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.

Thinking of the Cherry Tree

I am barely holding it together myself.

She has walked into my office, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her nose is crimson and her cheeks flushed with emotion. She flops into the chair beside my desk and waits until I hang up the telephone. I turn to her in query and the emotion breaks loose. Her thin shoulders heaving, the echo of sniffles resounding, I beckon for her to join me in my swivel chair and I pull this lanky 11 1/2 year old onto my lap. We sway from side to side as I gently coax answers from my overwrought pre-teen girl. Her words, choked through belly wracked sobs, lay out the tale from start to finish.

It's not an emergency--just a moment.

A moment with her teacher applying too much pressure and her peers too little understanding.

It is not the first moment like this in her life and it will not be the last.

It is as if suddenly being a middle schooler takes on a fully new meaning for her. Now it's not only about having a hallway locker, a new teacher for each subject, and a steady load of homework; it is about growing up.
And coming to terms.
And learning to cope.
More than anything, it's about learning to roll.

With my arms wrapped around her neck and my lips pressed against her ear, I whisper my encouragement.

I tell her that I believe in her.
I tell her she is strong and capable.
I tell her that I love her.

I wish I could tell her that growing up is going to be a breeze.

But I can't lie.

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Wordless Wednesday

Hold That Thought

...I'll be back.

I promise.

Sink Your Teeth Into It

You remember my shadow? Here is another simply-must-be-shared moment with Maia. As told to me by her Mom.

"Mum, I want to bite my teachers."

"What darling? You want to bite your teachers? Whatever do you mean?"

"You know, I want to bite them over to my house."

"Oh, you want to invite them to our house! Well, that sounds lovely."

"Yes, I want to bite them over. My class teacher and my Dutch teacher and that one teacher with the perfect nose."

Wise Beyond His Years

Wordless Wednesday

Cause for Celebration

This one doesn't need much in the way of introduction, so by all means, press play and enjoy.

Possibly the only translation needed, the sign at the end reads: In case of a shoplifter we ALMOST always will report this to the police.

The Middle Road

When I was young, I longed for a middle name.
My parents didn't award one to the girls in our family at my Mom's insistence that once married we would never use a middle name again (she didn't) so I was middle nameless for the first 23 years of my life. Of course, not having a real middle name didn't stop me from making up one of my own. In bold childhood scrawl you can read it on all my first grade papers:

Jennifer Jane.

My brothers still tease me relentlessly about it, but I thought it had a lovely ring.

Once married, I did indeed move my maiden name to the middle slot and for the first time was the proud owner of a middle name. It appears on my drivers license as well as my passport. I sign legal documents with that name smack in the middle between my first and last. Though certainly it doesn't carry the same ring as my self imposed JENNIFER JANE, it does carry the legacy of who I am and so it will do.

For the past 18 years I have been proudly identified as Jennifer Gwilliam Taylor. No worries, no questions, no problems.

And then I got a job in The Netherlands.

As best as I understand it here, all work documentation for a married woman needs to be done with her maiden name as the identifier. Suddenly at my intake with the HR department I became Jennifer Taylor-Gwilliam.
Fine. No worries, no problem.

Except.

That's not how my identification reads and for whatever reason, or set of reasons, it took positively FOREVER for those working on my file and/or writing my contract for the school year to get their minds around the fact that what LOOKS like my middle name is indeed my maiden name.

Yes, hi Jenn. I just have another question about your maiden name.

Sure. okay.

Yes, my question is what is your maiden name? I see we have here written that it is G-W-I-L-L-I-A-M but on your passport that name is your middle name.

Right. In the states, as is custom, when I married, my maiden name became my middle name.

Yes, all right. So your middle name is your maiden name?

Yes. That's exactly right.

So you don't have another middle name?

No, I have no other middle name.

Just your maiden name?

Right. My maiden name is my middle name.

Yes, okay, I think I understand.

Before you think to yourself that a single conversation sorted this controversy I am going to ask you to think again. And then think again. Right after you are finished thinking, please commiserate with me over the fact that I have had this conversation or some version of it no less that 7 times in the last two weeks.

A middle name is proving to be the bane of my existence.
I really should have stuck with Jane.

AND NOW, with that exceptionally long introduction I am going to play a tag given to me by both Gunfighter and Songbird. I don't really know the rules and even if I did I am bound to not follow them. If you really want the details I am sure you can scout it out for yourself. But as I remember, I am supposed to define my middle name by identifying something about myself with each letter.

G--Grateful. The gratitude list in my life is endless. I am exceptionally grateful for my family, immediate and extended, and for my friends.

W--Willful. As in unbelievably stubborn. But only when it comes to personal expectations and goals. In all other things I am a great team player.

I--Insightful. And occasionally creative.

L--Loving. Even to spiders and other creepy-crawlers. I will carefully scoop them up and carry them tenderly to a new place to make a better home for themselves than say, spinning a web on my bike handlebars or living inside my shoe.

L--Loved. Lucky, lucky me.

I--Inspired. By my friendships; my relationships; and the beauties of the earth.

A--Attached. To people, to sentiment, and to truth.

M--Mixed up and a little confused. But that's what keeps me interesting, right?

You want to play? Then, tag! You're it!

Breakfast of Champions

That's My Girl

Wordless Wednesday

Let Them Roll

It's that time again! Thanks to Momma K and Lindsay who developed and host it each and every month, we have once again arrived at PERFECT POST day.

It is my pleasure to present this award to Whiskeymarie at Never what you think it should be... for her post My Inner Esther. When I read this, I laughed until the tears flowed. Go read it and see if the same thing happens to you.

Congratulations WM! There are always good things happening at your place.

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The good things happening at my place look a little like this:

Jams O'Donnell of The Poor Mouth shared a little award with Allison and me. He feels our new photos only site--Looking Into--deserves the Creative Blogger award.

Isn't that cool?

Jams is a cool cat out of the U.K. I meet him often on Wordless Wednesdays and enjoy his photography immensely. This award means a lot coming from the likes of him.
Cheers Jams and thank you so much.

(If you haven't been to the new site yet, I'll make it easy for you. Just click here to visit.)

Now, last things last, there is one more place I want to send you. Scribbit has been talking about me and if you are interested to see what she has to say, you can pop over to her blog and read this. If you don't want to go, you don't have to. However, if you don't click over, you'll miss the picture.

But whatever, do what you want....

It's all good.

A Matter of Taste

From a conversation with 5-year-old Maia, my new friend (and shadow) at the ISH.

"Maia, I have to go down to the storage area right now, do you want to walk with me?"

"Oh, yes!"

"C'mon then. Can you carry this?"

"Okay."

*walk, walk, walk, walk...

"You know, Maia, I sure like your red hair. It's beautiful."

"I don't grow red hair! I only grow brown."

"Hmmm. Well, it sure looks strawberry to me."

*Maia pulls a lock of hair forward to look closely at the color then touches the strand to her mouth.

"No, it's mostly chocolate."