Talk On!

Andrew's vocabulary is growing exponentially and with rapidly increasing speed. Having come to the talking game quite late it seems he is now making up for lost time. He makes daily long strides which nearly boggle the mind. For the most part the stimulation we offer him is our continual conversation, peppered occasionally with actual teaching moments wherein one or more of us tries to consciously open his mind to new vocabulary words. More often than not though, contributions to his speech are accidental and random (Tonight I caught him singing the full lyric to a song from the musical RENT!) as in a sentence from a book, a phrase from a game we are playing together, a movie line he hears, and/or a repeated choice word or two he gains from one of the grown ups--or nearly grown ups--around him. Words which then he is most likely to repeat. My favorite bits in this category are both the phrases 'Check this out', and 'Rock On'. These are the kinds of words I feel all four-year-olds should know. I also have a list of words four-year-olds should NOT know, but truly, I digress.

This morning Andrew and his Daddy were engaged in conversation as Don helped him dress for school. At some point in the exchange (neither adult can really remember how or why it came up in conversation) Don used the celebration phrase 'Boo-yah' and the little man found that to be an absolutely hilarious new word. Tucking it neatly into his memory as a shirttail into trousers, this suddenly became the word of the day for the boy.

"Say it again, Daddy!"

"Boo-yah!"

"Hahahahahahaha!"

"Now, you say it Buddy."

"BOOOO-YAAAAH!"

I had stepped downstairs to pack our lunches and was decently engrossed in the task when I felt Andrew's little hands on my leg.

"Hey Mom, are you ready for this?"

"BOOOOO-YAAAAAH!"

He shouted the word at the top of his lungs and then scampered down the hall laughing.

"Boo-yah" he said as he got his shoes on (all by himself).
"Boo-yah" he cried as he pulled his coat down from the hook.
"Boo-yah" he nattered as he put his backpack into the bike basket.

Boo-yah, boo-yah, boo-yah...
The ride to school was entirely filled with a single track game. From the backseat this question:

"Mom, are you ready for this?"

I responded: "Sure".

"BOOO-YAAAAAAH!" he crowed.

The 50th time being equally as hilarious as the first time, this was the soundtrack for our morning commute.

The morning was busy and full but before Andrew's half day dismissal time I managed to catch his teacher in the hall to chat--among other things--about him. I mentioned to her that he had learned a new word today and perhaps she ought to test him out to see if he still remembered it. I gave her the lead and sent her on her way. When she walked into the classroom, she called out "Andrew? Are you ready for this?" He looked up in shock and amazement, caught her eye, and with a mischievous grin shouted "BOO-YAAH!"

Still tonight as we hung out together to celebrate Don's big birthday, Andrew did not disappoint and for every "are you ready for this" query he returned a hearty "BOOO-YAAAAAH!".

This is how we roll. What started the day with a giggle saw us to it's end with a guffaw. And now I ask you all:


ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?

Boo-yah!

Considering Counsel

Wordless Wednesday

Da Do Run Run

We met just before his 19th birthday. For those of you who are using your fingers to count up the intervening years, please remove the socks from your feet as you'll be needing all ten toes as well. And then you'll have to use a finger from someone else's hand. That's how you'll arrive at the number....

Are you there yet?

Did you guess?

Have you got it?

21 years ago.

I met him 21 years ago in college. We were both on the Speech and Debate squad. He, a debater and me a dramatic interpreter. (Did you have to reach hard to guess that?)

I remember distinctly the first time I saw him.

He. Was. Beautiful.

Long blond locks, clear blue eyes, winning smile which includes a dimple. I fell immediately in love...

with his debate partner.

While that's not totally true (I was not in love) the first time I spent much time at all with him was when his friend Steve wanted to come by my apartment. The two of them came over and spent some time with me. I don't really remember specifics about that night but I do remember thinking that this other guy with Steve was proving to be much more interesting than Steve. He made an impression. Although I ended that first meeting by kissing Steve goodnight (He likes to tell people this story of how we met) it would be the last kiss for Steve from me.

Because I was smitten.

He and I started hanging out together. Seeing movies, writing speeches, studying (ha! ha!), talking for hours. Oh, and kissing. It wasn't long at all before I was in love. Madly, deeply, wildly.

With him.

So I took him home.

I knew it was gonna stick when I introduced him to my family. My sisters adored him, my parents approved of him, and my brothers LIKED him. I shall say that last again and add the emphasis so you won't miss the subtlety. My brothers LIKED him. That's really when I knew he was a keeper.

So I married him.

And I have kept him all these years. I don't plan on releasing him anytime soon either, so you can forget about asking.

Four states, twelve houses, seven cars, four educational institutions, two continents, THREE children, and a wealth of shared experiences later, I am still madly, deeply, wildly, HELPLESSLY in love with him.

The word husband, in Dutch, is man. Spoken with the softer 'a' like in lawn, and not as round as the sound in the Jamaican mon, it is a great english-dutch transition word. I love it's sound. And I love to say it.

Mijn man.

Tomorrow is his birthday (you can do the math and arrive at the number) and in spite of his reticence about reaching this milestone, I want to use this venue to shout out from my bloggy rooftop a hearty gefeliciteerd to mijn man.

Happy Birthday, babe.

You still make my heart stand still.

Double Shot

Today is another first for me.

Allison the great, the lovely, the wonderful woman I share the photoblog site Looking Into with, as well as the author of the incredible insights at Soccer Mom in Denial, has been working up a rhythm of late as she writes about the music in her life. She calls it Music Monday and she dedicates some time each week to sharing some grand bits of personal music memorabilia with her readers. Now, she's created a button and she is sharing the fun. I can't help but want to play.

So I am jumping in for the first time today. That's the first first.

The second first I want to share with you is posted just below. I tripped across this video completely by accident last week and I giggled until I snorted. You may know her right away by name but I did not. For me the recognition was delayed until she opened her mouth and sang.

Yes, I can name that girl in ONE NOTE.

Her name is Kristen Chenoweth and my first acquaintance with her voice was my CD recording of WICKED, the Broadway musical. She played Glinda the Good Witch for the initial run on the Great White Way. In my opinion, she is one of the premier talents of the realm. I love her. Really, I do. I have found myself in a dedicated internet search for more video clips just to watch her genius--and her cuteness. You see, not only is she brilliantly talented, she is also freakin' adorable. I freely admit I have a mild deep crush on her.

Really, it's all about the music.

I am going to stop talking typing now, so we can get on with the show.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you KRISTEN CHENOWETH!

Things That Make You Go Hmmm...

"Jennifer, I will marry you."

That's exactly what he said. We were sitting on the front lawn of my 12-college-roommates-in-a-house-we-collectively-rented-and-shared under the large willow tree and that's what he said.

Just. Like. That.

But you have to know, I hardly knew this guy. Thus it is safe to make the assumption that he really didn't know me.

We had never kissed.

We had never held hands.

We actually had never even been on a date.

I'll be honest here and say it straight out. I didn't even like him. And? And I had a boyfriend.

Yet, here he was--this twitterpated boy--on my front lawn proposing. Or not proposing actually, but dictating. And declaring his love....


Tune in next time for more in the soapy story I have always wanted to share. Yeah, there will be more to say about this. I promise.

*********************************************************************

Thanks to Brillig and Kate for sharing the sudsy goodness. I am proud to be your host for today's Soap Opera Sunday. Enter your link below and let's get our drama on!

1. The Break-Up 2. Brillig 3. Goofball 4. Dedee 5. Kateastrophe

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Even After the First Cup of Coffee

knackered.

See what was singularly on the minds of these folks:

Anno

Fourier Analyst

Wholly Burble

Jen in MI

If you've played tell me so and I will link you here.

And What Will Poor Robin Do Then?

We're under the weather around here. And by saying that, I mean there is a severe weather warning for The Netherlands tonight. The winds are supposed to be fierce (fiercer than normal--which is really saying something) and the rain is already pouring. We haven't seen the sun in days, but that's not news for folks in the low lands. The sun doesn't hang out much in Holland, at least not in the winter. There is only one weather here during the winter months and that is, oh, how can I say it best?

Yucky.

We have a friend who has a not so endearing term for Holland's weather. I can't share it with you here because, well, it contains some not so very nice words. Don't get me wrong now, I can say these words, I can even write these words, I am just a bit uncomfortable writing them down in this post. (My mother in law reads my blog after all!) But the three word adjective-noun-verb phrase (rhymes with bitty-bit-buck) completely cracks me up every time I hear it. And then I cry a little because it's completely, totally true.

The winter weather here sucks.

This morning as Andrew and I saddled the bike to ride into the school--he to class and me to work--we had a discussion about the weather.

"Oh, no, it's windy!" he said.

I responded. "It's not windy this morning baby, it's just fine."

"Yes!" He said and stamped his foot for emphasis. "I see a wind."

I looked to the sky and then said again. "No, babe, there's no wind, we're going to be okay."

"I see a wind" he insisted, pointing at the last remaining leaves on the oak in the front garden. "There is a wind." he said. "Look!"

I looked and I could see his point. There was a light breeze gently shaking the last leaf on the branch.

I tried in vain to add the new vocabulary word breeze to his repertoire, but he was having none of it.

"That's a wind. I told you Mom. I see a wind."

Throughout the day this storm has rolled in at a relentless pace. And, tonight with the wind whipping in earnest outside--howling through the door jambs and forcing tree branches to scrape along the balcony ledges and the windows--I am confident that I will soon have a bed partner in the form of a four-year old boy. I am also certain that he will remind me once again,

"I told you Mom. I told you I saw a wind."

Uncertain What to Say

A note to my blogger pals:

Three words. Six syllables.

SOAP OPERA SUNDAY.

Yes, friends. You with your stories of love, drama, disaster, and romance. The place to share the epic tales is in this very venue. Created by Brillig and recently co-launched globally with the lovely lady Kate over at Walking Kateastrophe, SOS is a can't miss Sunday experience.

And this week I get to host the goodness.

I just know you can dig into the recesses of your memory and come up with something delicious to write and share with the world. Certainly, you know you want to, and now you know I want you to, so really, how can you resist?

The rules are established and posted here. When your juicy tidbits are entered and ready to post, come back to my place to leave your link.

Come on baby, light my fire.

**************************

I told you before that recently I got this really nice award from Allison over at Soccer Mom in Denial, right?

Next I got this cool award from Bonnie Jacobs who writes Words From a Wordsmith.


Now I have another to add to my stash. I am deeply appreciative to Jen in MI from A2eatwrite for sharing with me another beautiful button.

Look here-->

I am truly blown away that the queen of niceness would consider me. Jen is not only a loyal reader and commenter here at this blog (even when I have nothing to say), she is also a daily visitor and commenter at the photoblog I share with Allison. There just aren't words enough to express how very, very nice it is to have her support and to read her insightful words. Thank you Jen. Thank you very much.

I want to share this one by passing it along to these three blogpals of mine.

1. Leslie of My Mommy's Place. She's nice, she's hilarious, and she is a remarkable human being.
2. Patois of Whee! All the Way Home. A loyal commenter who always has a sweet or funny something to say here.

3. Gunfighter of The View From Here. Who is a seriously nice guy.


Now then, a note for all of you, my readers and my friends. Do something nice for me will you? Release your email address with your commenter identities. What I mean to say, is that for many of you who come by here and take the time to say such nice things to me, I have no way to respond to you. Your comment comes to my inbox marked "no reply". And you must believe me when I tell you that I really, really, really want to reply. With the new status quo in my life--a full time job on top of that kid-raising thing that I do--I don't have as much time on my hands to blog around and comment like I used t'could. However, I do so like to comment on what you have commented upon. Yes, I love to discuss, and the best way for me to engage you is for you to offer me your email so we can exchange ideas and messages and well, yes, so I can pester and annoy you with my notes.

Will you do it, huh? Will you please? (Instructions on how to process my request and enable your email are here)

Look at that, I had something to say after all.

Calf's head in WHAT?

Lots of words on a Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday Participants

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7. Comedy Plus 8. rhonda 9. ONwebCHECK 10. Meisha 11. Katya 12. giles

13. Wendy 14. Blooming Idiot 15. pelfy 16. cyberbones 17. patois 18. Lisa Milton

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Now That's What I Call Action

Yesterday, a letter went home with the students which read in part like this:

The school day ends at 15:00 on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and on Wednesdays at 12:30. Children who are not picked up timely from the playground will be brought to the primary office to wait. We ask that you make every effort to arrive promptly at the end of the day. The week before half-term our office staff were not able to work after 15:00 as they had over 10 children waiting in the office every day (on two consecutive days it was 20 children!) As the office is not staffed to watch your children at the days end, habitually late pick up will incur charges as follows:


Pickup between 3:15-3:30 (12:45-1:00 on Wednesdays): € 15
Pickup between 3:30-3:45 (1:00-1:15 on Wednesdays) € 30
Pickup between 3:45-4:00 (1:15-1:30 on Wednesdays) € 50

It was then signed by the headmaster.

And we held our breath here in the office and waited.

I am writing this post at 3:25 p.m. and you want to know how many children are in my office awaiting pick up?

Z.E.R.O.

Can you hear the strains of my hallelujah from there?

Join Me Someplace Warm

Some Enchanted Evening

A couple of months ago, a friend moved in with us. Partly for her enriched experience of living in Europe for a few months, but mostly for her saving-my-rear-end by fullfilling the need for a full time babysitter as I began my new job, Elise has been an absolute godsend to our home.We have loved every minute of having her here.

She is a gracious and gorgeous young woman--not quite 20 years old.

These are things I have known about her forever. These are also the things displayed with crystal clarity as the two of us took a weekend trip to Brussels last month.

Most of the time I don't notice the tremendous age gap between us and when I hang with her I am caught up in believing that I too am a mere 20-something year old. Then of course I look in a mirror and wonder why in the world this old woman is staring back at me. But that of course is a lament for a different post. We are talking about Elise here, and I intend to stick to the point.

A weekend in Brussels. Perfect weather; perfect food; perfect company. The two of us schlepped from point to tourist point, enjoying the sights, the shopping and the eating. So much delicious eating!

On Saturday evening as we boarded the underground train there were a couple of men who literally were craning their necks backward to get a better look at Elise as we rode the escalator downward and they rode up. I laughed out loud and said, "You are totally getting checked out here!" She laughed too and demured with an "I know" response.
We set off to see the Atomium at night with it's sparkly lights shining and then took the return trip back into the city toward our hotel.

That's when the oogling fun really began.

On that train were several men (okay, three) who literally couldn't take their eyes off of my traveling companion. They noticed her. We noticed them. They smiled. We laughed. Then one of them got up the courage to approach her. Now, I must mention without sounding too snotty or rude that this man was not what one would consider a "catch". Not by a long shot. He was not tall, dark and handsome but rather a bit on the short side, bald and a slightly funny looking. But he had his eye on Elise (who is tall, blonde and exceptionally beautiful). It took a few minutes of charades and broken speech to determine that between us--in spite of 5 languages--we had very little vocabulary in common. We settled on English as the best option and he struggled through a few questions in order to establish his message.

"This your daughter?" He asked me.

"Yes." I told him. (The truth is I could be her mama. I am old enough and she is young enough and there was really no way to explain the actual relationship. Plus, I can say "yes" in French, so I felt I was doing my part in the multi-lingual exchange)

"Oh, your daughter. Beautiful!"

"Yes, thank you. I think so too"

"Yes, beautiful your daughter. She is my heart."

At this point Elise is getting more than a little creeped out, but she's too sweet to say "ick" and run away, and besides that, where are we going to run? We are on an underground train after all.

The stilted conversation continued for several more stops as this guy declared his undying love for my daughter, and his buddies got up the courage to make a few comments of their own. It was hilariously uncomfortable and I think Elise and I both were tremendously relieved when the train reached our platform. We stepped off.

But so did her suitor.

He just wanted to have a picture taken with her, and he pantomimed what he needed as he handed me his phone and walked toward Elise putting his arm around her waist.

What could I do? (I am nice too, you know) so I said "okay" and got ready to take the photo of them together. At which point he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek!

So somewhere in this great wide world there is a picture of my beautiful nanny and her Portuguese/French loverboy in the Brussels underground. That she looks ready to vomit in the photo could not possibly have dissuaded this man from believing that he had found his true love that night.

And Elise? Couldn't get to the hotel to wash that cheek fast enough.

*************************************

This is my first run at Soap Opera Sunday, conceived and launched by the incredible Brillig and her lovely friend Kate. Today's links are being hosted by Thalia's Child and you can read more stories of love, drama and romance by clicking over there.

Can't Seem to Find the Rhyme

salamander

******

1. Soccer Mom in Denial

2. Fourier.Analyst

3. anno

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Blossoming

Years and years ago I remember reading the phrase "color me sorry" somewhere. I cannot recall if it was on a greeting card, or if it was a sentence in some super-sappy-angst-filled-teen-drama-novel I was reading at the time (I did mention this was years and years ago). Regardless of when I first tripped across it, it is a phrase that has stuck with me. I have even used it a time or two in my life. Not in my speech--it seems just maybe a bit too odd to say aloud--but certainly in written form. The notion of the color sorry just resonates with me. Or is it the verb-noun combination--coloring sorry--which is appealing? I am not sure.

A few months ago Jennifer of The Verge wrote a bit about this idea: the colors of her life, the color of emotion. As it always does, her writing speaks to my soul and I have come back to this notion over and again lately.

Tonight I spent several hours in the company of friends--you could nearly call them family--and celebrated a birthday for the youngest member of the group (she's 22). It was such a terrific evening full of open sharing and caring conversation with like minds and fellow travelers. I reluctantly dragged myself from the gathering as the time grew late, knowing that I needed to get home but really wanting to linger in the warmth of the moment. I rode my bike home in the crisp fall air with my heart singing out a color. I can't name it, but I can show you it's best approximation.

This is the color of my life tonight:


Perhaps it does have a name. I think I will call this color friendship.

Does This Spell Anything?

P is for perfect. Or at least pretty darn near. If you are not a blog hopper and therefore missed the song of motherhood over at Brillig's place this month, then you must drop everything NOW and go forth to read it. And more to the point, if you are a blog hopper and you read it before, I simply must insist you drop everything NOW and read it again.
Among other simply perfect things she says in her piece In the Still of The Night she whispers this line:

"But in those sacred hours of the night, while “important” people are sleeping, my little baby and I share powerful moments full of love, peace, and serenity—things that society doesn’t give him but that perhaps one day he’ll give to society. As I rock him, I tell him who he is, I tell him who he can become, I tell him who loves him."

A bit of writing which brings tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat even as I cut and paste it from her blog page to mine.
It's simply a can't be missed post. A perfect post. And it deserves this:

Brillig, ya done good, baby.

(P is also for postscript. That is this: More perfect posts for October can be found at Lindsay's or Momma K's. Just thought you should know)

F is for first. Meaning First day of the month. The first day of this month--November--signals the beginning of that crazy blogging fun begun at NaBloPoMo. I know the word looks silly, but the intent is terrific. National Blog Posting Month. A post every day for the month of November. Every. Day. Yes, I shall say it again: Every. Darn. Day.

Visit NaBloPoMo

Certainly sounds like a gauntlet thrown down to me. And since I can't run from a challenge, I am giving it a go. You'll come around all month just to see what I have to say, right?

S is for something new. Or Saturday. Either one is a decent segue to this: Part of my NaBloPoMo fun will be a new Saturday game I will play. I thought of it myself, but you can play too if you wish. I shall call it Singular Saturday and it will consist of posting only a single word. From the ridiculous to the sublime, I will wrap it all up for you (my many deep and profound thoughts) in a single word on Saturdays. Now, that's sensational.

[I am going to need a badge for that, I guess.]

Cat Nap

Wordless Hallowe'en

A Day Like Any Other

"Good Morning, International School of The Hague. This is Jenn, can I help you?"

"Hi. Yes, I have a question."

"Sure."

"Is the school closed on November 1st?"

"No, the first will be a regular school day."

"Oh, okay. I was just wondering if the school would be closed because in Belgium the schools close for All Saint's Day."

"Um. Right. Okay. But this is Holland."

"So it will be business as usual on the first?"

"Indeed."

Every Last Bit

Back in the Spring of 2005, our family began preparations to move from Phoenix to Leiden. In hopes that the experience would be longer than the one-year academic course my husband would be attending, we divested ourselves of most of our possessions. We held garage sales and Internet sales (I sold my car by email). We donated goods to charity and gave goods to friends. When August, and our imminent departure, rolled around, we had reduced our mass to virtually what fit inside our 10 suitcases plus carry-ons. That we left a corner of our Arizona house stuffed with a few remaining--too precious-to-toss--items didn't deter us from believing that we had truly simplified. It was liberating to imagine that everything we needed or wanted could be carried with us (albeit with a luggage carrier).

The first year in The Netherlands we lived in the home of a Leiden University professor who was on sabbatical with his family in the U.S. It was an ideal living arrangement for us as they had left everything of household necessity behind and available to us. From dishes to bicycles we were covered and found ourselves wanting and needing nothing.

With the mentality following that we would be repacking for a possible return flight to the USA after that first year, we kept our accumulation in check.

Somewhat.

I began to be suspicious of our collective ability to pull off the simple life when we moved from Leiden into our friend's home (we would house sit for the summer) in July 2006. That it took more than one van load to haul our things to her house was mildly disconcerting. Still, all in all, I figured we were still maintaining that idyllic reduced-possessions lifestyle I so wanted to keep.
From that moment onward, that hope in keeping it simple has been a lost dream. Part of it is understandable, really. When we moved to The Hague last summer it was into a home without furnishings. I adjusted my thinking to include the notion that it would be all right to once again own furniture. Surely, I could make my home comfortable without overdoing it in the accumulation department.

However, it just didn't stop there.

Admittedly, once our placement here in this country moved from temporary to exit-at-an-indefinite-date I allowed myself to think bigger and more permanent. We bought stuff. Stuff we needed sure. And stuff we wanted, most definitely. Hell, I even bought more shoes. And a computer. A file cabinet. A television.

And other stuff.

Trust me now when I tell you, my belongings no longer fit into 10 suitcases plus carry-ons.

Here then is the source of this diatribe. I spent the better part of my Sunday morning cleaning out my closet--removing summer gear and replacing it with heavy winter sweaters and long sleeved apparel. I also took the opportunity to throw out (meaning: ready for donation to charity) old clothes which I no longer wear for a variety of reasons. I filled 3 large plastic bin sacks full.

And yet?

Yet my closet is full. More things than I can possibly wear, more than I can definitively declare that I NEED.

And as I sit here at my brand new computer with my feet clad in my (just purchased yesterday) fuzzy pink slippers, I am suddenly loathe to consider just how I would live without it.

All of it.

Beautiful Berlin

Wordless Mittwoch

It Can Be Done

An entire blog post

written only in haiku

bringing you the news.

Half-term break is here

which surely means vacation,

no work and no school!

Six will board the train

Our destination: Berlin.

(Germany, of course).

Just one week to play...

Post trip I'll share everything

Back here at the blog.

While you're missing me

You can visit everyday

The other blog I keep.

At Looking Into

Allison and I both share

the photos we take.

I will miss you all

And I hope you'll miss me too

You can leave love notes.

xoxox

jenn

XOXOX

Repaired now for Cynic's sake

I'll sign off: Love, Jenn

Status Quo

"Hi Mom, how was your day at work?"

"Pretty good."

"So did anyone come into your office with so much blood gushing from their nose it soaked their shirt today?"

"Nope. Not today."

"Well, did anyone come by who fell on his back on the playground and really got more scared than hurt and just needed you to say 'you're okay' before you sent him back out to play?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Hmmm... Did a little girl come in to tell you that she had stabbed her own knee with a pencil?"

"Again, no."

"But for sure someone came limping in for an ice pack because she twisted her ankle at P.E.?"

"As a matter of fact, nope."

"No one came to your office to say that they had thrown up in the toilets and might need to do it again RIGHT NOW?"

"Sadly, no, son."

"So, let me get this straight, none of these things happened today?"

"Nope, not a one."

"Wow, you had a really boring day today"

"Yep. You got it. Some days are like that I guess."

Falling All Over Holland

Wordless Wednesday

Taking Care of Business

Second only to feeding the goats at the neighborhood Kinderboederij, the favorite activity for a certain four-year-old in this house is the glass recycler just around the corner. Once each week, or perhaps not quite as often as that, we gather all the empty glass jars and bottles in the house and carry them down the street to the green metal bins. Marked carefully for white, green and brown glass, this receptacle is built partially in the ground and is the perfect height for our little man to heft the bottles into the slot and push them on their journey down-down-down into the deep cache of... what? Broken glass I guess.

Whoosh~CRASH! The bottles slide through the opening and land splat on top, shattering with a satisfactory cacophonous sound.

"Again!" Andrew cries. "Another one!" And we watch bottle after bottle disappear into the deep chasm.

It's always a little hard to wait until the next jar of peanut butter is empty so we can play the game again.

The truth is I have always been a lover of the recycling mantra--reduce, reuse, recycle--but never knew it could be so much fun to send glass on the first part of it's journey to become something new.

I find the double measure of entertainment while taking care of the earth to be extremely appealing.

And Everything In It's Place

There are exactly 422 students enrolled in the primary school at The International School of The Hague.

I know, because I have counted every one of them.

And then I counted them again.

The last few weeks at work we (meaning my colleagues and I) have had the pleasure of been documenting each and every child attending the primary school. This accounting which is crucial to the Dutch government includes knowing interesting information about each of them such as their name, birth date, address and phone number. Obscurely enough part of the required information is the nationality of each student's parents. Not so obscurely the way to find this information was to open each of those 422 paper files individually and find the information.

Ah.

You are already picturing the painstaking fun.

Heads bent over paper we have employed multiple techniques to get the information fast. (Of course there was a deadline for this monumental project. What fun would an impossible task be without it?) We filled in temporary forms with information, we read aloud to one another the facts and figures, we deciphered the scrawls of international parents filling in English forms. And we input data as fast as our fingers could fly.

Trust me, it's been a real party.

Today we sat down with the class registers, the printed database and a highlighter pen, to count, recount, and account for all the children attending our school.

And you know what?

We. found. them. all.

Including the 7 children who we knew were attending school (according to class registers) but did not show up on the database. (Like computers know everything? Please.) Something akin to a needle-in-a-haystack search we compared name for name and counted them each and every one. To our delight the missing surfaced and our happy dance began as soon as those names were entered into the computer and the whole file was winging it's way electronically to those who had been breathing down our necks about it need it.

My new favorite number is 422.

And my favorite Dutch word this week?

Compleet.

Have You Got Something to Say?

A big thank you to Paige over at 42 for bringing this to my attention and for keeping it at the forefront of my overwhelmed brain.

I am going to play. Will you join too? Check out all the details here.

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A big thank you as well to Allison at Soccer Mom in Denial who gave me this:

She has something to say about it here.

Now, I tell you. That's nice.

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Rotterdam from the Road

Wordless Wednesday

One For the Road

"Okay, buddy, I am on my way. I will see you later after work, okay?"

"Wait, wait, wait! I got to tell you something at the door."

"Okay, pal. Sounds good. Are you going to tell me that you love me?"

"Uh... no."

"Are you going to say that you'll miss me?"

"Uh... no. But you got to miss me okay, Mom?"

"Yep buddy. I am going to miss you while I am at work."

"Yeah, but I got to tell you something at the door."

"All right. Come and tell me what you have to say 'cause I've got to get going."

"Do you got your bike Mom?"

"Yeppers. I've got my bike."

"Are you going to work Mom?"

"Yes, I am on my way to work."

"Okay. I got to tell you something at the door Mom."

"Right. I am waiting. What did you want to tell me at the door then?"

"Bye."

Shiny Pretty Things

In spite of the fact that I have been spending it now for two years running, I have never really come full circle to appreciate the Euro as money. Notwithstanding the harsh, bitter truth that my paltry and boring monotone green American dollar is weaker than weak against the Euro right now, I have yet to lose the sensation that the euros I carry around in my purse or my back pocket are something of a pretty plaything intended to entertain and delight as I gaze upon the happy colors, varied sizes, shiny bits and pretty pictures of each bill.

It took me months to understand that with a pocket full of coin I actually had A LOT of money to spend. Instead of the U.S. quarter or ten-cent dime occupying space in my wallet--or again, my back pocket--I now carry 1 and 2 euro coins in their place. And let me tell you, it doesn't take too many of those jingling together creating rhythmic accompaniment for my step before I have some serious buckaroos!

I remember a time during our first few months in Leiden when the weekly student budget was wearing thin. We really needed some basic grocery supplies and I was wondering just how I would make the 10 euro bill in my purse stretch to meet the expense. As I was walking to the neighborhood shops I peeked inside the coin holder of my bag and counted the euro coins within. Score! It was an additional 12 euros! In coin! That moment of realization still makes me grin and I remember the lightness of my step as I carried on toward the supermarket. Not only would I be bringing home milk, bread and bananas, but hey! With 12 extra euros in my pocket there would be cookies in the bag for sure!

It doesn't take much to please me.

With the first session of After School Activities at the International School now underway, I brought some work home with me tonight. I needed some space and quiet to finish my lists and sort the fees paid so I can in turn pay the teachers for the various classes they offer. Let me tantalize here and tell you that all the fees for the activities program comes in in cash. Yup. Cash money in all those fancy euro bills.

Look, I will show you.

Can you imagine the fun I have been having?

The best part of all of it is that all the money came out just right. In spite of the craziness that is my office at the Primary School, I managed to keep records straight, write accurate receipts, track ALL THAT CASH that dribbled in this week, and count it out into lovely little large piles of payment for the teachers. Whatever else it was, it certainly was fun rolling in the money tonight.

I can't quite decide now whether it was like one large Monopoly game where I win everything or perhaps something else. As I stuffed bills into unmarked envelopes and folded the seals over I couldn't help but imagine that I was in some sort of fantasy mafia world with the arranged pay-offs accumulated on my living room floor.

Yeah, I think from now on you can call me Jenny Soprano.

Negotiations

Four year-old Andrew has finally acquiesced to be potty-trained.

I can only hand the success to THE NANNY here in our house who has boldly and brilliantly led the path to diaper freedom.

Andrew has the know how.

He has the skills.

And he has an unbelievable willpower.

We discovered recently that if he's in underpants, he goes to the toilet.

If he's in a pull-up, he doesn't.

Truly, he just doesn't want to.That lovely padded pull-up is just so cozy, who in his right-toddler-mind would worry about pulling that thing down to sit on a briskly cold and hard toilet seat?

I ask you.

So we challenge him, requiring that he step out of the nighttime pull-up as soon as he wakes. Thus, he lands squarely back in responsibility land; the land where he is fully capable and fully trained. He prefers the land of denial. But whatever, I am the mama.

Last week, he and I entered a discussion which went something like this:

"Hey Droopers, lets get that pull-up off and get some big boy pants on!"

"uh... no."

"Yep. It's time dude. Drop the drawers and let's get dressed."

"Mom. I'm just gonna wear this pull-up okay?"

"Nope, you are going to wear pants buddy."

Don had gone downstairs to retrieve a pair of big boy underwear from the school backpack (in case of accidents at playgroup) and I scurried Andrew along to find his dad and get his pants on.
He swish-thunked down the stairs on his bottom with his pull-up clad derriere striking each step to make a resounding thud, and he called out "Daddy. Daaaaady. Daaaaaady" as he made his way to the bottom. Reaching the destination (and the dreaded underpants) he explained to Don with much fervor and conviction (clearly, the wheels turning in his head):
"Dad, just put the pants OVER my pull-up. Okay?"

As if to say: I will comply with your must-wear-pants dictate, but let's do it this way which works out oh-so-much-more-comfortably-for-me.

As if kid. As if.

We Were Big Haired Once and Young

Yeah, that's me. 1991.

Wordless Wednesday

Finding My Voice

You probably heard.

I was under the weather last week, and as is standard for me anytime I catch a head cold, the virus descended from my sinuses to my voice box and I spent three days in the last seven, croaking like a frog. Handy only in the fact that such a voiceless condition elicits great sympathy from all whose ears were subject to my (lack of) melodious tones, to be sans melody is disquieting.

By Friday I was squeaking out low level decibels in my speech. Nearly audible, I was able to once again take my share of the incoming phone calls at work. A day at work was about all that my voice could take and by the afternoon I was once again sapped of sound. When a co-worker stepped in to the office to receive well wishes and a bottle of wine for her birthday, I gave it my all to join in singing "Lang zal ze leven" but couldn't make sound form through the chords.

The true test of laryngitis came Friday evening when, just as I was sitting down on my couch to watch some television with Ian and Elise, I spied several young boys inside the gate of my front garden. I hesitate only briefly before I label this gaggle as a bunch of punks. It was obvious they were up to no good. Emboldened by the numbers in their group they were measuring up the bikes standing in the front yard to quickly determine which would be easiest to make off with. What they were not counting on was the fact that all of our bikes are locked, but further and more to the point as you are about to see, they were not counting on being spotted.

But they were.

By me.

I am certain it was without grace, but confident that the speed with which I flew from the living room, through the hallway and out the front door surprised not just me, but all those brats boys gathered in my yard.

They quickly hoofed it down the road.

I suppose someone else may have left it at that, but this had awakened something in me and I shouted at them with all the strength in my lungs:

Hoi Jongens! Wat doen jullie daar? (Hey boys! What are you doing?)

As you are correct to imagine there was very little response and absolutely no complicity from the group who had stationed themselves down the street under a lamp post. I suppose they felt secure in their numbers and proud of their antics.

Of course, my shouts aroused the curiosity of my husband who was upstairs in our bedroom and he called out to me from the balcony. I quickly filled him in on the events of the past 2 minutes and fast as lightning he joined me in the front yard.

I continued to yell that they needed to answer for themselves and that I would call the police. This decree got the only en masse response which was a collective giggle.

That's when I got pissed.

And my husband started to run.

What could I do but give chase as well?

In my stocking feet I joined pace for pace with Don as we chased the hooligans from the street; the boys split immediately as each turned tail and took off, dashing around corners, across canals and running down parallel streets.

The pace of the chase and the heat of the moment served to completely unglue me. As we turned the corner to chase the last of them off, Don called out something decidedly derisive and I echoed in turn.

I have to admit, it was not attractive.

And there was no stopping me.

Obscenities flying, (ENGLISH ONLY--no language can match what we've got!) I tossed off as many insults as I could muster in rapid fire succession, and only ceased when my calm and caring husband put his hand on my shoulder and said "Jenn. We live on this street."

I clammed up, but I didn't calm down.

Don and I walked back to our home and sat down in the front garden to talk.

To be fair, he talked while I fumed. And then he listened while I decompressed.

I don't lose my temper very often. In fact, you could almost say never. But I did on this night and it has taken me days to settle down about it all.

Curiously, the entire scream fest did not call a single neighbor out of their houses to assist or watch. This fact, along with the belligerence of these wayward-going-nowhere boys was high on the topic list as I ranted about the event, and by association life in Holland.

But it's more than that isn't it? Though it seems commonplace, I know this culture has no exclusive hold on delinquent youth nor apathetic adults. I am lucky I think, that in my two years here that there haven't been more unfortunate events befall us. To be fair, Holland is a safe country by comparison and there is little violent crime here. But crime does happen. Specifically and commonly that crime is bike theft, general theft and vandalism. Most unfortunately for the populace it is standard and I dare say, accepted as just the way it is. This disregard for people, for property, for privacy, is rampant and universal.

It came to my door Friday night, and it sent me over the edge.

I am mad. I want to keep shouting. I want to do something about it.

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Misery loves company I suppose. Please read what Fourier Analyst has to say on this subject. She's got a point.

It's Like A Song

Jenn in Holland caught a cold
oh-no-no-no-no!

And with this cold there was some SNOT
oh-no-no-no-no!

With a drip-drip here and a drip-drip there
Here a drip, there a drip
Everywhere a drip-drip!

Jenn in Holland caught a cold
oh-no-no-no-no!

Now with this cold there was a COUGH
oh-no-no-no-no!

With a hack-hack here and a hack-hack there
Here a hack, there a hack
Everywhere a hack-hack!

Jenn in Holland caught a cold
oh-no-no-no-no!

Then with this cold there was a FEVER
oh-no-no-no-no!

With delirium here and delirium there
Here a deli, there a rium
Everywhere delirium!

Jenn in Holland caught a cold
OH-NO-NO-NO-NO!

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Jenn in Holland feels better now.
Thank you all for your concern, your well wishes, and your support.

I'm back.