komt Sint Maarten aan

2008-11-11T21:56:00.007+01:00

Our kraamzorg nurse let us know about this Dutch holiday that we somehow managed not to hear about until now -- Sint Maartens Dag (St. Martin's Day). She even hooked us up with the obligatory gear: a fishing pole kind of thing with a light on the end from which you suspend a paper lantern. Ours came as a freebie from a local grocery rather than being painstakingly crafted by hand because, let's be frank, we've lowered the bar a bit around here in the last few weeks. The kids go around much like trick or treating, and in fact, it appears that Halloween -- which isn't celebrated here -- might be bleeding over a bit because the dominant colors of St. Maarten gear were orange and black, and Dylan's lantern was a jack-o-lantern. At any rate, the kids typically run around in groups and have to sing the St. Maarten song at each door in exchange for a piece of candy or a tangerine.

We had the words to the song printed helpfully on the grocery-issue treat bags, but no tune:

Sint Maarten, Sint Maarten,
De koeien hebben staarten,
De meisjes hebben rokken aan,
Daar komt Sint Maarten aan!

(Roughly translated:
St. Martin St. Martin,
The cows have tails,
The girls are in their skirts,
Here comes St. Martin.
Be it far from me to comment on the bizarre non sequiturhood of the lyrics, much less any ominous undertones...)

Aisie and Dylan dutifully commited themselves to memorizing the poem for the couple of days before the feestdag, November 11. It's amazing what the promise of a few pieces of candy can provide in the way of motivation. Come 5 p.m. tonight, they were ready to go.

Being the parents we are, we put Aisie in charge of Dylan and sent them out into the streets alone (okay, with strict instructions not to leave our little triangle and only to ring the bell where the light was on). Bolstered by the promise of candy, our fearless Dutch explorers happily ventured door to well-lit door. They quickly hooked up with another group of kids and managed to rake in a good haul even with their parentally-limited geography and lack of knowledge of the tune, which they managed to pick up from the other kids.

It bears mention that we ourselves were unprepared for the St. Maarteners, not having gotten to the store to buy any candy. Thus while our own kids were getting candy from the neighbors, we had to do the grinchy Halloween thing of turning off the lights and pretending not to be home whenever kids rang the bell. We were hoping that we'd be spared the egging it'd cost us at home since it is a saint's day and all. Evidently, annoyed kids can resort to taunting you at the front door with this couplet:

Hier woont Juffrouw Kikkerbil,   //  Here lives Miss Frog's Butt
Die ons niks meer geven wil!       //  Who refuses to give us anything!

So a festive Armistice/St. Maarten's Dag to you, from Miss Frog's Butt.

Hoera, een meisje!

2008-11-01T23:52:00.002+01:00

Proving that she already has an impeccable sense of when best to make an entrance, Avery Sophia Lighter Steill arrived rather quickly this evening at 8:57 p.m. after a comparatively easy labor (I'll take 2 1/2 hours over 17 any day). We all think she's adorable.

At the hospital, we even got the traditional beschuit met muisjes (crackers with little mice, or candy-coated aniseseed) that the Dutch serve when a baby's born. I liked 'em -- although I might have eaten anything at that point -- but I think Jeff might have preferred anything but candy-coated anise seed. Yes, I finished his.

Happy Halloween

2008-11-01T20:07:00.001+01:00

Proving once again that my kids are lucky to have the best aunts in the world (all five of them, although only two are implicated here), Meg and Caitlin made sure that they got to dress up for Halloween albeit one day late and while their parents were at the hospital awaiting the newest arrival. I guarantee they had more fun than we did. So here they are: Purrfect Kitty and Kung Fu Stegosaurus. Happy Halloween!

Happy Birthday, Dylan

2008-10-31T22:07:00.004+01:00

Five years old. It's been a big year what with learning to read and write, as well as every possible factoid about dozens of dinosaurs. And Dylan was especially happy that his mommy has figured out in the last year where to buy more authentic cake mixes (although his aunts did bring some much-loved Betty Crocker from the States!).

Fortuitously, Dylan decided he wanted a Halloween birthday party; this may be the last time in his life he wants one thusly themed. He said he wanted (you must hear this in a sing-songy voice): "costume wearing... and pumpkin carving... and cake eating... and apple bobbing..."

While we didn't manage to deliver on all points, we did celebrate with some dinosaur cakejes, a bunch of craftsy Halloween decorations, and a ridiculously generous complement of gifts shuttled overseas by the aunts -- thanks Bongo and Grammie and aunts and uncles! (This is his "holy cow, that's a lot of presents" face.)

Proving that we're getting increasingly European in our childrearing, here's Aislin toasting Dylan's feestdag with a mimosa (if you can call Fanta Zero in a champagne flute a mimosa...).

Abiding by the rules of travel

2008-09-05T19:03:00.011+02:00

We decided on a real adventure for today -- the zoo. I saved this for last so I could dangle its promise over their heads the rest of the week to elicit their best possible behavior and their at-least-feigned interest in our other destinations. You just can't argue with the allure of a tiger.

The Prague Zoo has won all sorts of awards and consistently makes lists of "best zoos in the world." I know my kids were profoundly impressed at the placard at the entrance trumpeting the fact that the Jolie-Pitt brood had recently visited. (Yeah, not so much.) We really did have a great time, even with that whole incident where the kids ended up in the tiger's cage:

Yes, Grandma, I'm kidding.

Animals, great weather, lots of exercise: day well spent.

It rained today.

2008-09-04T16:48:00.004+02:00

And rained and rained. And we didn't feel well anyway. The hotel walls, the view from the window, Czech TV, and a soggy walk to the park sufficed today. Really, there's only so much touring we can take anyway...

Tourism, part deux (or "dva"?)

2008-09-03T23:26:00.010+02:00

After Jeff finished this evening we decided we needed to include him in some of our adventuring, so the four (and a half) of us set off for the other mecca of all Prague tourism: Prazsky Hrad, aka Das Schloss, aka The Castle to End All Castles. Another quick ride on the subway, then we had what the guidebook described as a "short walk up a slight hill" to the uppermost entrance. The pregnant lady found it to be neither short nor slight, just for the record. At least it was relatively picturesque.

We got there at the changing of the guard, so there were double the number of soldiers to see my children being completely unimpressed and climbing all over the fountain in the first plaza. (Actually, they both watched nicely, thank you.) Note that I said "first plaza." This is evidently the largest castle in the world, and it is most decidedly imposing -- it's the castle you pictured as a kid when you thought that royalty must live in buildings of endless halls and countless rooms, not the stone-mansions-masquerading-as-castles that dot the rest of Europe's landscape. Pfaff. This one has the imposing St. Vitus Cathedral in its second plaza, whose height managed to impress even our architecture-weary crew. (You should really click on that picture to enlarge it and get a sense of the indescribable scale. It's not La Sagrada Familia, but it's impressive.)

In stark contrast to the last time I wandered the castle grounds shoulder to shoulder with the flocks of summer tourists sweating all over each other, this evening we had the grounds nearly to ourselves and perfect weather in which to explore them. Not much was open, but we only wanted to walk around anyway. The best, of course, was getting to the area that opens onto a vista of the entire medieval city. After taking a million self-portraits against the skyline, we walked the steps down into the cobblestone lanes and red-roofed abodes of Mala Strana and then toward Karlův Most, Charles Bridge.

The iconic bridge is the cultural epicenter of the city (whether its residents want it to be or not). It is open only to pedestrians, so it's the most coveted location for street vendors to ply their wares and street musicians to set out their hats since thousands of people wander over it each day in search of the whole Prague Experience. Yes, there is a McDonald's within 100 yards of the end of the bridge, and I'm sure it does brisk business. Our trek had made us hungry by then, but we eschewed the questionable allures of McDonald's and settled for a couple of pieces of authentic Czech (ha) pizza and moseyed out to the middle of the bridge where we watched the dinner cruise boats and legions of seagulls and pigeons from the bridge while we noshed.

Duly fortified, we moved on to our second visit to Stare Mesto where Aislin happily told Daddy everything she remembered about the Astronomical Clock and the kids got a second crack at the horses. Then a quick visit to Wenceslas Square and it was one last subway ride with some exhausted kids. Me, I was still ready to go the distance. The distance from a taxi to my bed, maybe...

Stare Mesto, ho!

2008-09-03T15:22:00.016+02:00

Poor Jeff. Turns out that having actual business in such a lovely city can really cut into your enjoyment of it. Good thing the kids and I aren't weighed down by any albatrosses of guilt over getting to enjoy a city sans Daddy, especially when the weather is as balmy and perfect as it was today.

So we braved the subway. The ticket machines were actually the same as I remembered, so it was just a matter of finding the right coins -- the Czechs are not yet part of the European monetary union, so they still use the koruna. (Parental travel note: small denominations of foreign currency = cheap souvenir.) Armed with our tickets, we hopped the train downtown toward our destination (and that of every tourist within about 100 miles): the old town square, Stare Mesto. As usual, the train provided adequate diversion for the kids...

After navigating through the narrow cobblestone streets of the Old Town, we emerged into the huge square with its ever-so-European fountain and medieval churches. Boy, were the kids impressed. Not. Until, that is, we saw the horse-drawn carriages lined up waiting to take tourists on a short and pricey circle of the area. While I found a shady bench on which to consult my map and shelter my pregnant bulk from the unseasonable heat, I let the kids wander closer on their own to watch the horses (file under "Things I Would Never Have Done A Year Ago").

Another woman heard me admonishing the kids to keep a respectful distance from the carriages and stay in my sight, and approached to strike up a conversation. Guess my American accent stands out a bit in Prague. At any rate, it turns out she was from New Jersey. We had an entertaining conversation about the difficulties of choosing between Clinton and Obama and about how crazy McCain has gotten since the Republican convention. (A digression: I have to say that talking politics has gotten far more entertaining and rewarding since moving out of a reactionarily conservative county in the American South, where my generally moderate political positions are considered anything from merely radical to threatening to their way of life. I realized as we talked that it's been a blessed while since I carried on a political conversation in which I wanted to kill myself or the other party... largely because I'm finally finding others who share my views. Look, I'm perfectly conscious of being as petty and closed-minded as the next guy, okay?)

Needless to say, Aislin and Dylan were no longer in their previous positions by the time I finished my conversation, but after a moment of panic I located them... immediately under the nose of the lead horse. A fairly disgruntled-looking driver was barely tolerating their presence and that of two or three other kids, but he did let them pet the horse's nose. At that point it became nearly impossible to drag them away -- remember the travel rule about animals? Yeah. So much for the intrigue of the Astronomical Clock right around the corner.

At least I managed to get them there about five minutes before the big show on the hour when the doors of the clock open, the apostles file by, and other bits of the machinery come to life. We took our places amongst the throngs of Japanese tourists and waited. After a lengthy explanation of what they'd see, lo, they were actually captivated for a few precious seconds while I kept a paranoid eye out for pickpockets.

Then it was on to the very cool Anagram English-language bookstore where we perused nearly every book in their great little kids' section, bought a very cool fairy tale-ish book about a little girl from Prague, and resisted buying yet another book about dinosaurs for my dino-obsessed darling. Then we spent an hour in three-story toy store Sparky's, at which point it was time for some gelato refreshment. Breakin' every rule. Unbelievably, I managed to keep up with them this whole time, but we three intrepid travelers were mightily worn out by the time we made our way back to our room. Definitely a day to make Daddy jealous.

Prague, ho!

2008-09-02T14:25:00.006+02:00

We arrived in the city late at night, which was a very good thing given our large vehicle (by European standards) and the narrow, convoluted cobblestone streets of our destination. Shockingly, the city has changed somewhat since I was last here in 1995. They actually have an enormous IKEA and an even more formidable Tesco out by the airport now, and development has extended well beyond the borders I remembered. Our hotel is quite near the dorm where I stayed, and in fact, we checked our email at the university where Jeff is giving his talk. I hardly recognized the neighborhood except for the subway stop at Dejvicka. Most of the buildings' facades no longer resemble the crumbling Communist apartment blocks I remembered, but have been rehabilitated to some semblance of regional architecture. The district is now thriving with businesses, many upscale -- the Maserati dealership across from our hotel was most decidedly not there in 1995.

Breakfast was very similar to what I remembered from Kajetanka. Everyone got to try some of the yummy Czech rohliky, the rolls that embody the best attributes of croissants and baguettes, and some of the very rich Czech yogurt. Mm.

Then Jeff had to head to the conference and the kids and I set off to explore the neighborhood a bit. Since I'm more waddling than walking these days we didn't go far, but we did get far enough to locate at least one of The Prerequisites. As any traveling parent knows, the Three Magic Prerequisites for successful travel with children are, not necessarily in this order:

playgrounds (the simplest sandbox will do)
animals (zoos if you're feeling fancy, although squirrels and ducks do famously)
ice cream

Granted, there are plenty of other activities that'd be advisable to include, e.g. unusual forms of transportation (cogwheel train, watercraft of any stripe from paddleboat to speedboat, hang glider, etc.), impromptu public performances of music or goofy theater, or any sort of toy store; but the cardinal three are available anywhere in the world one might be going and, we've found, provide a lovely mix of familiarity and local color. So there's the sum total of my travel wisdom.

In this case, we located a modest playground about three blocks from our hotel which happened to be located next to a field through which a steady stream of dog owners walked and tossed frisbees to their assorted charges... in short, a very successful combination of elements one and two. All we needed out of our trek into the Czech unknown for one afternoon.

After Jeff returned from the conference, we went for a longer walk around the neighborhood and found this neat fountainy thing where the kids got to run around with local kids. A highlight for our little naturalists was seeing the mosquito larvae squirming in front of the lights in the water -- yish. They also lingered in front of a store window chockablock with traditional wooden toys, many suspended from long springs so as to bounce languidly in a manner hypnotizing to little brains. Nothing like a little cheap entertainment. Then it was off to bed to rest for the big adventure tomorrow...

We conquer inertia

2008-09-01T22:22:00.008+02:00

Off to Prague, only a day later than initially anticipated (look, it takes time to get this stuff done, especially when the resident spectroscopist is on a 20-hour work schedule that precludes anything more than the occasional nap, not that I'm casting aspersions or anything). GPS and Google maps say it's about 9 hours, but it's now looking like just over 12. Unbelievably, the many hours spent sitting in American-made booster seats broken only by the occasional rest area doesn't appear to have strained the good graces of our veteran-traveler tykes except for one post-dinner episode of "s/he's TOUCHING me!" that was quickly rectified by erecting a formidable Berlin Wall of pillows and stuffed animals.

Before passing out long after the 9 p.m. sunset, Aislin remarked that she hadn't really even pulled out anything to do from her backpack because she'd been so enjoying the German scenery that she'd forgotten to get bored. Then she described the sunset out the rear windshield for us: "There's a cloud that's like a golden dolphin diving over the sun." I couldn't make this stuff up.

Quite frankly, it wouldn't take very beautiful country to impress us after a year on the polders, but the A4 traverses some pretty striking landscape in NE Germany. Not striking like the Alps are striking, but actual rolling hills stretching out as far as the eye could see definitely struck at the hearts of these Midwestern-Southern transplants to the flatlands. Easy to see why so many Germans settled in the American Midwest. Oh, and castles every few kilometers the whole way. "Look kids: hills... castle..."

The Dingledodies Hit the Road

2008-08-29T15:49:00.008+02:00

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn..."
- Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Part 1, Ch. 1

One of the big theoretical appeals of moving to Europe for a coupla years was the possibility of getting to travel around with the kids. After a year of struggles with all things Dutch (immigration, schools, transportation), we've managed a brief trip to Germany and the supercool cruise that gave us one day in Barcelona and one in Madeira. But along came a conference in Prague at which Jeff got a paper accepted, and lo, it was only a roadtrip away. Finally, an opportunity to "burn, burn, burn," albeit in slightly attenuated, family-friendly fashion.

First hurdle: school. There's a €50/day fine levied on parents bold enough to dare take their children out of school for purposes as ominous as travel to European capitals. The indoctrination must be continuous, you see, lest the children miss any wee snippet of Dutch acculturation... Miraculously, our 2-page petition to the bureaucrats-that-be was approved so we got to reallocate the €250 we'd set aside for the inevitable fine -- not that we'd ever disregard authority -- to our travel budget. Score one for the Dingledodies.

Next hurdle: functioning automobile. Our long-suffering, 1991 VW Golf finally blew its head gasket. We'd know for a long time, like since the day we bought it from our neighbor, that the writing was on the wall. The car shook magnificently when idling, sometimes to the point that it stalled itself out, and had less acceleration power than your average lawnmower: in Jeff's words, it purred like a lion and roared like a kitten. Truer words... At any rate, we managed to get it to limp to a crappy used car lot and cool off enough for them to give us €350 toward a new... crappy used car. That's how we ended up with a 1995 Space Wagon, codename: "The Race Van." This came about after Dylan caught sight of us reflected in a window the first day we drove it to school (his little, reverent voice from the backseat: "Oh look, Mom... we have a RACE van...").

I just want to point out here that it's not really a van. Because, see, I do plan to adhere to my vow never to own a minivan. It is a European Compact MPV, multi-purpose vehicle. Worlds of difference. Even Wikipedia says so.

So now, freshly downloaded copy of Lonely Planet in hand, the Dingledodies are sortakinda prepared for a trip to Prague. I studied there thirteen (yikes) years ago for a couple of months, but methinks this trip will be slightly different with two children and the whole being-eight-months-pregnant thing. What's the use of travel without challenges? Na zdravi.

Welcome to the circus, O hapless infant...

2008-08-19T19:16:00.004+02:00

Last night, Aislin was discussing with her sister-in-utero what to expect of her family:

"Well, your brother is about as boy as boy gets. He plays with cars and dinosaurs. Then there's me; I'll babysit you when you get bigger."

[Momentary pause for thought...]

"And your mommy snort-laughs, and your daddy sleeps a lot."

Living in the wild

2008-07-15T11:32:00.001+02:00

Okay, I wouldn't exactly call Kiawah Island "the wild," but it's pretty cool to see all the animals wandering around. Probably the main thing we've always enjoyed about Kiawah is how they have carefully developed the island so as to disturb the local wildlife as little as possible. We always have to visit the nature center at Night Heron to take a gander at what animals they have there, but we usually will see a few gators or deer each year. I'm still jealous that Jeffrey saw one of the turtles wandering back into the ocean on his very first visit to the island nine years ago. I've been coming here for fifteen years and still haven't seen one!

This year has taken the cake, though, at least for the deer. Here's what Mom and I saw first thing yesterday morning in our next door neighbor's yard as we headed to the store to get some eggs:

Speaking of eggs (what a segue), about a decade ago there were so many deer on Kiawah that they pioneered a novel program of birth control for them rather than open a hunting season or, I guess, wait for the cars to start picking them off. Rangers go around shooting hormone darts at the females to render them infertile for 2-4 years. Apparently they missed this one.

Later yesterday, Jeff and I took Aisie and Dylan for a bike ride. As we rode the bike path that runs along Kiawah Island Parkway, we first saw a couple of deer grazing a little bit off the path. We passed those, but around the next bend were three more. This time they were so close to the path that we stopped and waited. They were utterly unphased by our presence, at least as oblivious as deer at a petting zoo. Aislin was even able to reach out and nearly touch one. I think she probably could have ridden it if she'd been so inclined. Finally, as we rode back we saw a frighteningly thin buck staggering down the middle of the road toward the new resort hotel. Nothing like a deer safari to keep the kids from realizing that we're making them ride 10 miles.

Dinnertime conversation

2008-06-08T17:32:00.003+02:00

Dylan: "So Mom, it's true that police have badgers, right?"

High-latitude humor

2008-06-04T18:07:00.006+02:00

Correspondence between Jeff and a friend doing a postdoc in England on a day when the sun rose at 5:21 AM and set at 9:57 PM:
-----

from: T.
to: Jeff
date: Wed, Jun 4, 2008 at 2:45 PM

Hi Jeff,

Things are pretty well, it's even starting to warm up a bit here. I could even feel that big yellow thing in the sky giving off heat today, which is a novel experience. Do you also have a big yellow thing in the sky?

later,

T.

-----

from: Jeff
to: T.
date: Wed, Jun 4, 2008 at 3:38 PM

Aaaaacchh! Big yellow thing in the sky, it hates us, Precious, yes it does. It burns us and we curses it! We curses it forever!

Jeff

O Providence

2008-05-26T09:49:00.006+02:00

I performed a particularly stupid google search last week whilst looking for some pointers on Dutch pronunciation. I put in "Dutch tips." Of course I came up with nothing remotely having to do with the Nederlandse taal, but I did get some information on how you don't have to tip waiters/-tresses as well as another expat's blog that gave some tidbits of information about living in the Netherlands, including, for instance, that the way the traffic politie signal that you're being stopped here is to pull in front of you and turn on a little sign that says "Volgen" (follow). Duly edified, I went back and put in a more considered search and found the desired pronunciation tips for those wily Dutch diphthongs (and even a pronunciation engine -- way cool).

On the way home from Hilversum this morning, I was flipping channels on the radio when I realized a Politie Volvo was pulling in front of me. And turning on a little marquee that said "Volgen." This rang a bell somewhere distantly in my brain... aagh! I was going under the speed limit along with all the other bumper-to-bumper traffic, had headlights on... I just knew this little beater of a VW Golf was going to get me into trouble.

So we pulled into the service station (the little marquee handily changing to "Stop" to let me know not to rear-end them) and I prepared myself for the long-dreaded first encounter with the Dutch police. Keep in mind that my immigration status here is still up in the air, so I felt more empathy with my non-green-carded ex-clients than I cared to. (An aside that only a criminal lawyer would notice: Oddly, she came around to the passenger side door to have our little conversation.) Like 95% of the Dutch I've talked to, when I asked en Nederlands if she spoke English she said "a little" and proceeded in perfect English. I asked what I'd done; she asked me for my license. I gave her my Tennessee license -- the only one I have -- and she ran it. (She was not wearing the same fetching clogs as the lad and lassie pictured.)

When she returned she explained that they have a computer in the police cars that alerts them when they pass a car that doesn't have a Dutch license in it, so they pulled me over to make sure I was licensed. We chatted a bit more about whether I have the car registered and the requisite insurance (she took me at my word, no proof required?!) and she let me go on my way.

These onboard Big Brothers mean, evidently, that I can look forward to being pulled over another host of times until I get the rumored Holy Grail of a Sofi number that will let me trade in my American license for a Dutch one... as well as have a bank account, get the tax refunds to which we're entitled, etc. etc.

Of course, after waiting since last September 10 for them to make a decision, we just heard on Friday that we're required to register our marriage at Utrecht Town Hall before they can decide. This despite having provided them a marriage certificate with apostille, the seal internationally demonstrating authenticity per all regulations in the convention drawn up in the Netherlands' own Den Haag. And, not incidentally, despite having attempted to register our marriage at the Gemeentehuis last September and being told that the step was not only unnecessary, but impossible for us. Boy oh boy, am I looking forward to my next conversation with those well-informed and friendly bureaucrats!

Oh well, at least I didn't have to make a souvenir of one of those expensive Dutch traffic tickets.

2008-05-23T15:27:00.008+02:00

At least in Hilversum where the kids go to school, they have no driveways for the schools. The streets are quite narrow, barely wide enough to allow opposing traffic to pass politely. This means that parents have to troll for parking as close as possible and walk their kids in.

There are, however, those parents -- I have yet to decide if they are more or less natural selection-minded -- who yearn for a bit more adventure in their mornings. It does tend to be the Range Rovers and Hummers attempting this feat: they careen over to the side of the road, often pulling fully onto the sidewalk in front of the school where countless parents and kids are congregating, and discharge their progeny willy-nilly from the closest vehicle door (which is sometimes the hatchback) regardless of traffic or age of child. There is sometimes, but not always, a pause to ensure the children have gotten safely onto the pavement before this special breed of parent merges full-speed back into traffic. Kinda makes me miss the pseudo-military (or -superhero?) Safety Patrol presence at the kids' elementary school in the States.

Today, though, as I was leaving the first school in a sleep-deprived stupor I was momentarily surprised to see a smaller car pulling onto the pavement immediately in front of me such that I had to pause to avoid being hit by its bumper. I looked into the driver's side window and noted that the driver was a mere child, no more than 8-10 years old. I was astonished, but frankly I've seen such weird stuff in Hilversum that I wasn't shocked beyond comprehension; I noted to myself that the driver's tender age was a better excuse for bad driving than mere possession of a Chelsea tractor and being too lazy to walk a few blocks.

I was several yards past the car before it registered that the car was actually from England. Enough said.

Jeff, the Bird Whisperer

2008-05-16T11:01:00.011+02:00

Jeff continues to claim that one of his favorite parts of living here is his commute, the daily bike ride of 20 km of which a beautiful portion runs alongside the huge Amsterdam/Rhine shipping canal. It's an odd mix of bucolic serenity -- gardens in which roosters crow at all hours, some woodlands where you can actually watch pheasants running around -- and postmodern industrial -- at one point there's a conveyor belt that actually unloads sand and gravel from the barges about 10 feet over the bikers' heads. Most important, there's only been one instance in which the winds were so strong that he was blown perilously close to losing his bike in the 60-foot-deep canal in the wee hours of the morning. Usually they just blow him in drunken wobbles all over the path like the rest of the riders.

After he got home last night, the kids were regaling him with stories of their day (like the guy roped to the tree outside the school playground who was hoisting himself into the wee branches with a running chainsaw holstered to his belt -- worker's comp waiting to happen, I say). Then Jeff remembered, excited, that he had one of his own to share.

"What," I asked, selecting a comically implausible scenario, "you got hit by a bird riding down the bike path?"

A pause.

"Actually, yes," he replied, deflated. As I sat there agape, he launched into the story anyway.

The weather was gorgeous; it was only the second time he's been able to ride to work without a coat. There he was on a portion of the path where the trees line either side, riding along, minding his own business. Then he felt something -- sharp somethings -- grab the back of his head and quickly release. Still pedaling, he whipped around in time to see the culprit land in the tree behind him -- a black bird with some markings. His first thought was, "That'd better not be a crow. I'm not in the mood for omens." His second thought was, "That bird's one lucky bugger because there are days when I'd turn around and find a rock." (Jeff is, incidentally, gifted with an almost supernatural precision with hand-borne projectiles.)

The funniest part: as he described the bird, we realized it was a magpie. Magpies, which are very common around here, are notorious sluts for shiny objects. Hate to say it, but it was going for the sunset glinting off Jeff's balding pate. Sigh. Looks like hats will be de rigeur if he hopes to avoid being carried off by a mischief of magpies. (Er, and that's not Jeff in the photo in case you were wondering...)

Edificatory Postscript: Who knew that magpies had so many collective nouns to describe them (along the lines of "a murder of crows")? I thought I remembered "mischief" but I wasn't sure, so I got curious and tried to look it up and found the following list of terms for groups of magpies:

a charm, a congregation, a flock, a gulp, a mischief, a murder, a tiding, a tidings (is that a double collective?), a tittering, a tribe

Edificatory Postscript the Second: Holy moly, turns out magpies are notorious attackers of bikers and this is their open season on Homo sapiens. People have put actual thought into preventing the aggressive little buggers from divebombing them (all these links are Australian since I'm assuming most of you don't read Dutch). Looks like Jeff got off easy, particularly since he hadn't taken the recommended measure of wearing an ice cream container on his head (scroll down slightly to the section "How to avoid being attacked").

Why my kids can't sleep, part II

2008-05-14T22:38:00.000+02:00

It is 10:38 p.m. and not yet completely dark. Time to find some old air raid curtains.

Back in the saddle

2008-05-13T22:27:00.005+02:00

You know, you leave for two weeks and come back to a totally different world than the one you left. When we left on our jaunt to visit family, we were all layered up and wearing jackets. When we got back yesterday, it was 28 degrees outside (er, that'd be Celsius) and about 35 inside the train we rode home with our myriad suitcases and jetlagged children. They're teasing Jeff at work that he left for two weeks and missed the entirety of the Dutch summer.

Anyway, we made it from Schiphol to Utrecht Centraal with the benefit of a little nap and had to take the bus for the final leg of our now-familiar journey. For those not in the habit of taking public transportation in the Netherlands, I should explain that the tickets are these cards split into 15 strips called, appropriately, strippenkarten. You punch 2-6 strips depending on how far you're going, or on buses the driver stamps it for you. So since we were wrangling all our stuff, we let most of the line go before us. We noticed that no one was getting their strippenkaart stamped, but that's not atypical since lots of people buy monthly passes that you just flash to the driver. I was getting the kids settled in their seats while Jeff talked to the driver and I noted that the conversation was a little weird and uncomfortable, but frankly, that's just par for the course when we attempt most Dutch transactions so I didn't think a whole lot about it but to note, "Yep, we're back home indeed." Jeff showed me the card as he walked by and pointed to the fact that the driver had only stamped enough strips for two passengers. Score -- free ride!

When Jeff got home from work today, he shared something else we missed while we were gone. Evidently the police recently went on strike for higher pay. I was vaguely aware of this, but I didn't see picket lines anywhere or anything. Apparently their version of striking consisted in not pulling over as many motorists.

No, seriously.

At any rate, they were successful, which prompted the public transportation operators to strike. Now I have to mention here that I was in New York when the subway workers went on strike a couple of years ago and it was utter chaos. They happened to choose midnight of the day we were leaving so the traffic was unbelievable on our way out of the city to LaGuardia... mostly in the other direction, thankfully. They knew that by refusing to drive the trains they could bring the city to its knees and get a response. It didn't take them more than a few days before the mayor responded. Mission accomplished.

Here's what I love: I don't know if it's because the Dutch are so averse to being late or if they simply fundamentally cannot abide chaos, but when public transport goes on strike in the Netherlands, the buses still run perfectly on schedule. Yes, you read that right. The only difference is that the drivers refuse to charge riders, i.e. they don't stamp the strippenkarten. Pity the poor passholders, but at least they're still getting to work on time.

So it turns out that the tension in Jeff's interaction with the driver was more one of, "Oh my god, this guy is not actually going to make me stamp his card. Do people not even get the concept of 'free ride' anymore? Jeez, fine. Let's see if stamping two is enough to get him to sit down."

Evidently, Dutch schoolteachers are either considering going on strike or already have done so. I can picture it now. All the kids still show up at school to learn that they will still have to go to class, but there just won't be any homework now...

Portrait of the artist as a birthday girl

2008-04-17T23:26:00.002+02:00

So she's nine. N-I-N-E. And as precocious as ever. The night after her birthday she was reading her Cricket magazine and discovered that they had a poetry contest. Twenty minutes later she came downstairs and presented me with the following, which is even more striking when you see it in her little girl handwriting. I'm punctuating just as she did (except the italics):

The opposite of armadillo.
Why couldn't it be worm?
The opposite of still.
One answer could be squirm.
The opposite of acknowledge.
It could be learn.
The opposite of give away.
Why, that could be earn.
What's the opposite of opposite?
It could be synonym.
What's the opposite of walk?
If you wanted, swim.
Most things have opposites.
Why don't you look around?
Opposites are antonyms
Dark and bright, silence and sound.

I mean, really. How am I supposed to raise a child who can write better than I can at the age of nine? I love the illustrations she did the next day, too...

Emerging from hibernation

2008-04-10T23:17:00.001+02:00

Yeah yeah, so there's been a little hiatus. Look, it's just started to get light enough for us to uncurl from our fetal positions in our dark Dutch grotto long enough to consider eating, much less blogging. Here's to the vernal equinox -- huzzah!

Living the life of leisure

2008-04-05T17:21:00.001+02:00

We're staying at Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Bill's house on Van Bibber Lake for the holiday along with a fair complement of the family, and as always, we're managing to occupy our time. After getting showered with baby gifts yesterday (thanks so much everybody!!) and eating all the festive American holiday foods we could stand (mm, watermelon), today it was time to really relax. Jason brought his fishing gear and was kind enough to offer to teach his niece how to use it, so while Mom and Dad sat around chewing the fat with the relatives, Uncle Jason, Aunt Jennifer, and Aisie went down to the pond to try their hands at fishing the behemoths of the deep that reside in the pond over the dam.

I wasn't there to witness it, but Aislin was apparently a downright natural, casting well enough to put the adults to shame and catching a fish almost every time she tossed her line into the water. Here she demonstrates her form:

Good thing we've got uncles around to teach her the really important stuff.

An aside for any West Wing afficionados

2008-02-27T20:07:00.006+01:00

This video from Slate about parallels between the plotline of (I think) the final season of The West Wing and the current presidential race provokes some thought about how life imitates art imitating life when you have experienced executive branch politicos jumping into tv writing. There are worse ways to spend 3 minutes of your time. (Ehm, than watching the video, I mean. Although if you can dash off a compelling hour-long drama in three minutes, by all means, please send it along.)

In case you wondered what an eight-year-old ponders...

2008-02-06T14:44:00.000+01:00

We've just gotten back from another grueling schoolday commute and I set the kids down in front of their bowls of yogurt and granola and set off for the computer to check on Super Tuesday results. After about five minutes of dead silence but for the slurping of snack, the following:

Aislin: (yelling from the kitchen) Mom?

Me: Yes?

Aislin: Have you ever thought about just how often you use adverbs?

Me: (short pause) Er, no, I guess I haven't.

Aislin: Well I just have.

I pause, waiting for the follow-up. There is none. She is satisfied. Exeunt.

Living the fairytale life

2008-02-03T20:46:00.000+01:00

So we broke our weekend hibernation long enough today to explore our environs a bit. We emerged from our cave, rubbed our eyes for a while in the forgotten spectacle of real sunlight, then pedaled off into the incessant winds. We had a map that seemed to evince that a few real castles might be within shouting distance, a possibility that actually appealed to both kids, so we knew we had to jump on it.

You have to understand that we don't undertake recreational bike rides lightly these days. One among us has to commute to work daily on his bike, spending a full hour in whatever capricious and brutal weather gets thrown at him; on Saturday morning at 3 a.m., for example, he had the distinct pleasure of riding through the first real snowstorm of the season with 50 mph wind gusts over a breathtakingly narrow bike path with a barge-bearing canal on one side and goose-bearing canal on the other. A Dutch Scylla and Charybdis, if you will. He arrived home covered in an inch of snow -- pardon me, 2.54 centimeters -- and semi-hysterical with laughter at how utterly unthinkable being outside in such conditions would have been to our softer selves even a few months ago.

So we were marveling at the lovely bike path to the Casteel de Haar and what a comparatively short ride it was, etc. Then we took a ninety-degree turn and were nearly bowled over by the wind broadsiding us, which brings to mind another Dutch proverb: If you can't feel the wind, it's at your back. (Okay, so Jeff made that one up today. More accurate than the other Dutch proverbs, e.g. the following: "Wie boter op zijn hoofd heeft, moet uit de zon blijven." Translation: "He who has butter on his head should stay out of the sun." Deep words, indeed.) So we blew into the castle and took a quick look around, but we decided to wait until we have some visitors before paying the actual admission fees. We're cheap. Aislin was psyched to see the stables and the cool door-within-a-door (free), and Dylan was enthralled with the drawbridge (also free), so we did just fine.

Then we started back. That'd be directly into the 25 mph winds. The whole way. With 40-pound Dylan on the back of my bike. Slumped over asleep such that I'd have to shift his body back into his seat every few seconds to keep him from asphyxiating on his seatbelt. Suffice it to say that it took us twice as long to get home as to get there, but I'll be durned if we didn't get the kids to bed early tonight so I'd call that breaking even.

Happy holiday

2008-02-02T16:39:00.001+01:00

I am shocked -- shocked! -- that the Netherlands does not recognize the annual efforts of Punxsutawney Phil in ensuring that the globe remains on its axis. The sacrilege. Evidently, at least in the States they can expect another six weeks of winter.

Here, we figure we can expect another six weeks of rain. To be followed by another six weeks of rain. Perhaps followed by some especially sunshiny weeks of rain in May and June. We're all a-quiver with antici....

To be filed under "intriguing ambivalences" (or perhaps a side effect of failure to observe critical holidays -- I'm stretching for a segue here), there's news this week that the first "coffeeshop" in Amsterdam has gone smoke-free before the new smoking ban (applicable to all types of public smoking) goes into effect on July 1 of this year. I first read about this in the Dutch language newspapers and had to search all over before finding the above link to make sure that I'd actually understood what I was reading since my Dutch is not exactly what you'd call fluent. Lo, it's true, and further support for our observation that we're living in the Netherlands just in time to witness the (re?)conservatization of the Dutch.

Of course, they are still planning on showing that old classic, Deep Throat, on public television next week "for its cultural and historical value." And no, it's not a documentary on Woodward and Bernstein. Wonder if they'll have subtitles or if they'll trust it to, er, speak for itself.

Walking the tightrope

2008-01-29T14:39:00.001+01:00

Although I was pleasantly surprised that Utrecht isn't nearly as seedy as I remembered Amsterdam being, I was still prepared when we moved for the occasional need to distract Aislin's attention away from a newsstand here or there. You know, to preserve those conservative family values we hold so dear. Evidently, however, I need to expand the parameters of my vigilance...

I've been trying to pick up as much Dutch as I can, and the quickest way to do that, I've found, is to read as many of the free newspapers as possible that clutter the morning trains. There are at least four different papers to be had each day, so I usually try to scan each to see if I can pick up on what's going on in the world. Of course, my Dutch isn't great, so I usually have to check the English language websites when I get back home. There was the day that I thought Hillary had declared former General Wesley Clark as her running mate, only to discover upon fact checking in my native tongue that I had merely misunderstood the Dutch reporter's cleverly ironic headline in an article saying the 2004 candidate and Hillary supporter had just visited the polderlands to take a gander at some alternative energy options, viz. windmills.

So this morning I was sitting there trying to decide if I was really understanding the article to say that Dutch men spend more time in front of the mirror than Dutch women (which I was, as it turns out). Then my darling 8-year-old, who was sitting across from me finishing her homework, cleared her throat, "Ahem, Mom?"

"Yes, dear?" I responded absentmindedly, nose still buried in paper.

She continued, delicately, "Um, that picture might not be too appropriate for me."

This is roughly the top half of the picture I was holding in front of my daughter's nose, minus the thigh-highs and stilettos:

So much for vigilance, but at least she self-censors. My daughter, that is.

Saturday morning blues

2008-01-26T13:57:00.000+01:00

Here's the polymusical Dylan at work on his newest composition with his muse and assistant, Dad.

O What a Beautiful Moooorrrning

2008-01-14T21:55:00.000+01:00

This, folks -- this excerpt from the weather report for tomorrow pretty much sums up what it's like to live in the Netherlands in January.

Hours of Precipitation:	7 Hrs
Hours of Daylight:	7.3 Hrs

Yes, I can attest that the two do, in fact, correlate almost perfectly. It rains only when I need to be shuttling the kids several kilometers to and fro by bike, and then it rains copiously. Comically. In all fairness, the word "Daylight" really should be in quotes given the cloud permacover. Oh, and don't forget the other key statistics:

High	44°F
RealFeel®:	28°F
Winds:	S at 26mph
Wind Gusts:	52 mph

Is that really a 16-degree difference between actual temperature and wind chill? And gusts of fifty-two miles per hour? Surely they jest. There have been several occasions on which Aislin and I have been sure we were literally being blown backwards as we pedaled, and those winds were estimated around 40 mph. Maybe if the wind's blowing the right way we can just open our umbrellas and float into the station like Mary Poppins. Hopefully when there aren't any actual trains approaching.

Nothing in the world like a Dutch commute, I tell you.

He told me so

2008-01-14T04:13:00.002+01:00

We bought a car. After much debate (and a bike ride on which Jeff rode my bike with the boy on the back -- but without the added 20 kilos of groceries we always do), we decided (he was convinced) that there are certain things that you just have to have a car to do. It didn't hurt that our neighbor was selling a beater for a song. I decided to test drive it.

Ah, the test drive.

How did I get elected for this? I know nothing of Dutch road rules. Literally nothing. I had noticed there were no stop signs, like EVER, but I had no idea what the round blue signs with the slashes and "X"es were all about. It's a good thing the neighbor let me in on this little rule of yielding to traffic on the right. Talk about a sea change in the way you process what's going on on the road -- argh! It doesn't matter how fast you're going or how large the road you're on; if someone is approaching on a blind street from the right, you'd better believe they're just going to roar the heck out there in front of you without so much as a glance to their left, that is, in your direction.

So there I was driving my neighbor's car with my neighbor in the front seat as nervous as my mother when I got my learner's permit. Truly, he was so apprehensive I tried to call the whole thing off, but he insisted... and then went on to use the nonexistent brake pedal as we went through our neighborhood, then the nonexistent accelerator as we merged onto the A2. "You have to go faster, FASTER!" he exhorted me while pushing down on my right knee (!) although the pedal in his ancient Golf was already pressed entirely to the floor. I could tell the poor man would have smoked an entire pack simultaneously, Guinness World Record-style, in the ten minutes we were in the car if I hadn't mentioned being asthmatic. Me, I haven't been that nervous driving since I was nine months pregnant the first time.

Sigh.

But we bought the beater. So we are now the proud(ish) owners of a completely impractical, rust-spotted, two-door Golf that is the same model year as my very first car sixteen years ago. Hey, at least there are four wheels and an engine.

Postscript The very, very first time we tried to start the car after we bought it from him, the battery was utterly dead. Even after replacing the battery we were forced to spend the rest of the life of the car carrying around a portable battery/jumpstarter so that when we inevitably stalled out in the middle of the road we could get ourselves started again... since no one would stop and help the first time it happened, but rather preferred to drive around me honking one long, constant honk as if I'd just stopped in the middle of the road to have a picnic on the hood, specifically to inconvenience them. When we attempted to trade it in the following August, a mere ten months after buying it, it was junked. Our neighbor was clearly offended, obviously believing that we were somehow responsible for the Golf's demise and reviling to our faces the new beater of a van we were forced to purchase after its untimely death. "Do you even like that color?" he sneered, "And look at those spots on the bumper where the paint is peeling off; that is just unacceptable," opined the man who had sold us the rust-covered car less than a year before. Indeed.

Getting themselves some edumication

2008-01-10T09:59:00.000+01:00

So we're no longer on the lam from the long arm of the law. No more sitting up night after night waiting for that knock from the truancy SWAT team (do SWAT teams knock? but i digress...). The kids are officially back in school.

As with everything our family attempts, we decided to make it as challenging as humanly possible. Go to one of the five adorable local schools to which we could walk or, if we're running late, bike? Nah, that's for pansies who take the obvious route. We're interesting; we're thoughtfully inefficient. So it's off to the international school in Hilversum each morning for us.

It's been about an hour's commute in the morning, but only because I'm a complete maniac about missing the first train and make us bike to the station so early that we end up sitting on the platform for almost 30 minutes before dawn breaks (keep in mind that dawn cracks at about 8:15 these days). I'm rethinking that strategy after this morning's 25kph winds. So we bike to the station, take a train downtown, switch to a second train, and then walk about 15 minutes (at 4-year-old legs' pace) to the two schools. In terms of satisfying our complication quotient, we were pleased to discover that the kids would be in two different buildings a few blocks apart and that the closer building doesn't open until well after the one further away, ensuring that aforementioned 4-year-old legs are dragged an extra six blocks or so before they can fold into semi-exhaustion on his little carpet square in his classroom. I have a feeling that his teacher will be wondering what we're doing to this kid to make him pass out over his apricots at snack time.

Despite the vicissitudes of the commute, the kids are both ecstatic to be in classrooms again. Although she put on a show of complaining about having homework, Ais buckled down and completed almost two days' worth of it last night. Dylan was uncharacteristically stream-of-consciousness chatty after being back in a classroom, being particularly impressed with the dinosaurs and the kitchen area with faux dishwasher. This school is so well organized and geared toward expat families' needs that the crazy mornings are a very small price to pay to meet kids and parents who are in a similar situation.

The weirdest part was taking the train back home this morning after dropping them off. I had a strong pang of, "Holy moly, my children are in one city in a foreign country, and I'm going to another... what am I thinking?" But then there was that guilty sense of relief that I now have a few daylight, weekday hours in which to get stuff done for the first time in months. Of course, rather than grocery shopping or revising my CV, here I am...

Houston, we have progress!

2008-01-04T13:42:00.000+01:00

We can do Mississippi Stop-Stop -- or a reasonable approximation thereof -- on all four strings now. We've got a passable bowhold, and the bow even stays between bridge and fingerboard. We're practically professional. To anyone who hasn't lived in a household with a nascent violinist, the following will probably be excruciating; to be honest, I can't believe my own parents lived through this stage three times, but I'll tell you, this is music to this novice violin teacher's ears.

Dr. Suzuki's rolling over in his grave, but we'll be on to Vivaldi soon enough.

Note, too, the tragic overzealousness [or undertrainedness] of the hair-shredder, er, stylist to whom I entrusted Dylan's innocent little head when we were stateside. For the record, I most emphatically did NOT ask for a buzz cut, and further, they need to train people that the one-inch guard on the electric clippers does NOT leave an inch of hair. At least my looks-like-she-used-the-lawnmower haircuts are free. Sheesh.

Fur-ners, indeed

2008-01-04T11:13:00.000+01:00

When I was telling people at my old office that we were going to be moving abroad, my friend April remarked in her joking emulation of a Tennessee accent, "Wow, Amy, you're going to be a 'fur-ner!'" As silly as it sounds, that was the beginning of my comprehension of the difference between the considerable amount of traveling I'd done previously and actually living abroad for an appreciable period of time. I started to realize that the expectations of my family and me would be significantly different than those of tourists. In the course of years of travel, I have grown comfortable with the discomforts of difference one encounters as a tourist in another country where one doesn't speak the language. I was used to the occasional smirks of the people behind coffee counters when I didn't order in impeccable Italian or Spanish or what have you. While I tend to be a little oversensitive about such things, I've managed to acquire enough humility and perspective (and a tiny bit of humor, tho' I'm still working on that) to get over it for the duration of the trip.

We're now, however, in a position where the trip's not ending for quite a little while. Moreover, we have to take care of the quotidian details -- carpet installation, bill payment, doctor's visits -- attendant to family life, and we're finding that our inability to get by in Dutch is finally proving problematic. Utrecht isn't known for its high concentration of expats, so we're something of a novelty in this area of a country struggling with issues of immigration. (This absolutely brilliant book should be mandatory reading for anyone emigrating to the Netherlands inasmuch as it seems very effectively to lay out the nature of the changing Dutch identity. I'm going to ruminate further on the book in another entry because its issues are all-pervasive here, and they're certainly relevant beyond these borders as well.)

The Netherlands do not have socialized medicine, but rather a hybrid of public and privatized medicine similar to what some have proposed for the States. Every citizen is mandated to have a basic level of health insurance that they must purchase at no small cost (it seems to run around €90 per adult per month). Anyone without insurance can be fined. Those fortunate enough to be able to afford it can opt to purchase better health insurance through their employers. Could this possibly mean that the government of the Netherlands has set up a system committed to least-common-denominator medical care to almost the same degree that managed care has encouraged in the U.S.? Today I set off to find out (although I left my Michael Moore cap at home).

I checked in with the receptionist, whose first question for me even before asking my name was, and I do quote, "Do you even live here?"

An aside: I cannot fathom coming to live in this country from somewhere like Japan where personal interactions are so delicately polite and couched in euphemism; I, the one from the brash frontier country, find that I am continually having to remind (or convince) myself that people are not trying deliberately to offend me.

We (I) got past that and I was ultimately permitted into the waiting room after displaying my insurance card and ID. So far, about what I'd expect an immigrant to encounter in the U.S.

When the appointment receptionist had heard that I was a new patient, she had kindly set up a double appointment for me. This meant that I would get a comparably generous 20-minute audience with the doctor rather than the 10 minutes afforded a typical visit. This did send up a little warning flare for me, but the Dutch do relish their ostensible efficiency, so I resolved to withhold judgment.

The doctor was reasonably prompt, calling me in only three minutes past my scheduled appointment time -- I wouldn't have expected anything less of this culture that expects my 8-year-old to have an appointment calendar at the ready. The doc was friendly enough, but the tenor of the conversation changed after she asked where I was from. This, too, I'm finding typical. There's an edge of something I can only interpret as defensiveness that creeps into a conversation after I have to make this admission. I was treated to a five-minute explanation of how Dutch medicine differs from American medicine -- only to learn that it does not differ. I was told that my huisarts, or primary care physician, would be my conduit to specialists. I remarked that this was exactly how our system functioned, and my doctor responded that she thought that all Americans saw multiple specialists rather than a primary care physician. Well, no, we have the same referral system.

Okay, five minutes elapsed.

Physical examination -- another five minutes.

Then I had a couple of questions about prescription meds for my asthma. We go back and forth to figure out what the equivalent is in Dutch medicine of my first of three meds, and figure it out. When I ask about the second medication, she interrupts me in mid-sentence to consult her clock and say, "If you have so many questions, you need to make a longer appointment." Twelve minutes have elapsed since I walked into her office, fifteen since my appointment time began. I remind her that I had a double appointment and she says, "Good, at least there won't be two or three people waiting," but this is clearly the effective end of the consult. I'm told that Americans are overmedicated and she will not prescribe any further medication for me, that this is what they do in this country. Right then. I am dismissed with two minutes left on the clock and two medications undiscussed, and am told to walk myself out.

Final analysis: Public/private insurance + Dutch bluntness = altogether unpleasant expat experience. I wonder if I'll find any difference if I start claiming to be from Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, the small town in which my husband's grandmother grew up. I think that might just be my new ad hoc hometown for the duration of my expatriation, or at least when I'm hospitalized with my first asthma attack. Can't wait to try it out.

Happy New-therlands 2008

2008-01-01T00:24:00.000+01:00

Aislin decided that a campfire was in order for the New Year. Being that it's a bit too damp for the real thing, she quickly fashioned the pictured substitute out of construction paper. I asked her to cut out some s'mores for me, but I got the "geez, Mom" look and was instructed to pretend. She did deign to "roast" some "marshmallows" for me over the fire, though.

We were warned in somewhat curmudgeonly fashion by another expat that New Year's in the Netherlands can be "an entirely unpleasant experience." Not unpleasant, necessarily, but the few minutes after midnight are sort of like a cross between being the hapless sidekick to a hellbent pyromaniac and a CNN reporter at the siege of Baghdad -- every single human being within a 2-mile radius except ourselves was armed with fireworks, and they're not afraid to use 'em. I think some started aiming for us once they saw us up on the terrace. Afraid we're pyrotechnic snipers, or something. I did manage to get a few seconds of video to record the ersatz carnage:

Dylan had fallen asleep hours ago, and by the time it occurred to me to go check on him, he was sitting catatonic on the edge of his bed in a sort of vertical fetal position. He is not a fan of the show. After we lobbied hard on the "this is fun" end of things, he put on a grim half-smile and muttered resignedly through his clenched teeth after each chest-shaking explosion, "Look, I'm having even more fun now." Aislin, on the other hand, was out there with her shirt over her face to filter out some of the sulfurous smoke that's now so thick that we can hardly see to the other end of our road, laughing every time another one exploded directly overhead and showered colored sparks perilously close to our heads. It's not a shiny ball dropping, but we'll catch that tomorrow morning as we munch our apparently-mandatory, festive apple beignets. I'll toast to that. Oh, and to 2008, too. Happy things all 'round to you and yours.

On Convincing Family that Holidays Abroad are a Good Idea...

2007-12-29T10:35:00.000+01:00

When our brother-in-law found out he'd gotten a paper accepted at a conference in the Netherlands in December, we knew it was time for the full court press. We managed to dupe Jeff's sister, her husband, and our one-year-old nephew into believing that sticking around afterward and spending the Christmas holidays in the Netherlands was an outstanding enough idea that they'd have to experience it for themselves. Little did they know... in our lobbyings, we left out the part about the joys of transatlantic flights with toddlers and the subsequent joys of toddler jet lag. By the time we got around to talking about it, it was far too late for them to cancel the flight. Thank god they're as intrepid as we are, and some of the most devoted parents you'll ever meet.

We had so much fun watching the three kids run around together -- nothing says Christmas quite like a houseful of screaming kids (or at least that's what my parents used to say ruefully as they surveyed the post-Christmas battlefield...). Our nephew is the only kid I've ever met personally who could read before the age of two. I frankly wouldn't have thought it possible, at least not to parents as mellow as these two. We had to put the little guy back in his place, though, when he started in about how the canon has really overstated the role of Christian morality in German idealism. I mean, clearly he needs to read a little more Kant before making such sweeping pronouncements...

But we had a grand time wandering about the city, enjoying the first snow we got here (and the first in our nephew's short life!), and sharing the nuttier aspects of expathood with kindred spirits. It was also great to have Aunt Jessie's creativity around; we have a houseful of colorful decorations courtesy her hours upon hours spent with Aislin transforming a tableful of construction paper into art. We found the best €5 faux Christmas tree in the Netherlands at the secondhand store and, once we added paper chains and stars, it started looking like we might actually be celebrating something.

We also took a trip to Artis in Amsterdam the day before they flew out. Not the most progressive or impressive zoo in the world, but surprisingly varied given its location in downtown, and definitely a worthwhile way to spend a day or two. Artis has a planetarium, a little natural history museum with dinosaur bones, an aquarium, a butterfly garden, reptiles... tons to see. The kids loved the sea lions best; someone was tossing an orange around at their underwater windows, and one of the sea lions came over and was looping about at the window and snapping at the orange as if it could catch it. Later, it was following a coin someone was rolling along the base of the window, much to the kids' delight; of course, the coin thing quickly degenerated to other kids pelting the window with coins... such is the life of a sea lion in captivity. There's something metaphorical and profound in all that, I'm sure. Somebody come up with it for me.

So thanks, guys, for sacrificing being home for the holidays so you could make it feel like home for the holidays here. How 'bout next year? (heh-heh)

O, the humanity

2007-12-17T18:20:00.002+01:00

From "The Daily Mail" online:

Dutch police complain it is their right to smoke cannabis while off-duty
Last updated at 00:53 15 December 2007

Police in Amsterdam are complaining over new rules banning them from smoking cannabis while off duty.

Officers in the Dutch capital, famous for its liberal drugs laws, have been told they must set the public "a good moral example".

The ban, due to come into effect on January 1, will make the force the first in the Netherlands to bar officers from using drugs when not at work.

Frank Gittay, the city's police council chairman, said: "Until now police were only banned from showing up for work stoned or drunk.

"But now we are telling officers they should also behave like the police at all times.

"That means not taking drugs and not getting excessively drunk whether on or off duty."

But Dutch police union chairman Hans van Duijn said: "Many of our members are opposed to this.

"They are not paid for 24-hours a day. What they do in their free time is up to them."

The Transatlantic Cruise

2007-12-12T15:53:00.000+01:00

After a day in Barcelona it was all aboard the Norwegian Gem, a brand new cruise ship christened on October 1 of this year, for a 9-day transatlantic repositioning cruise that would repatriate us for the first time since this whole adventure began. After passing through the Strait of Gibraltar and closer to Africa than we've ever been (although we're hoping to change that while we live here), we made one stop at Madeira -- what a gorgeous island. (There's our formidable ship in the bay.) That was the last stop before crossing the pond to Boston. The trip was far less choppy than expected and a great deal further south than the Titanic's voyage so no iceberg-dodging, although one had to have a slightly hardier constitution than my own to brave the swimming pools... but plenty of people did. Aislin and I played shuffleboard and oversized chess, the kids made friends at the playground and happily bowled at the bowling alley despite some unpredictable rolls, and we read copiously (I managed to get through this rather depressing but fascinating read; as well as these barely passable, short-ish stories by the author of the much better Life of Pi). But it was the easy availability of American food that made it a real vacation. Mm, sausage. Jeff may as well have been one big sausage gravy-boat (that's a confusing thing to punctuate, much less be) as much as he slurped down. I kept watching for signs of heart attack, but it'll take more than a paltry couple of pounds of straight lard to take down generations of Midwestern breeding.

On to sunny Spain

2007-12-02T23:54:00.000+01:00

So after a long-ish day traveling to Germany and back yesterday, we hopped a plane for Barcelona today. My children have traveled enough in the last year that Aislin is no longer terribly impressed to have another stamp in her passport and enjoys the plane rides largely for the opportunity to read, do word puzzles, or nap. She'll usually pull down the window shade as soon as we're in the air "so as not to disturb those around her" with the bright sunlight. That's not to say that she isn't soaking in the details so as to shock us with her recollection of esoterica weeks later, but she's a veteran traveler for sure. For Dylan's part, he's taken to memorizing the names and logo of each airline so that our visits to the airport are now accompanied by his inquiries, "Will we be riding the Continental or the United jet this time?" or the occasional outburst of, "Ooh, look, Mommy! Clickair!"

The flight to Barcelona was scenic enough that even Aislin had her window shade up for most of it so she could watch the snowy crags of the Pyrenees level off into the Mediterranean. As the plane turned to follow the coastline, she was actually wriggling around in her window seat to try to see out Daddy's window on the other side, enjoying the "ocean here, mountains there" view. It really was stunning, I have to confess.

We ended up at a hotel on Las Ramblas, which was touted as one of the most important areas in Barcelona. I had embarrassingly little time to research the city before we arrived short of the research involved in booking the hotel, so I was amazed at how phenomenally beautiful it was (the occasional gutter stench aside). We were blocks from the coastline and the medieval center of the city, so there was plenty to stumble across even for the uneducated and weary traveler dragging two equally weary children behind.

We wandered into the first tapas restaurant we saw for lunch, which was not what the kids would have picked. Horrible service, "weird" food... Aislin actually wishfully mentioned the KFC she'd spotted up the street, but we stuck it out. When they delivered the various dishes, the selection of which was at the restaurant's discretion, we ended up with -- among other things -- a small bowl of tiny octopi in sauce. Aislin and Dylan briefly pondered the little tentacles curled beseechingly to the heavens and promptly concluded that this was some sort of small aquarium and that such things could not possibly be fit or intended for consumption. Jeff, on the other hand, proved that he is far cooler than I could hope to be by popping one into his mouth without so much as grimacing and proclaiming them very yummy.

After one pass around the table, there were still (surprise!) several of the little critters left in their bowl. Dylan was curious, so I started to lift one of them out of the bowl for him to peruse more closely. This evidently convinced him that the octopus was alive and possessed of the ability to leap at his face, thus eliciting a piercing shriek that was followed by that wonderful and all-too-familiar moment of silence in which everyone in the restaurant checks more or less furtively to ensure that they do not have a duty to report any child abuse, and then returns cautiously to their meals. That moment of silence that tells you you're under observation for the next few minutes.

I explained to Dylan again that they weren't alive and were for eating, then proved it by eating one myself. Not bad. Particularly if you chew very quickly and have a four-year-old whom you want to imbue with culinary adventurousness inspecting your every subtle expression. He eyed the bowl suspiciously and slowly extended a single finger to touch one of the remaining heads. When the finger emerged intact from the encounter, we went for putting one on his plate. In another phenomenal display of courage, I'll be darned if Dylan didn't pick it up unbidden and pop it into his mouth. And then ask for another. Dad caught some portion of this (although not the shriek) on camera; here are the bookends of "fear" and "relish":

Yes, that's my boy.

Finally, a trip abroad... or more abroad... or...

2007-12-01T23:55:00.000+01:00

The most comforting aspect of moving to the Netherlands -- as opposed to, say, East Timor -- was the knowledge that we wouldn't be in the middle of a civil war or anything. A very close second was the fact that we'd be relatively near our dear friends, the Richters/Moennichs, who may as well be family. Sisters Nina and Julia were both exchange students with our family when they were in high school, and there's nothing like the high drama of sharing teenage daughters for a year to bring families together.

Nina and Matthias have two boys quite close in age to Dylan, so we've been looking forward to getting them together for years. We finally managed the introductions when my mom, dad, and sister came into town briefly, eschewing a tour of Utrecht for a few hours in a rental van (which trumpeted the name of said rental company on the side in a fashion that probably made it appear as if we were renegade employees on the lam from the airport offices) and a lovely dinner in the town of Bocholt, where Julia and Christoph live. Nothing to test your knowledge of the Dutch rules of the road quite like a large, loud, stickshift van containing three generations of your family hurtling down the A2. We got there with only one small detour; enough said.

Aislin and Dylan don't speak German (yet), and Max and Felix haven't learned a whole lot of English (yet), but the boys quickly found a universal language: THOMAS. Ah, how comforting to see the cross-cultural continuity of backpacks full of small but surprisingly heavy toys being dumped wholesale onto scratchable floors, and the concomitant continuity of mothers pleading with small boys to pick up their trains. In minutes, the boys had retreated to a back room of the apartment from which we subsequently heard only the occasional hoots and chugs of little boys in their paradise of vehicles.

I was encouraged that I could communicate with four-year-old Max, only perplexing him a few times with my rusty German. See, after four years of university-level German, I'm almost as fluent as a smart four-year-old. I'm sure Max will be teaching me what I need to know in no time.

We had a lovely walk through little downtown Bocholt, which was all dolled up for the Christmas season. Aislin enjoyed the Rathaus-turned-advent-calendar whose windows each contained a number in lights for each day in December. A short jaunt down a river path took us to the textile mill/restaurant where we promptly doubled the net decibel level. The boys? They played with trains.

Transatlantic relations, indeed. There may just be a third-generation friendship in the making here...

A Rumination on Cultural Expectations of Sibling Affection in Triptych

2007-11-30T20:47:00.000+01:00

The natural state of affairs...

...having discovered the observing eye...

...yields to the culturally sanctioned sibling ambivalence.

(Thanks for the pictures, Dad.)

Because Jenny asked

2007-11-24T21:41:00.000+01:00

Yes, I am, in fact, here in the Netherlands and can prove it visually. I just choose not to put up pictures of myself because, as I explained to a friend of mine, why put up pictures of myself when I have the excuse of children -- by far the cuter portions of my genome -- to serve as my visual emissaries? But here I am, looking like a dyspeptic packhorse on the bridge at Leiden. Happy now?

Thanksgiving Abroad

2007-11-22T21:39:00.000+01:00

From Lincoln's 1863 invitation to make Thanksgiving a national holiday: I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving....

If it weren't for Aislin's history text, I'd have had no idea that the Pilgrims lived in the Netherlands for something like 12 years before taking the long haul over the Atlantic. It's a good thing there was some connection because otherwise we'd have taken it a lot harder that we couldn't find a whole turkey for sale anywhere in the Utrecht area. I was left with lame explanations to the kids about how the whole spirit of Thanksgiving was the fact that the Pilgrims were using what they could find on the land they'd immigrated to... which was why we should have pannenkoeken for Thanksgiving instead. Pancakes as a main dish? I had them at "Pan--".

As it turns out, there are enough American expats living in the Netherlands that there's an interdenominational Thanksgiving Day service organized each year at Pieterskerk in Leiden, the church where the Pilgrims registered their births, marriages, and deaths. They did not, apparently, actually attend church there... I'm supposing because its lofty roof, ogives, and stained glass would have been too ostentatious for Puritan types. (Perhaps they would have approved when the catastrophic gunpowder explosion in Leiden harbor that leveled half the city in 1807 blew out every stained glass window in the place except one.)

Jeff managed the rare day off on Thanksgiving Day, so we wrestled Dylan into a collared shirt, looked up all the bookstores that carry books in English, and sallied forth to the picturesque college town right down the rails. We finally got the obligatory canal/windmill/bike picture, too, although it didn't really catch the bike partially submerged in the canal right there (and you'll have to enlarge the picture to catch the overexposed windmill). We knew we were getting close to the church when we started hearing American-accented English on every side. It was a jarring experience to walk into the church itself and hear nothing but the mother tongue for the first time in nearly three months.

Aislin and I found seats and she pulled out her sketch book while Jeff and Dylan hung our coats. The friendly lady in front of us turned around, sized up Aislin, and blustered, "Well you look like a nice, quiet girl, thank God." Aislin looked serenely up from her book. The lady continued, undeterred by my best efforts to demonstrate active disinterest, on a jag about the horrible preschoolers who had sat behind her the last two years and forced her to move in the middle of the service because they couldn't stop chattering and kicking her chair. When she moved on to her son's medical history, I uncharitably found myself suspecting that someone's meds might be in need of adjustment. When she finally paused for breath, I did manage to inform her brightly that my four-year-old would be arriving imminently. Although her visage darkened, she did not move and her attention was thankfully diverted to another victim a few moments later. Dylan behaved angelically and ended up sleeping for most of the hour. I swear there was no Dramamine involved, just the perfectly natural soporific effect of churches on preschoolers.

Afterward we wandered about Leiden a little and basked in the college atmosphere while we sought out the bookstores and a pannenkoeken huis. (Hey, a promise is a promise.) We found the pancakes first, thankfully. Aislin ordered the kids' special, which turned out to involve a pancake served with chocolate and four pots of candy to put on top... and that was just a prelude to the ice cream sundae for dessert. We do live in the land where grown adults consume chocolate sprinkles on bread for breakfast, so I don't know why I was so surprised. Here's Aislin straightfacedly informing me that her pancake had adequate nutritional content to get her through the rest of the day. I'll omit the blurred pictures of her zipping maniacally around after consuming it. Then we found a couple of wonky college bookstores and treated ourselves to two overpriced novels that we're now racing each other to finish. (I got a headstart while Jeff slept on the train.)

So we survived Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie and even got in some Pilgrim cred to boot. Now it's on to Sinterklaas...

Sinterklaas cometh

2007-11-20T23:19:00.000+01:00

Here's Aislin with her shoes (and Dylan's) full of carrots and sugarcubes for Sinterklaas' horse, Americo. You see, each night from now until December 5, Sinterklaas' helper, Zwarte Piet, jumps down the chimney (or through the mail slot in our case) and exchanges the equine snack for kruidnoten, a snack more fit for kiddie consumption... assuming some fairly clean shoes to receive said cookies. I am probably the only mom in the Netherlands tonight making my children enswath Americo's feast in paper towels, but I'm hoping Sinterklaas appreciates hygiene or at least cuts us some slack since we're still new and all. I'm also hoping he might go with the alternative small gift of something like a pen or keychain, which seem safer in terms of avoiding bacterial infection, at least with our shoes.

Note Dylan's absence at this festive moment? He passed out cold half an hour before bedtime, so his big sister, ever his defender, not only filled his shoes for him but also wrote this apologia (it folds in half as per the picture above, hence the upside-downness) disclaiming his questionable behavior immediately before bed this evening and explaining that he really is a good kid. Talk about a good kid... she takes the cake. Or the kruidnoten, as the case may be.

The Freewheelin' Dylan

2007-11-18T11:53:00.000+01:00

Dylan's favorite form of Dutch practice:

...and the pride of ownership.

The Bliss of Materialism

2007-11-17T19:05:00.000+01:00

We have furniture.

This is news. I mean, we've had some furniture (mattresses, albeit sans bedframes), but we now have the cornerstone, the new hearth, the principium upon which suburban life is based. We have a couch. (What, you were expecting a TV? We did get that, too.) Or more properly, we have the loveseat-couch set. Or, in my pidgin Nederlands, het 2-zitsplatz-3-zitsplatz combi. Buttery ecru/yellow, leather or a convincing and adequately childproof equivalent. Thank god for Emmaus' used everything store, without which we'd still be camping out in a living room that more closely resembles a high school gym in preparations for the homecoming dance, what with the homemade decorations and chinese paper lantern globe lights (the installation of which prompted A. to observe, "Now everyone will think we're always having a party!"). I didn't like homecoming when I was in high school. Enough said.

After spending about two hours flirting with decorative disaster by moving the couches into all possible configurations over our paper-thin (read: cheapest in the store) linoleum that rips when a Lego hits it the wrong way, we set them down out of sheer fatigue and decided they look just fine where they are. We've now moved on to training D. that our new additions to the dance party decor are not, in fact, cushy trampolines, despite appearances. He and his buddy, Stripe the stuffed tiger, have had a few heart-to-hearts in the Thinking Spot today about the injustice of parental censorship of expression via bounce. He is deeply misunderstood.

Nonetheless, he and A. had a grand time this evening rocking out in the new digs. A. made good use of the new couches (and television) by making a new Dutch-speaking friend and inviting her to consume some tasty Sinterklaas kruidnoten whilst hanging out on the new couch. Rather than watching the newly-available Dutch channels, A. decided to try introducing her new buddy to some of the finest American culture has to offer the tween set -- Hannah Montana. That lasted about five minutes before the girls decided that perhaps digging moats in the playground sand was a better, er, bridge-builder. Three cheers for eight-year-olds' intrepid approach to interlingual communication.

What we learned today

2007-11-15T12:08:00.000+01:00

Just another edifying day of high culture and critical life skills here in our household.

Why my daughter never sleeps well.

2007-11-11T21:08:00.000+01:00