mialeentje: for the everyday diva

Give and Take

2011-09-18T09:56:00.001+02:00

Today, we gave something back to nature. It was Mia's idea actually. We made a nest to give to the birds.

Mia found the sticks and the feathers, and we wove it together. Then we placed it up high in a little oak tree we planted ourselves a few years ago. I feel like a circle has come around, in a poetic kind of way, because you see, we took something away.

Last week, we had three goldfish. Today, we have none. It's a sad, sad thing to know that a goldfish in the wild can live to be up to 50 years old, and in captivity, on average, about a year. But in our house, they last a week.

Mia really wanted a fish for her birthday, really really. So I researched, got online and found out the basics about goldfish-keeping. I read that goldfish need to be in groups, so I insisted we get two. Mia named them Lella and Nella. Both were good-sized, healthy-looking ladies, and we brought them home full of confidence they would be with us for a long, long time. We bought the food and the little blue rocks and the special drops to make the water fish-friendly and a plant and everything.

The next day, Nella went belly-up. The next DAY. So I stuck her in a baggie and marched right back to the pet store with Mia (who handled the whole thing extremely well, I might add). We promptly picked out a new one, which Mia named 'Nella II'. We came home and held a small burial service for 'Nella', who was a good fish.

The day after that, the other original fish, 'Lella', died. Then she came back to life, then died again... it was all pretty awful. At one point, I was sure she was gone, so I fished her out and Mia wanted to hold her, and to her horror and mine, she started to flop around, so we thought it was still alive, but when I threw her back in the water, she went belly-up again, for like the twentieth time. We kind of avoided the room for a couple hours till I was sure there was no more movement... But I mean, talk about horrible. 'Nella II' was there, witnessing this whole macabre scene. What do you think she was thinking?! What kind of horrific, death-filled home had she landed in? Then we exhumed 'Nella' and added 'Lella' so they could rest in eternal peace sid by side in our garden. Mia laid down some flowers for 'Nella' and 'Lella', who were both good fish.

Now 'Nella II' was a lively, but definitely skittish little fish. Any time someone moved or said anything, she'd dart away behind the plant and 'hide'. We were on eggshells around her, tip-toeing around the room and using our 'pinky voices', which isn't easy to do when you're 3 1/2 and 5 years old. It was turning into a pretty stressful situation, this goldfish thing.

Then, she died. I think my turning on the light might have scared her to death. 'Nella', 'Lella' and 'Nella II'. All good fish. All gone within a week.

There will be NO more replacement fish. I'm done. Three fish funerals in a week is just too much for me to bear. We've got a pot full of fish food (all three fish ate about .00000000002 grams of the stuff) that''s good until 2014. 2014?! What kind of goldfish lasts that long?! The kind that don't live in our house, obviously. Head my warning: all fish, hamsters and guinea pigs: beware! Don't live at our house, no matter how cozy it looks and no matter how well Mia and I promise to look after you! It will be your doom.

I return to Mia's unselfish act, her gift to nature, that nest. It humbles me and makes me feel slightly less awful about destroying the lives of three goldfish. (Not to mention countless caterpillars, butterflies and ladybugs that have come and gone over the years.) Life and death are the same thing, and seeing as our kids spend a lot of time outside and see a lot of life, and death, I see they respect both enormously.

Easy-Peazy Eco Project: Spider Legs

2011-08-30T21:21:00.000+02:00

Today, in a bout of creativity-meets-insanty, I made Mia a pair of spider legs. They were so easy, I whipped out another one for Bram!

They love them. And they are so quick and easy to make - and 100% upcycled!
Here's what you'll need:
two pairs of old tights
baby blanket
scissors
sewing machine

Find two pairs of funky tights that are about the same size - stripes work great.

Cut off the legs of the tights, so you have four long 'socks'. Make sure they're all the same length.

Cut off the top of one of the pairs of tights, above the crotch. This will be the waistband for the spider legs.

If you have kids, you probably have some old baby blankets lying around. The think fleece kind work best - they're thick and light-weight.

Cut the blanket in quarters and roll each quarter up into a long tube.

Stuff each 'sock' with a tube...

Now, you have four 'spider legs' and a waistband!

Lay each 'spider leg' on the waistband, with the openings together.

Stitch the four 'spider legs' onto the waistband using a wide zig-zag stitch.

Add shoes...

...and let the twirling commence!

And if you want to look especially fashionable and awesome...by all means, do not wear 'spider legs' on your head as I've done here.

Twirling, Sheet Digs and Barbie Hurling

2011-07-28T06:24:00.000+02:00

So today I found myself with a bit of free time, a pile of fabrics and this big bunch of inspiration.
Ooooh yeah.

I made Mia a skirt and Bram a pair of pants today. Mia's skirt needs a little back story though...

Once upon a time, Mia fell in love with a dress once that was so expensive, I'd had to have taken out a second mortgage on the house to afford it. She screamed and hollered so expressively about not getting this dress, I was sure people thought I was abducting her. Or, if they knew she was mine, any doubts about having kids of their own were immediately confirmed, making me directly responsible for their eternal childlessness... Either way, it was a ginormous everyday diva melt-down and I cursed the day that dress would ever cross our path again.

Then, we saw the very same dress at my favorite consignment shop, Cherry T's! Only, it was about 5 sizes too small for her. Obviously, we had to get it (thank the Lord for store credit). Mia tried to wear it, even though it cut off the circulation to her arms. It hung in her closet for about two months until today...
I took the prettiest part off the dress, which was this tulle petticoat with 'actual' flower petals and leaves in it. I then attached it to the top of a pair of pink jogging pants that had a irremovable stain on them. Snip, snip, snip - off went the legs and stitch, stitch, stitch, on went the skirt with a nice soft pink lining.

Mia topped it off with an awesome princess t-shirt and ruby-red Dorothy shoes and proceeded to demonstrate its awesome twirl-factor.

She was very satisfied; in fact, Mia is my number one customer. I admit, it's easy to make stuff for girls - gathers, glitter and ruffles are my forté! Bram deserved something too, but boys' stuff is a challenge and most times, this Eco mama is just too tired for a challenge...

Not today, though.

I scored a bunch of great 'pre-loved' material the other day, including a green-striped sheet. I thought Bram would look pretty cool in a pair of mega-baggy green-striped cotton trousers, but to be honest, I wasn't sure I even remembered how to make a pair of pants form scratch.

The last time I did was when I was in art school (I refuse to disclose exactly how long ago that was, but suffice it to say, it was when Kurt Cobain was still alive), so when I sat down to make them, I discovered I still knew how!

Fancy that.

Bram happened to be having a melt-down when I introduced the pants - lo and behold, they were just the thing to bring him out of it! And, he put them on all by himself! Elastic waistbands, I love ya.

Then we played Barbie Hurling.

Yes, you read right: Barbie Hurling.

If you're not familiar with the game, I would suggest you get yourself some washing line and a couple of Barbies and get on the bandwagon, 'cuz it's big fun.

Mia and Bram invented this game, I am proud to say. They discovered how incredible it is to let a bit of rope down from someplace high, then they experienced the overwhelming sensation of tying something to the rope and hoisting it back up. Barbies were just destined to come into the formula sooner or later, let's face it.

You need someplace high to stand in order to hurl properly, and a few branches to hurl the Barbie over is preferable, but not mandatory. It does provide a challenge... Don't forget how sturdy Barbie is, though, and just keep reminding yourself she really can't feel a thing, and you'll enjoy the game even more. Hurl and hoist, that's about all there is to it.

If you can get some really sweet person (like visiting Uncle Chris) to stand below and hurl the Barbies back up, consider yourself very blessed.

Barbie Hurling is educational too, you know. It teaches kids about stuff like aim and velocity and heck, even physics, probably!

Happy kids, today.
Happy Mama.

The Green Forest Princess Goes Camping

2011-07-19T08:07:00.000+02:00

Would you believe what I did this weekend?! I can't wait to tell you: I went camping.

It may shock you to know, that I - as an Eco Mama - do not camp. I have camped before, in the days before I even knew about things like capuccino and microwaves and nail polish remover. In those days, sleeping in a tent was as awesome as, well, sleeping in a tent. It was one step up from sitting in a fort built out of sofa cushions. So, pretty awesome.

So the kids and I went camping for one night. And I lucked out, because it was the most incredible camping/mama experience I'd had ~~in a long time~~ ever. It was more than a trip, it was a trip. It was an adventure. We took a ferry boat ride and drove for ages and ate pretzels and sang songs in the car and bought balloons on the way there and everything. When we got to the site, we were welcomed like family and there were kids all over the place. I found I could sit down literally for minutes at a a time without having to run over and stop one or either of them from doing something I'd regret.

It was rainy and muddy, which I was a bit bummed about because I so wanted to wear my new creation: the completely awesome pillowcase pants for women. I take pillow cases and attach them to jeans and they look friggin awesome. But because I am hopelessly obsessed with trying to be fashionable as well as wearing my upcycled mentality as a garment no matter where I am, I wore them anyway...

Of course, it didn't take long before they were covered in mud, but I still looked and felt fabulous in those pants. And, incidentally, anyone would because they are just fabulous pants. Pillow cases. Who knew? And you know, a layer of mud can actually work wonders when it comes to feeling in harmony with the earth, a pretty essential thing you need to do when camping, I discovered.

So it took exactly 33 milliseconds for Mia to feel right at home in this green foresty paradise, which I am convinced is where she would like to live forever, if she could have her way. Mia's favorite kind of princess is a Green Forest Princess named Mia. Pretty coincidental, huh? So now, she found a place where she could in fact become the Green Forest Princess Mia, and I gotta tell you, she pulled it off.

So Mia The Green Forest Princess, the Eco Mama and The Urinator (for those of you yet unfamiliar with Bram's nickname, please read The Urinator Awaaaaay) went camping and had such a great time, we wanted it to last forever. Mia was the one who actually vocalized that desire in a fit of tears when we got home, but we all felt it in our hearts.

Intangible Inspiration

2011-06-25T07:49:00.001+02:00

What the heck is it about inspiration?!

One day, the last thing I want to do is thread needles and sit behind a sewing machine, the next I am running my own private sweat shop, and I'm lovin' it. Inspiration has been flowing in on all sides, which I am so grateful for, I could just about do one of those jumps in the air where they kick their heels together like I'm in some live-action Disney movie.

I've been commissioned to make the coolest stuff lately. First of all, the 'Boogie Buddy'...but that one needs to be a secret for a little while longer...
Then, the totally-awesome-I-want-a-pair-of-those-in-my-size pants that are really little more than the happy union of a pair of jeans and a pillow case, which I am now making in womens' sizes.

And now, there's the Tie Skirt, which turned out so awesome, I have to wear it tomorrow to my live upcycling demo at Cherry T's in Eastsound. It was so much fun to make! I had a pillow case full of all these gorgeous silk ties, which I categorized into colors, then opened up and stitched back together. It took about 20 ties ot make a skirt for myself and it, in a word, rocks.

Then it starts:

Mia: 'What are you making, Mama? Is it for me?'
Me: 'No, Mia, not everything I make is for you.'
Mia: 'Is that for me?'
Me: (trying to dorwn out her whining by pressing a little harder on the sewing machine pedal) 'No, this skirt if not for you, it's for someone else.'
Mia: 'Who?'
Me: 'I don't know who, someone who will pay money for it. And with that money, we can buy food and gas.'
Mia: (looking confused for a while) 'What are you making, Mama? Is it for me?'

This exact conversation can take place anywhere from five to twenty times before I manage to finish any item of clothing.

Making Mia understand that I am not around just to sew dresses for her is a toughie. I mean, from her point of view, why else is Mama even around, for Pete's sake? When she needs a dress, Mama should drop what she's doing and make one for her, right? I mean, honestly.

I am thrilled that I can make her dresses, since I am not the type to buy off the rack unless it's been pre-loved. Even then, I can't help myself, I have to alter it in some way anyway. She is a lucky girl, only she doesn't get that yet... She will, someday. Or else.

Meanwhile, I am so full of inspiration, I've got plenty to go around. The next garment I make will be hers, and our conversation will probably be a lot shorter then:

Mia: 'What are you making, Mama? Is it for me?'
Me: 'Yes.'
Mia: (stunned silence)

Multi-taskin' Mama

2011-06-18T01:43:00.000+02:00

If there's one thing I learned being a Mom, it's that you can't survive without the ability to multi-task. That is what I do, although I am admittedly not very good at it.

You see, next to being a mamapreneur, trying to educate the world the benefits of upcycling clothing, I am trying to be a rock star too. But when I am doing one creative thing, it's tough to do another creative thing simultaneously without causing some kind of injury to myself. I have been working on another blog to illustrate the challenge of raising kids while trying to make it in the music industry here but have sadly been neglecting my everyday diva blog, which I mean to rectify at this moment!

Being back in the US, where my upcycled kidswear is understood and sought after has done me good. Instead of doing the market this year, I'm working together with the coolest consignment shop ever, Cherry T's. We decided to do live upcycling right outside the shop, where I will magically transform clothes from the shop into completely new and unique mialeentje garments, right before your very eyes!

I'm also offering the new and incredibly awesome 'funky alteration' service for everybody who has something in their closet they just don't wear anymore. Poor lonely clothing, hanging in the wardrobe for no one to see just breaks my heart, so this is their chance to be pulled out and revamped into something...well, for lack of a better word: awesome.

So rock 'n' roll is being put on hold till after tomorrow, when it's all about fabrics and imagination. I have now officially admitted, I suck at multi-tasking, so I will stop trying as of now.

The Party to End All Parties

2011-03-27T15:22:00.000+02:00

I survived. I actually pulled off the party to end all parties - a goodbye/birthday celebration at the school gym involving eighteen highly energetic kids - and can live to tell the tale. It was two whole hours of fun, not a single kid got hurt (even though I was fully prepared with coloured band-aids), and they even ate the cake.

Mia's birthday is still half a year away, but we won't be around then, so we decided to efficiently combine it with the fact that we're going away, and while we were at it, we threw Bram's actual birthday in the mix as well. In short, we had a lot of reasons for a celebration.

The Cake

Mia and I baked the cake together. Before I go into the details, I should probably tell you: I have an obsession about cakes with toys stuck into them. I blame it on Safeway, the supermarket we went to when I was a kid. They had this cake with a Barbie doll stuck in the middle and I wanted it so badly, at one point, I felt my life depended on it. But my parents (both designers and both aesthetically-minded) didn't believe in that kind of thing, for which, in retrospect, I am eternally grateful! So I never actually got the tacky Barbie-cake, but it has remained a hidden yearning ever since. For the past few years, I've been trying to re-create that cake for my daughter, whether she liked it or not. This time, we tried to make the Barbie cake.

Seeing as I am about as proficient in baking as I am in flame-throwing, I bought the ready-to-go cake mix instead of pulling out the 'Joy of Cooking' and making one from scratch. We baked the cake, which turned out more lop-sided than the Tower of Pisa, but it wasn't raw on the inside and it actually looked the right color as well! So far, so good.

Then, I made the icing. For this, I actually did pull out the aforementioned 'Joy of Cooking' and found the quickest, easiest and recipe involving the least amount of mathematics to whip up a delicious white icing that would bring the whole thing together. But suddenly, I think I'm the Naked Chef and I start doing my own thing to ruin a perfectly good recipe. So, let's just say, the icing turned out sort of grey and was the most sticky substance ever created. I'm telling you, spiders would've wanted to use this stuff in their webs. (I should actually get a patent on it and sell it to NASA, if I could only remember what I put in it...)

At this point, we were ready to decorate the cake. But when I attempted to place Barbie in the middle, I discovered her mile-long legs made it impossible. She was too tall to fit! So I did what any Mom on a mission would do in that situation - when Mia was looking the other way, I quickly tore off her legs and smooshed her in the cake. Mission accomplished.

It was then Mia's job to add her own special touches to her own cake (Nerds, Smarties and about fifty mini lollipops) and it turned out to be the ugliest, yet most endearing cake I had ever seen. We managed to find room for five candles in between the chaos of decorations, which was a feat in itself. I only hoped that the cake would actually be edible and that the candles wouldn't ignite Barbie's hair.

The Party
We have a place with about 2,000 square meters of grass and forest around it, but seeing as Holland is the most unpredictable country in the world when it comes to weather, we opted to rent a hall for the party instead of having it outside. Naturally, the weather has been incredible lately - warm, sunny and perfect for stuff like treasure hunts in the woods and running around in the grass. And we were having the party indoors. Murphy's Law, how I dislike you.

So, determined to be better safe than sorry, we rented the school gym for the party. I couldn't think of a better place to entertain so many kids, and the price was right to boot. The past weeks, I have been collecting a variety of party games and finally narrowed it down to about ten. My ultimate concern was boredom: if the kids thought Mia's party was boring, they might stop liking her! It was my duty to ensure her friends still thought she was cool after this whole shebang was over! Talk about pressure.

As soon as the first little guests arrived, it was clear that just running around was enough to keep them occupied the first half hour at least. When everyone was present, I initiated the first party game: making music. We brought a basket full of instruments the kids could choose from, and we proceeded to play slow, fast, quietly and loudly. We shook, jingled, drummed and beat while I sang my heart out and my husband strummed some barely audible chords on the guitar. With eighteen kids on percussion, the melody kind of turned into soup - a gym does not have the best acoustics in the world. But it was a hoot! When we were done, two kids came up to me and whined, 'Can we go play now?' And here I was thinking we were playing! Guess it was my own fault for attempting to do something slightly educational.

Of the ten party games I had prepared, we only actually did two. Mia and her guests didn't need anything but each other to have a great time. We opened presents and we ate the cake (I won't go into the challenge I faced just slicing the thing). We sang songs and suddenly, the party was over! I handed a goody bag to and thanked each and every happy guest before they went home and could honestly say it was a successful event.

The Birthday Girl
You'd have to come from another planet to not know the song, 'It's my party and I'll cry if I want to'. After seeing my daughter at her own party, I now fully understand the true meaning of those lyrics. I obviously wasn't the only one who was aware of her behavior, because a couple other Moms told me, from their own personal experience, that it was quite common for the birthday boy or girl to be the most ill-behaved guest at the party! Mia hung on me like a newborn monkey, complained, whined and was close to tears for the entire two hours. I could barely squeeze a 'thank you' out of her as she unwrapped the multitude of presents she received. I suppose, even if I knew beforehand that this might happen, there is very little I could've done to prevent it. Some things need to just be, I guess.

Today, we are recovering. I spread out all the new toys and read the cards, some hand-written even. I am overwhelmed with mixed feelings of joy and sadness - Mia has some extremely special little friends who know her so well, and will miss her so much while we're gone. I can genuinely say, in the words of my 95-year-old grandmother, 'We'll go so we can come back'.

Stay tuned for the next post: the trip to Orcas...

The Birthday Mission

2011-03-20T15:41:00.001+01:00

I am a sucker for two things when it comes to toys for my kids: they've got to be wooden and they've got to be durable. Now, don't get me wrong - I've got plastic toys just like the next mom, most of them hand-me-downs or second-hand deals I just couldn't pass up. But I have made a deal with myself to replace as much of the plastic as possible, when possible, with wooden.   

The mission: the replacement of one of Bram's favourite toys: a horrid half-broken 70's plastic parking garage, with a brandy new German-made, sturdy-as-hell, three-level wooden parking garage.  

The occasion: Bram's third birthday.  

What better way to toss out the old and ring in the new, right? A new year, another milestone - the 'terrible two's' finally gone, forever! To celebrate this momentous day, a big, wooden durable toy was in order. I strive to teach my children the value of aesthetics, beauty and durability; yes, even when they are way too young to grasp the concept.  

The wooden garage has been sitting in its box for the last week and last night, when the kids were finally in bed, I planned to wrap it. That was when it dawned on me: it was not assembled! Giving a three-year-old kid an awesome toy that wasn't even put together is pure torture! I couldn't do that to him.

So, I opened the box, filled my glass of wine to the brim and got to work.

I was pretty sure I possessed the capacity to put this thing together, I mean, I've put IKEA furniture together before, for Pete's sake. How hard could it be? But as I pulled out vague piece after piece, and inspected the cryptic assembly instructions, I began to feel beads of sweat form on my brow. It was after 9pm and I still had decorations to hang up and a birthday cake to adorn. I rolled up my sleeves and got assembling.  

Slowly but surely, the garage came together. Hours went by, and the room was filled with the scent of wood and perspiration as I worked arduously. I knew how my son had the gift of finding the weak spot of any given object which could lead to its certain demise. I had to ensure this particular toy was as 'Bram-proof' as possible.  

Finally, it was finished. The garage, including the little elevator and two miniature gas pumps, was complete. I was proud, I was elated; for a moment, I was Super Mom. I realized I didn't have enough wrapping paper to cover this gargantuan thing, but as I picked it up to move into the living room, I made an even more horrifying discovery: it came apart! The wooden pegs weren't enough to keep the structure intact - to my dismay, I realized I had forgotten an essential ingredient of this project: glue.

Figuring Bram would be respectful enough to take this minor flaw into consideration as he played with it (ha!), and seeing that it was almost midnight and I still hadn't blown up any balloons yet, I left it as is, covered the thing with about fifty sheets of grey, recycled tissue paper and tied the biggest bow possible around it. It wasn't pretty. It looked like an enormous pile of paper maché with a red bow tied around it. But it was what was on the inside that counted, right? I hoped Bram would see it that way too...

Hanging the decorations in the dark was a challenge, but I managed to make the place look festive without waking the kids or breaking my neck. It was just after midnight when I finally fell asleep, which by my standards, was about the equivalent of an all-nighter.

This morning, Mia was up first, and was able to contain her own enthusiasm by not unwrapping the mysterious grey lump.

Obviously, she knew it was what was on the inside that counted.

When the birthday boy finally emerged from his bed, it took him all of thirty seconds to realize the place was decorated for his benefit. One of the perks of turning three, I think, is that you are finally aware you're turning three.

Half asleep and rather wobbly, he saw his present. He, also, was aware that something exciting was on the inside. He managed to unwrap it (with Mia's help, naturally) and squeals of delight filled the room.

One of the basic needs of a Mom was satisfied: my kid was happy.  

As you can guess, the brandy-new, gorgeous, German-made, wooden, three-level parking garage was exactly as sturdy as I made it - so, not very. Without the levels actually attached to the base with glue, the thing came apart about twenty times in as many minutes. But the kids caught on quick, and before long, they were putting it back together by slotting the little pegs back into their holes themselves! It became a puzzle garage!

Bram loved it, and will love keep on loving it, whether I stick it together with glue or not.

Mission accomplished.

One valuable mommyhood lesson learned: there's something to say about not following the directions - isn't that what they call, 'thinking outside the box' (even if it is by accident)? Or perhaps I just learned, once again, about the amazing adaptability of children. We grown-ups should take notes.

In any case, that old plastic garage is officially become redundant, and has a date with a garbage bag, as soon as I type the last word of this post. 

Eco Mama Tips

2011-03-11T12:29:00.002+01:00

Entertaining kids is always a challenge, especially during the long vacations. There are times when I'd like to run to the toy store and stock up on all sorts of quick-fix plastic fun and be done with it, but my conscience (and my wallet!) just won't allow it. Especially when I know the kids will be more interested in the packaging than the toy itself! So how can one keep kids busy, in a fun, educational and ecologically-conscious way? Here are a few ideas (fun party game ideas too!)

Level of messiness:
* not so messy
** somewhat messy
*** mega messy

Here Come the Balloons *
What you'll need:
A package of the cheapest balloons you can find
A windy day
A bit of string

It's a non-disputable fact: kids love balloons! And, it's tons of fun to personify inanimate objects!
Blow up a couple balloons and tie a bit of string onto them (makes them easier to catch). Go outside and find a place in the yard with wind-tunnel characteristics.

Have the kids stand there and let their balloon go, then watch them 'come to life' and fly away! The most fun is running after them and catching them.

Tip: If you want to make a theme out of it, rent the classic movie 'The Red Balloon' from the library and have a showing afterwards.

Scientific Milk **
What you'll need:
A tall cup (preferably plastic)
A long straw
Milk
Paper towels

The simplicity of this activity is what makes it so great. Yes, it will cost you milk. But if you've got little ones, you've probably got tons of milk in the fridge anyway! And I don't see it as a waste when I consider the benefits: fun, giggles and even a bit of educational value!

Fill the cup with a few inches of milk - you really don't need a lot. Have the kids blow in to their milk through their straws until it starts overflowing with milk bubbles! It's as simple as that! Watch them marvel at the big bubbles as they slide over the side of the cup. Great fun for all!

Makin' Soup ***
What you'll need:
A big plastic mixing bowl
Different mixing tools: spoons, ladles, whisks, etc.
Dry kind: all the spices you never use
Anything else you can spare, like macaroni, beans, coffee grains, etc.
Wet kind: all kinds of veggie skins, spices you never use, water.

When I was a kid, I often made 'Witchy Cross-Britches Stew' while my Mom was cooking dinner. I got to use the skins and rinds of the veggies she was preparing for dinner, and spices, like I was really cooking! If you're like me, you've probably got all sorts of spices you bought for a recipe ages ago, which are now gathering dust in the cupboard.

Arrange a variety of spices you're never going to use on the counter and watch the kids use them sparingly, just like you would. If you've got measuring cups, that's even more fun. Watch as they pour, sift, stir and share!

Tip: Cleaning up can be just as fun as making the mess! Give them a dustpan/sponge/paper towels/etc. and invite them to help clean.

Good for what Ails You:
Toilet Paper Tube Fun **
What you'll need:
Toilet paper tubes - the more the merrier
Any kind of paper, i.e. construction paper, toilet paper, paper towels, kleenex, tissue paper, etc.
Pens, pencils, crayons
Tape (or glue - but it can get messier)
Any crafty stuff you have lying around - sequins, ribbons, bits of fabric, etc.

I save toilet paper tubes like they're going out of style. You can make just about anything with them!

Let your imagination run wild with paper and tape (to keep it from being too messy).
Or go ahead and download my free PDF, 'Something to do on a Rainy Day - Toilet Paper Tube Critters'! (shown above)

Count the Critters ***
What you'll need:
A yard with dirt (or a spot in your garden designated for the kids only)
A couple shovels
A couple small jars with lids
optional: Magnifying glass

What is more fun than going outside and discovering the world around you? And the world is chock full of critters... worms, ladybugs, spiders, snails, potato bugs - you name it!
Go outside and start looking - under rocks, in bushes...

Give each kid a shovel and let them dig a hole till they find a worm and watch them as they shriek with excitement upon finding one! Look through the shrubs for ladybugs or in the crevices of the house for spiders. How many critters are there in your yard? You could even make a little chart by drawing (or having the kids draw) the kinds of critters they think they'll find outside, and tallying them once they start searching.
Teach them to create the right environment for their critter in the jar by using the same leaves/grass/bark/etc. they found them in. Allow them to 'keep' the critter for a little while, but that it has to go back to its home when they're done playing.

Note: If you're concerned about any stinging/poisonous critters where you live, make clear the kids can spot but not touch!

Never Fails: Dress & Make Up *
What you'll need:
Dress-up: bathing suits, leggings, leotard, clothes, scarves, tea towels, etc.
Make-up: eyeliner (the liquid kind if you've got it), lipstick

Boys and girls alike love pretending and dressing up! Instead of expensive ready-made store-bought costumes, I prefer letting the kids come up with their own costumes based on their own wild imaginations. Start with a 'base', a pair of leggings and a bathing suit or leotard, for example. Start tying scarves or putting skirts over each other, try layers and most importantly: follow the kids' directions! Let them direct!

As far as make-up goes, sometimes less is more. You can do wonders with a black or brown (liquid) eyeliner - mega long eyelashes, whiskers, an eye-patch...

Lipstick makes perfect round rosy red cheeks. If you've got some old eye-shadow lying around, let the kids apply it themselves with q-tips or cotton balls. Let boys and girls try out whatever they want - don't limit them to gender definition! Heck, if you were a boy and saw all that frou-frou business with princessy-type dresses, and all you got was a pair of pants, well, I bet you'd want to try it out too!

Another fun variation is: Be a Color! Get out all the kids' clothes and make piles according to color.
Have the kids choose a color and put everything on - starting with undies and ending with socks!

Spring Break Blues

2011-03-09T12:52:00.000+01:00

It's only Wednesday.

Vacation started last Friday and I am running out of ideas to entertain these kids of mine. I thought I really prepared for this one, but my seemingly endless supply of toilet paper tubes (good for making just about anything from crazy critters to flower vases to working rocket ships) don't seem to impress the kids anymore. Today we've already played dress-up, did our make-up, created objects d' art with play-dough, we've colored, painted and sang songs, we watched a movie and jumped on the bed - and it's not even noon.

No play-dates on the horizon until Friday, no birthday parties until Sunday, no plans whatsoever. We've been lucky the past few days with tons of sunshine and gorgeous Spring-like weather, so we've spent most of the time outside. Time flies when the sun is out! But today is grey and promising rain any second. Bummer.

I'm not making things any easier by sharing my attention with the computer, a constant thorn in the eye of my children. I think they consider PowerBook to be a member of the family, something like a new baby, that demands more attention than they think is fair. They're probably right. Considering it's my only window to the world and an important tool for my own self-expression, they'll just have to accept it. Believe you me, PowerBook can get jealous too.

Right now, Bram is making it clear he is done with the current activity by hanging on my neck and chattering loudly in my ear. He is of the opinion that grown-ups are actually made for climbing on and attacking stealth-style. He's now decided that taking away something Mia is playing with would be far more fun than sharing, and indeed, he provokes an interesting and rather loud reaction from her. I have made a deal with myself to intervene as little as possible these days, in the hopes that they will learn to settle their differences together by cooperation. Sometimes, this works. Other times, we all need a band-aid and a kiss to make it better.

Sharing is tough. But inventing new and fun things to do all day is considerably more challenging. My kids don't get that yet. I certainly didn't get that as a kid - I only got it when I had kids of my own. (I think I can hear my Mom laughing to herself as she reads this...)

Now they're giggling. That sound is what makes it all worthwhile. They are experts at cracking themselves and each other up! Bram has discovered he has a talent for making Mia laugh simply by making sounds with his tongue or pretending to be a dog. Those are the moments I cherish, because it means I can finally have some alone time with PowerBook...

I am quickly learning, the less I interfere with my kids' day, the better it is. A cardboard box, a tub of play-dough and the underside of the table is all they really need to ~~create an enormous mess~~ have a great time. My instincts tell me it won't last long though. My biological Mom-timer is set for 3 minutes and forty-five seconds, and counting, before someone bonks his head or feels unfairness in some way.

Two minutes.

One minute and thirty-three seconds. (I better come up with something quick.)

Twenty-six seconds and... bingo.

Mia's foot got stepped on. One pink butterfly band-aid coming up.

Here I come with the toilet paper tubes again. It's all I've got, take it or leave it.

Lord, it's only Wednesday.

What Have I Gotten Myself Into Part II

2011-03-03T14:28:00.000+01:00

So what on earth have I piled onto my plate this time? Let me tell you: it's one spicy meatball. Make that three. A birthday/goodbye party for both kids on the same day. Really? Heck, yeah. This is my chance to prove to all that I am indeed Super Mom. I am invincible and I can handle anything the world tosses at me. Or, anything I toss at myself, in this case.

Mia has been quite the social bumble bee lately, being invited to birthday parties like she's the Homecoming Queen. So the subject of, 'When is it going to be my birthday?!' has been coming up quite a bit. We are going to be out of town on Mia's actual birthday, which is in August. Bram's actual birthday is in three weeks. And, we're leaving town at the end of the month. So I figured: why not be efficient and combine all three of those ocassions into one ~~big huge mega~~ gargantuan kid-party extravaganza?!

So the plan is being put into action as we speak. First obstacle: location. The party cannot be held at our house for two reasons: 1) all the kids we want to invite don't live near here, and 2) there is no way we can squeeze twenty kids plus a few parents into our teeny tiny house. Yes, you read correctly. Twenty kids.

So what do I plan on doing with twenty kids, aged 0-5? I'll just do what I'm good at: being a Mom. For the two whole hours those kids are in my care, I'll be a Mom to every single one of them as if they were my very own. If they fall down and get an owie, I'll kiss it all better. If they start fighting over the last piece of cake, I'll intervene until they share. And when they get picked up by their own parents, I'll feel like the umbilicle has been cut once again - but only for a minute. Then I'll promptly fall onto something soft and take a nap until my name changes to Liz van Winkle.

So if it's space we need, it's space we'll get. We're renting the gym in town for two hours! So now I've got two basic ingredients for the most awesome kids' party ever: a huge empty gym and a whole mess of kids. Do I really need anything else?? As much as I would love these kids to entertain themselves for two hours, chances are that won't happen. So activities are a must. I pull out my copy of 'Feed Me I'm Yours' and glance at the rules of thumb when it comes to throwing a kids' party:

1) Invite as many kids to the party as the number of years your child is turning.
Mia is turning five. Bram is turning three. No matter how many ways I calculate, those numbers don't exactly add up to twenty...

Okay, next!

2) Plan more activities than you'll actually need.
That makes sense... Okay, so if an activity takes about fifteen minutes on average, and we've got the gym for two hours, minus the time to have a snack, minus the time the kids will need to go potty, then we'll need...um... 243 activities? Oh, hang on, I just remembered I'm no good at math.
Activity 1: throwing a ball around (until somebody gets hurt) = ten minutes
Activity 2: making music (until I develop a splitting headache) = fifteen minutes
Activity 3: facepainting (until all the paint is gone) = ten minutes
Activity 4: ...um...
Oh, I'll just do another thing I'm good at: improv.

We're not allowed to have food or drinks in the gym, which could be an issue. I'm thinking along the lines of party guests passing out due to dehydration... The idea is for the afternoon to be fun and with as little risk of ending up in the hospital as possible. So drinks are a must. I'll just do yet another thing I'm exceptionally good at: hiding evidence.

But the biggest challenge will be having two groups of kids in two different developmental stages. How does one mesh both groups' interests into one harmonious event? The bigger kids will be in the majority so they will most likely be running the show, but I need to make sure the little ones don't get trampled on, or neglected, or that they go AWOL. I'll just do yet another thing I am unbelievably, incredibly good at: multi-tasking!

At least, I think I'm good at multi-tasking...

I think I know what I'm getting into, and it's all for love! My kids deserve an unforgettable birthday celebration and need the chance to say goodbye to their friends, who they won't see till school starts again next fall! And when it comes to my kids' needs, I am at their service. Unconditionally.

If you never hear from me again after March 26th, you will know why...

The Pre-School Rant

2011-02-18T16:23:00.001+01:00

If you know me, then you probably know the three most important things about me:
I have no regrets, I treat others as I expect to be treated, and I don't hold a grudge.
Every so often, however, someone comes along who makes me rethink the three basic principles by which I live. I thought I could let it go, but apparently I need to write this off my chest.

September of last year, Bram started going to a pre-school near us. It had recently undergone major changes due to a new law passed by the government involving the merging of pre-school and daycare facilities. The idea was to offer a sort of 'one-stop-shopping' for parents - instead of the hassle of bringing their children to one place and having them transferred to another during the day, all childcare benefits would be held in one place. We gained a central location but were forced to say goodbye to our experienced and much-loved caregivers. What we were left with didn't really become clear to me until much later.

The first couple weeks was fine. Then, things started to go downhill fast. When Bram saw the front door of the pre-school and realized we were going to leave him there, he would begin to cry. Then he would begin to scream. And holler. And kick, hit, protest with his entire body. Several times, I would see the eyes of one particular 'caregiver' (in her case an extreme contradiction in terms) roll when she saw me approaching with the clearly audible protesting Bram in my arms. Then, he would repeat all the crying, screaming and hollering when I picked him up again in the afternoon. Something was very clearly up but I didn't get it yet.

As the months passed, Bram became increasingly more audible about not wanting to be anywhere near that pre-school, and especially that particular 'caregiver'. I blame myself for not recognizing the signs earlier, but continued to bring him to that place four times a week, despite his consitent protests. Bram didn't have words to communicate yet, so he used what he did have - his entire body and every sound he could produce in a wide range of frequencies.

There were a lot of kids in the pre-school group, and I knew Bram wasn't too fond of large groups anyway, so I attributed his behavior on that for a while. Whenever I brought him to pre-school or picked him up, he sought negative attention by biting, hitting and doing just about anything he could come up with that he knew wasn't okay. His behavior was extremely unlike our little Bram!

It was autumn, and colds were reigning the schools. Bram's drippy nose was a constant factor, but when I picked him up from the pre-school, his face was often bright red and infected with snot and filth. The 'caregiver' thought Bram's snot was too disgusting to wipe away. When I asked how things had gone, she would describe Bram in terms of 'naughty' and 'difficult'. I simply couldn't understand why he acted so differently in that pre-school than anywhere else. I hated bringing him there against his will and proceeded to ignore that gnawing gut feeling that told me not to.

Then, the hair that broke the camel's back came crashing down. One afternoon, when I picked Bram up from the pre-school, the 'caregiver' told me between big smiles and laughs that she was forced to tie Bram up to his chair that morning because he wouldn't sit down.
Excuse me...? She tied him up to a chair?

She tied my child up to a chair.

I cannot explain my behavior upon hearing that, but I can tell you, it was anything but rational. I didn't tell a soul about it for days and let it rot away my insides. I was actually led to believe my son had deserved to be treated like an animal. I felt ashamed and confused. Bram so clearly felt threatened, he felt unheard and he felt misunderstood, and instead of standing up for him, I let the 'caregiver' convince me my child was a bad egg.

So, I told someone. And then, I told someone else. The reactions I received from other moms, dads, family members and specialists were abundant and in the same exact tone: get him out of there now. I talked to the head of the facility and told her about the monstrous mistake her employee had made by tying my son up. Unfortunately, and to my utter dismay, she defended the 'caregiver' and implied that Bram had deserved it. On top of that, she insinuated that Bram was mentally challenged! I was shocked and apalled and removed Bram immediately from the facility alltogether.

Bram has been in a new pre-school since January and the improvement is incredible. It will be a while before he really feels safe again in any kind of facility, after such a gross breach of his rights as a person, but his new caregivers are aware of this and they give him all the space he needs to gain their trust. In the past couple months, I went from the blind mother to the hawk-like mother, just about ready to peck the eyes out of anyone who told me my child was anything less than amazing.

I hear now and then stories about the 'caregiver' blaming Bram for the behavior of kids in his old pre-school group, even though Bram has been out of there for almost two months. Apparently, this 'caregiver' considers blowing a raspberry (a pretty natural step in a child's speech development) not only as as something negative and wrong, but as Bram's fault. If she wants to raise her own children in that frame of mind, and bear the adverse consequences it will most likely have, then she has every right to do just that. I just can't understand why someone who so clearly dislikes certain children is even pursuing a career in caring for them.

I am still in doubt about whether or not I should press charges against this 'caregiver'. To be honest, I worry about the children who still go to that pre-school, and truly hope that they will not be subjected to the same torture as my child was. It doesn't take much to fall into this 'caregiver's' bad egg category, apparently. Needing to go on the potty outside the scheduled potty-time is a sure way to get on her black list, for example. I do not want to expose Bram to any more negativity by going through some sort of legal process, and I am not the vindictive type... but am I wrong to keep this to myself?

Like I said earlier, in this situation, I need to rethink the three basic principles by which I live:

I have no regrets...
but if I had listened to my gut instincts, I could've gotten him out of there sooner and prevent the damage that was inflicted.

I treat others as I expect to be treated...
but I would willingly drag that caregiver's name through the mud and ensure she is never allowed to be near children again if she slanders my son in my presence.

I don't hold a grudge...
but my increasing contempt for her keeps me up at night.

At the end of the day, I learned perhaps the most valuable lesson of parenthood, which is to never doubt my ability to raise my children with unconditional love and understanding. It wasn't my fault that Bram was unhappy, but it was my fault that I didn't listen to him when he tried to tell me in his own way. Communication comes in countless forms. Just like love.

Rainy Days

2011-02-05T15:14:00.000+01:00

Like any other parent trying to make it through the long winter months, I've been desperate for projects! Finally, I decided to go ahead and make one myself - the result: Toilet Paper Critters! If you haven't got any toilet paper tubes, start saving them now! Then, download this 10-page pdf, color in and cut out the figures and scenes and get wrapping! Tons of fun for all!

Rainy Day Book - Toilet Paper Critters

When Good Gets Even Better

2011-01-19T15:48:00.000+01:00

A friend put it best the other day when she wrote on her Facebook page, 'My kids are playing together, which shouldn't be miraculous, but it is'. I'm thrilled to announc: my kids are doing that too! And it is a miracle!

Like any other stage of development, this one crept up on me stealth-style as well. One day, they're barely giving each other the time of day and the next, one is pretending to feed the other one, who is pretending to be a dog. Experts said this would happen. My mom said this would happen. Friends assured me someday this would happen. It's happening right now.

And they're not just playing together, they're doing all the things that I hoped someday they would. They're doing big-kid stuff like communicating, sharing, taking turns, listening. My God, I've waited so long for this time to come so that the most wonderful of wonders has happened. I actually find I have something on my hands other than peanut-butter and snot stains: time.

I'm not talking about oodles of time, goodness no. I mean, I can't finally write that novel or take up knitting or anything. We're talking about a few extra minutes a day in which I can sit back and actually enjoy them interacting with each other without having to intervene before some sort of head injury would get inflicted. Sure, now and then I need to play the diplomat and give back whatever it was the other one wasn't ready to share yet, but those times are fewer these days. They're still only two and only four, I know we have a long way to go yet, but the start is there. And it's a damn good start.

There was a time when I was the one who had to pretend to be the dog, but those days are over. Someone more than qualified for the job (and with significantly more energy) has taken my place, and I am thrilled to hand over the responsibility. My son has discovered the joy of being 'wanted' and my daughter has discovered the joy of having another slave around besides me...

Good times just got better.

New Year's Revelations

2011-01-01T14:55:00.000+01:00

Today is the first day of 2011, my 5th year of being a Mom. Instead of New Year's resolutions, I've been making some New Year's revelations today. Another year has passed and as I surrender myself to Mommyhood entirely, I realize a few things about how my life is now, as opposed to how it was. We're talking about slight differences, but fundamental ones, which establish my role in life once and for all.

The tell-tale signs that I need to get out more:

All my clothes have drool/snot/peanut butter stains on them, and I don't even care.

My Facebook updates are usually about what the kids are doing, or what they just did.

I don't know what's going on in the world, but I sure as heck know all the words to all the 'Dora the Explorer' songs.

I'm seriously considering getting my first name legally changed to 'Mama'.

I'm more worried about whether there's enough tape in the craft drawer than about the state of the present government.

I get genuinely excited when some of my son's pee actually makes it into the potty.

My bedtime is exactly five minutes after my kids' bedtime.

I find myself coloring when the kids aren't even around.

A good night's sleep is something I actually fantasize about.

Playing dress-up with the kids was in fact the last time I actually dressed up.

My idea of 'me-time' is going to the bathroom on my own.

I actually considered writing Santa a letter this year too.

I find myself enjoying food much more if it has a face on it.

My friends have literally said to me, 'You need to get out more'.

But the biggest revelation I made today is this: I am a Mom. And I love being a Mom. I wouldn't trade being a Mom for anything - not fame, not a zillion dollars, not even a good night's sleep. If I can't sing on stage, I might as well sing along with Dora. And if I don't know what's going on in the world, at least I know what's going on in my kids' world, which is the most important world to me after all.

Let it Snow. Or Not.

2010-12-30T19:59:00.000+01:00

There's a secret mathematical formula you only get to find out when you become a parent, but I am going to let you in on it in case you didn't know: kids + snow = magical nonstop fun. A pure white layer of the stuff is guaranteed joy for all. It's the law. Which is why, at the very first sight of a flake, I can't help but sing, loudly and boisterously, 'Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...!'

Mia is four, so this year, she knew what snow was and what you could potentially accomplish with it. But, she was also suddenly aware of the down sides, like when it goes down the back of your neck when you least expect it, or when you get pelted with it by naughty little boys at school. Bram (who is still two) seemed a bit in the dark as to what all that friggin' cold white stuff was exactly, and what on earth he was supposed to do with it. And, why Mama was taking pictures like her life depended on it with a big goofy grin on her face.

The very first snow was a bit of a let down. There was just enough to create a snowman of sorts, which ended up looking more like a large, white frozen pimple. Mia embellished it with most of the contents of our vegetable drawer and the stripey scarf (which Bram unknowingly donated to the cause) really helped give it a little character. Mia was thrilled.

She was less thrilled, however, when I told her she the snowman would come to life if we brought it inside. She told me how snowmen are supposed to come in, dress up in papa's clothes and have a rest in the freezer! Like the movie. Aha.

I figured the only way to convince her would be if she saw with her own eyes that not all animations are actually real life documentaries. We scooched the snow-boil onto a frisbee and brought it in, after which time she promptly forgot all about it. At one point, I brought her attention to her sad slushy creation, which had to be rushed outside
stat. The matter was never brought up again.

The next big snow was definitely more promising, and the mission this time was: build a bigger snowman.

The task seemed simple enough, but the snow had the consistency of extra dry powdered sugar so making the snow actually stick to itself in any way was virtually impossible. Bram, who prides himself on knocking down any structure Mia might erect, added an extra dimension to the challenge. It was my job to pile snow and keep Bram at a safe distance. Finally, Mia managed to ~~build~~ amass a snowman which anyone could easily have mistaken for a wintery version of Jabba the Hut.

Mission (more or less) accomplished. The kids posed with what we affectionately nicknamed the 'Snowmound', Bram resisted the strong desire to trample, but Mia seemed far from proud of her achievement. She almost seemed ashamed of the thing she had created.

The snow kept falling days after that, but it was quite a while before we went out in it again. When we did, the mission was yet again: build a snowman.

That was really the only thing we could do in the snow, since a snowball fight can only end in crying and pain, and making snow angels is just asking for trouble. In fact, coming in contact with the snow was something both kids were keen to avoid, so this particular snowman was pretty much my own work. We did manage to roll three actual balls of snow, and the kids cheered me on in the back-breaking process.

We piled them up, stuck in some veggies and twigs and Mia put on a scarf. Even the first snowman, the 'Snow mound', got some extra accessories in the way of dead branches for hair. A job well done, and we went back inside to warm up and admire our work from the window.

That's when it occurred to me, the snowmen did not look happy. In fact, they both looked like they were about to gouge each others' eyes out. My husband (again proving himself to be the wise one in our family) pointed out that snowmen are loners, and here we made two, standing right next to each other, side by side. I could only imagine what they might be saying to each other:

Snowman 1: Hey, who're you supposed to be?

Snowman 2: Well, obviously, I'm the Snowman. Who are you?

Snowman 1: (chuckling) I think you're confused, buddy. You see, I'm the snowman in this yard. You're on my turf.

Snowman 2: (chuckling a little harder) I think you've got a charcoal button loose, pal. I am clearly the more superior snowman here. I'm made of actual balls. You're just a pile.

Snowman 1: Well, I was here first, 'pal'.

Snowman 2: Oh yeah? If these twig arms could move, I'd give you what for!

Snowman 1: Oh yeah? Well bring it!

Oh, the horror. We've created snow-monsters and our reward is that we have to watch them hate each other every day as they melt. There's nothing sadder than melting snowmen...especially ones that couldn't stand each other. Oh, God, let it melt, let it melt, let it melt.

Moms Aren't Supposed to Get Sick

2010-12-13T09:31:00.000+01:00

Any Mom should know, when she takes on the lifetime vocation of being a Mom, that getting sick isn't okay. So why did I do it?

The three basic requirements of the job of Mom are, as every Mom knows, 1) remove pee and poop when necessary, 2) never cook anything yucky like brussel sprouts and 3) be on-call 24/7 to provide unconditional love and nurturing when required. Getting sick is simply not an option.

Last week, I breached my Mommyhood contract by coming down with a cold. My children found this unacceptable, naturally. I should've read the fine print in my Mommyhood contract (which I signed just after the umbilical chord was cut), that clearly states that allowing myself to catch a virus of any sort would compromise my duties as Mom. Clause 13b.ii even states that losing my voice should never take priority over reading a story or singing a lullaby at bedtime.

I am in trouble.

My husband and I have a sort of silent deal that he is the only one of the Parenting Pair who is allowed to physically get sick. In fact, he has agreed to become sick enough for the both of us all year round. (He knows how to take one for the team, I can tell you.) But call me defiant, I just had to try being sick myself. I should've known the consequences would be disastrous.

The first time I tried to stay in bed was, to put it lightly, unsuccessful. My son Bram found it ludicrous that I was actually attempting to get out of my Mom duties and proceeded to pull me out of bed. I crawled back in, he pulled me out (he may be 2 1/2, but he's strong!). This happened five more times when I finally gave in and accepted the reality of the situation: I might be sick, but I'd better stop it and quick.

Being a sick Mom does have its advantages. Fulfilling the first requirement of the job is now a piece of cake - my entire sense of smell is gone, so changing dirty diapers is a breeze! The downside is, of course, when the kids are asleep and I finally do have a chance to indulge in, say, a glass of wine, I can't even taste it. I could be drinking a smooth, room-temperature glass of beet juice for all I know. Also, my ears are clogged so I am living with the constant sensation of being in a pressurized airplane cabin at high altitudes, but my daughter Mia's screaming capability in particular is significantly tuned down to a sort of soft, muffled peep. Lovely.

As I type this, my nose is running a 20k marathon, I have a coughing-fit every two minutes that would make a chain-smoker green with envy and a headache the size of Kentucky.
Yes, I'm a sick Mom...just don't tell my superiors.

This blog is dedicated to Tuchila, who told me in the friendliest way possible that I should get off my butt and start blogging again.

It's Atrocious!

2010-06-30T02:49:00.000+02:00

Okay, being on vacation should not be an excuse to totally and utterly neglect my blog, but it IS.

I justify myself daily, saying to myself things like: 'I only see my parents once a year! I can't be at their house, eat their food and use all their shampoo and then go and hide behind a computer!' And there are times when I very possibly could write something, only as soon as I crack open the laptop, the kids' radars get activated simultaneously and suddenly drop whatever they're ~~breaking~~ doing so they can turn their attention to tormenting me. And even though papa's pretty cool, and Grandma and Grandpa are awesome, I am their one and only mom, which essentially means the person they most prefer to make doing anything (including going to the bathroom) impossible.

So at this moment, I have found a window. It's a teeny one, since I already hear little voices and footsteps thundering towards me from across the house. I have a few seconds left! Let me say this: I love you all and have not forgotten you!
Have patience!
I will return!

Be Right Back...

2010-05-31T09:33:00.003+02:00

I Must Be Nuts

2010-05-26T13:49:00.000+02:00

Next week, I will be subjected to one of the more challenging tests of good parenting, namely, traveling. Maybe I am nuts, but I have convinced my husband to attempt a trip to my parent's house with the kids. The whole ordeal should take about 24 hours in total.

I must be nuts.

3:00 AM: -The Challenge Begins
We'll manage to cram the suitcases, two strollers, the kids and finally ourselves into the car in a zombie-like state before heading to our friend's house, who will drive us the rest of the way to the airport. That's a three-hour trip in itself, but we're going to give ourselves an extra hour to get there, taking into account one of the three possible worst case scenarios:
1) a traffic jam caused by jack-knifed truck on the highway
2) a traffic jam caused by UFO sighting on the highway
3) the car breaking down, being abducted by aliens and then a traffic jam caused by a jack-knifed truck on the highway

7:30 AM - The Next Hurdle
So once we reach the airport and get checked in, we will have another three hours to kill. I will most likely want to kill myself by the time those three hours are over - I can only imagine how exhausted we will be by that time, and how utterly hyper and blitzed our kids will be. They will have been sleeping all the way in the car and will be pushed around like little monarchs in their buggies - they will be a couple of little Energizer bunnies, essentially. Mia will leap into 'I want! I want!' mode as soon as we enter the duty-free area, and Bram will be trying to mount everybody's luggage trolleys. And this will be just the beginning.

10:15 AM - What Have I Gotten Myself Into?
Once we are on the airplane, the trial really begins, and by that time, I will already be running on half a tank of gas, so to speak. My husband will be running on fumes. It's a ten-hour flight, no stop-overs, no escape. I am seriously considering having the flight attendant make an announcement on my behalf before we take off, just to give the other passengers a heads-up on the inevitability of the situation. I was thinking something along the lines of:
'Ladies and gentlemen, the young child who will most likely be humping your leg at some point during the flight is Bram, whose parents are sitting in seats 14 J and K. Any complaints or discomfort may be communicated to them directly. If you do not wish any contact with this child, we suggest you take another flight. Thank you.'

7:30 PM CET / 11:30 AM - Who's Idea Was This Anyway?
So assuming we survive the flight without anyone suing us for unwanted sexual intimidation by Bram, we should arrive in Seattle where my parents will be waiting for us. (If they don't happen to encounter one of the aforementioned worst case scenarios, that is.) So next to being utterly spent, I will get all emotional since I haven't seen them in almost a year, so I will cry. And then, my mom will cry. And my dad and my husband will roll their eyes at each other and laugh at those silly gals they married. And then the kids will start complaining that they have to pee or that they fell over or something, and then it's off to the next step in our adventure - the ferry.

2:30 PM - Make It Stop!
My parents live on an island in the Pacific Northwest. It's a gorgeous island where my husband and I believe we should emigrate to. We can only get there by ferry, which means you have to be there on time, or they just won't let you on. Obviously, if you're not physically there, they can't let you on. It's common sense, really. Anyway, it takes another three hours to get from the airport to the ferry terminal. I plan to pretend to be awake during the ride, listening to my mom tell me about stuff she told me last week on Skype, but I will actually be sound asleep. If the kids aren't sleeping, I'll pretend they are.

When we get to the ferry terminal, the kids will probably have another burst of energy since they will be rested and refreshed after their long nap in their comfy carseats. I will be suffering from self-inflicted whiplash from all that head-nodding I was doing in the car. I will have no time to think about that though, since I will be on alert-mom-mode, making sure the kids don't hurl themselves off the ferry dock onto the jagged rocks below, for example.

5:00 PM - Is It Much Farther, Papa Smurf?!
Once on the ferry, I will continue to simulate being in a conscious state as the big, heavy boat hums its way through the Puget Sound. It'll be yet another perfect opportunity to run after Bram some more, to make sure he doesn't hurl himself into the sea. I will also most likely get to convince Mia that she really won't fall into the toilet if she has to go pee-pee. Whether or not I try to eat a bowl of clam chowder or go straight for a liter of beer at this point is really all down to speculation.

6:30 PM - Alls Well That Ends in a Puddle...
It's a guess, but I by this time, we should be walking through the front door of my parents' house by now. Make that: stumbling through the door and falling onto the carpet in a puddle of mindless dribble. After that, it's a matter of forcing ourselves to stay awake for a few more hours while our soft, warm, inviting bed beckons us. And when we finally do get to sink into a deep, well-deserved state of REM, it'll be seconds before the kids and their European bio-rhythms are wide awake and read to roll...

It'll be worth it. It'll all be worth it. It will.

I must be nuts.

I'm A Goofy Goober, Yeah.

2010-05-22T12:56:00.000+02:00

Spongebob Squarepants. You either love him, or you hate him. Personally, I love him, not only because of his childlike mannerism or naiveté, or even the fact that we both have a split between our teeth, but because I can relate to him on a deeper level. You see, I too, like Spongebob Sqaurepants, am a goofy goober.

So what makes me a goofy goober? It comes down to little things, those seemingly insignificant things that I find myself doing on a daily basis. Things like going 'weeeeee!' out loud on the swings, running around like a child, blowing bubbles. You may be thinking, yeah sure, you do those things because you're a mom and your kids expect it of you. But the thing is, I have enjoyed goofy activities like this before I became a mom - doing them around my kids just makes me seem less like a wacko in the eyes of society today.

But why does society frown on acting goofy as an adult? Why does society dictate that, once we hit the age of 30, or maybe even 20, that blowing bubbles is no longer acceptable? It's like those signs by the cash register that say 'No alcohol under 16' (this is Europe) - if it was up to society, they'd also have signs saying: 'No blowing bubbles over 25'!

I have accepted the fact that I am a goofy goober. So has my husband, thank God. My husband, who had lost all contact with his inner-goofy goober years before we met, has been known to let his guard down and be a goofy goober again, every now and then. I have been a major influence on him as far as goofy gooberness goes - he knew that I was a goofy goober (a trait that goes far back in the Hennessey gene pool, incidentally) when he married me (even the third time). He accepted that life with me would involve regular amounts of goofy gooberness. Now that we have kids, that amount has increased tenfold, which helps him to rediscover his inner-goofy goober every day anew. For someone who is not born with natural goofy gooberness like me, it's a challenge for him. But it's a challenge we face together.

Being a goofy goober makes me a better parent, I'm convinced of that. You have to be a goofy goober at times just to cope with the challenges of parenthood. I mean, how else can you come up with songs about doing a pee-pee on the potty? You can't. Not with a straight face in any case. It takes a degree of goofy gooberism to accomplish a task like that.

I believe everyone has a goofy goober within them, it's simply a matter of letting it out. Ask yourself this: when is the last time you giggled inanely, ate ice-cream that had a face on it, or played with your food? When is the last time you flew a kite, sang along to a Disney movie or ran after an ice-cream truck? When is the last time you made a daisy chain, finger-painted or did the puzzle on the back of the cereal box? Yesterday? Last week? Last year? Too long ago to remember? Then you might just need a new mantra. Memorize these few lines and by doing so, you can create a portal through which the goofy goober in you can emerge:
I'm a goofy goober, yeah.
You're a goofy goober, yeah.
We're all goofy goobers, yeah.
Goofy goofy goober goobers yeah.

We're all goofy goobers. Yeah. You, me, the mailman, the pope. Your mom, your neighbor, even that guy who picks his nose behind his newspaper on the subway in the morning. When you're chewing a piece of gum, can you remember how to blow a bubble? When you're going out to get the mail, why not try whistling a tune? If you feel like making pancakes, why not make them in animal shapes? Add some food coloring to your glass of milk! Draw mustaches and missing teeth on the photos of people in the newspaper! Fold a paper airplane out of that jury duty notice! Be a goofy goober! Yeah! Do it today! (It'll be the best day ever.)

Neglected Responsibilities...

2010-05-19T11:13:00.002+02:00

I have suddenly realized, in one of those rare moments of clarity I sometimes experience, that I have been receiving awards left and right, but have been neglecting my duties to pass them on! What kind of selfish self-loving blogger am I?!

My very first award was the 'I Love Your Blog' award, bestowed upon me by the hilariously illustrious Naked Writer, whom I adore to bits and pieces and recently bestowed the prestigious 'Your Blog Makes Me Lose My Boldily Fluids From Every Single Orifice' award. I thank you.
(*note: I removed the picture of the award since it looked as though that was the award I was awarding others, which it is not.)

Then I received the 'I Love Your Blog' award again, this time from the quick-witted and charming Jacob, who e-louminates me and inspires me to think outside the box - which can mean anything from reminiscing about old romances to visualizing Fred Flinstone with his pants down. I thank you.

Then out of nowhere, perhaps simply for posting a recipe for meatballs in which I managed to incorporate a picture of myself playing the kazzoo, I received the Versatile Blogger Award from the hysterical, down-to-earth (and quite possibly my new mom role model): Midwestern Mama Holly. I thank you too.

I thank these three from the very bottom of my soul and give them the biggest, most virtually soggy kisses possible!

Now the responsibility part.

7 things about myself:
- My husband and I got married three times and in three different places over the past 11 years: once in Connecticut, once in New York City and once in Terneuzen (in the Netherlands).

- I was threatened with deportation almost 10 years ago and had to give up my U.S. citizenship in order to stay in this country; it was not my choice, but it remains a decision I regret to this day.

- I have two kids, which I still can't believe I actually made myself. From scratch. All by myself!!! (Okay, I had a little help.)

- I (still) smoke and I drink coffee as if it were the elixir of life.

- When I was a kid, I wanted to be a playwright.

- I spend hours working on completely useless research that will in no way whatsoever aide anyone in understanding the world any better. Right now I am trying to unravel the uncanny parallels between the mid-to--late 70's detective series ''Columbo' and one of my favorite parody shows of all time, 'Police Squad (in color)'.

- I officially have no pets, however, there is a very fat stray cat who frequents here and regularly leaves dead mice on the doormat.

And now, the 15 bloggers I've discovered and think are fantastic. Since I don't want to burden the bloggers who gave me my awards in the first place with the same award and the same obligations, and therefore creating a vicious cycle of re-giving, so I will secretly add them to my list, since I do think they're fantastic:

e-loumination

The Writing Womb

Are You Kidding?

Okay, now the list:

1: Crap I've Made
2: The Muffins Blog
3: Darth Mommy
4: Discovering Love in 365 Days
5: I Shoulda Been A Stripper
6: Handmade By Mother
7: Quiet Girl Gallery
8: Yes, His Name is Gary!
9: Dating Atlanta
10: What Max J Has to Say
11: Keesha-Fashionista
12: teeksplace
13: left of average, south of normal
14: In the Middle of the Puddle
15: Intuitive Gardening

15 1/2: At the risk of being a total narcissist, I am including my own recently re-birthed blog, Today's Rant. My last post was in 2008, and so much has happened to me since then, that I read it now as if someone else wrote it.

So there you have it. I am honored to have been given these awards from such awesome bloggers, it makes me feel appreciated, loved and just all fuzzy on the inside.

Not So Swedish Meatballs

2010-05-18T13:45:00.000+02:00

Okay, everybody has to eat. Today, I am sharing with you an illustrated version of one of my favorite meals, 'Not So Swedish Meatballs'.

This recipe is enough to feed four people (or six, if two of them are toddlers). Delicious with potatoes or pasta and some fresh veggies. Mama tip of the day: the more color in your meal, the healthier it is! *wink*

Ingredients:
500 gr. ground beef
one red onion
one egg
yoghurt
one cube of beef boullion
sweet soy sauce (I swear by Indonesian Ketjap Ajam)

Put all the mince meat into a mixing bowl. Add pulverized bread crumbs and one egg and mix together. (If you're queasy about mixing by hand, you can use a spoon...sissy.)

Roll balls out of the mix - you should be able to make about 30-40 balls, depending on the diameter.

Don't fortget to wash your hands before doing anything else, like playing the kazzoo...

Pour some olive oil in a deep frying pan and add one chopped red onion. Drop the meatballs in one by one so they stay intact. (No one likes mushy balls, now do they.)

Pour some sweet soy sauce (I use Indonesian Ketjap Ajam) over the balls as soon as you drop them into the pan. This is what I like to refer to as my patented instant marinade.

Add a swig of wine to the balls to intensify the flavor

(and take a swig yourself!)

Add your favorite spices (I love Mrs. Dash so much, I would adopt her if I didn't already have two kids) Let the balls simmer for about 15-20 minutes.

Add some perky tomatoes for color and flavor.

Add the cube of beef boullion by crumbling it by hand over the meatballs. Do not add any water! You'll be diluting the sauce later with yoghurt.

About five minutes before serving, pour a generous amount of yoghurt* into the pan.

Stir in well and serve with veggies and pasta!

Yum yum!

* If you have a little bit of yoghhurt left and don't feel like putting it back in the fridge, pour it into the sink! It's a super eco-friendly all-purpose cleaner!

Knee, Myself and I

2010-05-13T14:38:00.001+02:00

Has anyone ever said to you: 'Make the most out of life, tomorrow you might get hit by a bus!' In my case, it wasn't a bus, it was a car. Not that that makes any difference in the long run; the end result is basically the same, I'm sure.

It was like a cartoon. For a moment, I was Wile E. Coyote, about to cross a seemingly deserted street. It was one of those carefree mid-summer evenings back in 2002. I'd worked all day and was on my way to the train station along a shady sidewalk. At the last minute, I decided to take Nat King Cole's advice and direct my feet to the sunny side of the street. It was a decision I regret to this day.

As soon as the pedestrian light turned green, I stepped off the curb. There was a zzzooooooom and a screeeeeech and then a whaaaaam! I remember thinking: 'Ok, this is not really happening'. But it really was. I remember every minute detail - first a flash of metallic blue of the car, then the continuous summersault I managed to do over the hood of the car, then the unmistakable sound of glass shattering as I collided into the windshield and then pavement flying beneath me as I was being launched about 6 yards from the car. I finally came to a stop and despite feeling incredibly disoriented, I managed to recognize the contents of my purse which was strewn all over the street. One of my sandals was lying near me, the strap was broken due to the force of the impact. People around me were frozen in shock. A young girl was even crying! I was so embarrassed, I wanted to get up immediately, grab my belongings and get the hell out of there. Only when I tried to stand up, I couldn't. Something was very very wrong with my knee.

Almost eight years later, I am 'handicapped'. I put 'handicapped' in apostrophes because I have this notion about what a handicapped person is, and I do not feel I fit into that category. The fact remains, however, that my knee hurts all the time (the pain ranges from tender to excruciating), is partially immobile and chock-full of arthritis. Prognosis? I'm 34 years old with the knee of a geriatric, and it's only going to get worse.

After years of therapy to treat, among other things, my beloved Post Traumatic Stress Disorders (I actually had it twice, due to pig-headed denial the first time), the best piece of advice I ever got was not from my shrink but from a career counselor. She suggested, whenever I want to do something that might be tough on my knee, I should discuss it with my knee first. I laughed when I first heard this, but now I find I am often in discussion with my knee, (whom I call Mr. Knee), about some physical activity or other I'd like to attempt.

A typical conversation between Mr. Knee and I goes something like this:

Me: 'Hey Mr. Knee, want to go to a market this weekend and try to sell some mialeentje stuff?'
Mr. Knee: 'No.'
Me: 'Oh, come on, it'll be fun!'
Mr. Knee: 'Don't wanna.'
Me: 'Oh please! It'll be just us two...'
Mr. Knee: 'Don't feel like it.'
Me: 'I promise I'll sit down a lot!'
Mr. Knee: 'Well...maybe. I'll think about it.'
Me: (a bit later) 'So, did you think about it?'
Mr. Knee: (groaning) 'oh... ok fine. But I'm going to have to give you hell till Tuesday.'

Starting my own business was fulfilling a dream I'd had since I was a kid, but being an entrepreneur is clearly not Mr. Knee's ambition. When I go to market to sell my wares, it involves a lot of walking, carrying, standing, more carrying, kneeling, bending. In fact, simply picking up a pencil that has fallen to the floor and rolled under the table presents an enormous challenge for me. When I think about it, my daily routine involves just about everything Mr. Knee and I can't actually do together anymore. It's like we broke up, but are still living together in the same flat, forced to live harmoniously when we've actually grown apart. We don't even have the same taste in music anymore. At the end of the day, Mr. Brain and I decide what Mr. Knee has to do, but Mr. Knee protests and will express its discontent by blatantly taunting me with intense throbbing, swelling, stiffness and just plain pain for the days that follow. But Mr. Knee gets its way too sometimes - it has managed to wipe a few of my dreams clear off the table.

I used to be a singer. Although the accident did not damage my vocal chords in any way, the idea of performing onstage is something Mr. Knee disagrees with whole-heartedly. I used to do art direction for film. Mr. Knee does not like the idea of spending days on end building a film set. I used to take walks along the beach. Mr. Knee does not like uneven surfaces. I used to travel around the world gathering inspiration and styling ideas for my job as a fashion designer. Mr. Knee would rather stay home and wash its hair than have to weave in and out of crowds of people in busy shopping street, let alone stand in lines, carry heavy shopping bags, climb up stairs, climb down stairs, get into metros, step over dog-poo... Mr. Knee is pretty much against any physical activity whatsoever and would really prefer it if I just confined myself to a wheelchair right now and got it over with.

Needless to say, I've had to make a lot of adjustments for Mr. Knee. But my life as it is now is not exactly Mr. Knee's utopia either. Without telling Mr. Knee, I got pregnant. Twice. So now I have two toddlers who have trouble with the concept of basic communication, let alone understanding that mama's knee hurts too much sometimes to bend down and pick them up. But if my two-year-old Bram should hurl himself onto the ground and throw a fit in public, which he has been known to do, I have little choice but to bend down pick him up. Mr. Knee opposes this kind of thing, but my children tend to be louder and more dramatic about getting what they want, so they usually win.

Anyone with a limitation has undoubtedly heard someone say to them: 'Don't dwell on what you can't do, just be happy about what you can do!' This just makes me cringe. It's like saying to someone who is clinically depressed, 'You should just smile more!' I am 34 years old. I should be able to do all the things I can't do. I don't pay that much attention to the things I can do, since I can do them. But what I can't do stops me in my tracks, forces me to come up with a less painful alternative, it frustrates me, saddens me, brings up bitter memories, makes me feel insecure, inferior. A cripple. It is next to impossible to simply shake those feelings of helplessness and utter frustration off and think: 'Chin up, at least I'm not dead!'

After therapy, when the worst memories had ebbed away and the claim against the insurance company finally ended, I really hoped Mr. Knee and I would get along again. I don't speak up about our conflicts too often, which tends to confuse people around me when they suddenly see me walking with a pronounced limp. My loved-ones know better though, and know how to support me, now that I know how to let them. To admit I need help is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do; in fact, it's so hard, I still can't seem to do it.

In case you were wondering: no, I have not overlooked the most important aspect of this tale, which is: I am alive. That is a fact I should be, and am, thankful for. So why all the moaning? Every so often, I am a cripple. Emotionally and physically, since for me, the two are indisputably connected. When I don't pay that much attention to Mr. Knee, I feel glorious. If Mr. Knee makes its grievences known, I feel weak. Sometimes I'm strong. Sometimes I'm helpless. As estranged as we might be, Mr. Knee and I still make up one whole human being together, and will just have to develop a symbiotic relationship we both can live with in this particular body.

I can just imagine what our next discussion will be like:
Me: 'Mr. Knee, I'm putting my foot down.'
Mr. Knee: 'What is it this time?'
Me: 'I still have a lot I want to do, dreams I want to fulfill, and you're just going to have to come with me, whether you like it or not.'
Mr. Knee: 'Oh...do we have to?!'

Mother's Day Facts

2010-05-09T08:00:00.000+02:00

I have been a mother for exactly 3 years, 3 months and one day.
Essentially, this means:

I have a brain so I can think about the kids.
I have a mouth so I can communicate with the kids.
I have a nose so I can smell when the kids need a clean diaper.
I have ears so I can hear when the kids are crying.
I have eyes so I can see when the kids are doing something they shouldn't be doing.
I have a lap so the kids have a place to sit down.
I have legs so I can run after the kids.
I have arms so I can carry the kids when they've fallen asleep.

What do I have over 5,000 pictures of on my computer?
The kids.
What's the last thing I hear at night?
The kids.
What's the first thing I hear in the morning?
The kids.
Who do I talk to every day?
The kids.
What do I talk about every day?
The kids.
What do my husband and I talk about?
The kids.
What do I talk to perfect strangers about?
The kids.

What is my floor ridden with?

Kids' toys.

What do I kill my back picking up every day?

Kids' toys.

What do I tend to find buried in the sandbox?

Kids' toys.

What do I regularly trip over?

Kids' toys.

What do I secretly wish I had more of?

Kids' toys.

What is my business all about?
Kids' clothes.
What do I spend every day thinking about?
Kids' clothes.
What am I constantly washing pee stains out of?
Kids' clothes.
What am I regularly wiping snot off of?
Kids' clothes.
What is always full of sand, dirt, pine needles and dead flowers?
Kids' clothes.
What is the laundry hamper incessantly full of?
Kids' clothes.

What am I most proud of?
My kids.
What makes me laugh so hard I often pee myself?
My kids.
What moves me?
My kids.
What inspires me?
My kids.
What do I love more than anything?
My kids.
What makes me feel loved more than anything?
My kids.

And that's a fact.

Rain, Rain, Bugger Off.

2010-05-07T21:48:00.000+02:00

It's raining. This sucks. The weatherman did tell me it would rain, but I wrote him a letter saying I didn't want it to, and included a petition signed by more than a thousand fictional people who agreed with me. He obviously didn't read it, because it still rained, despite my protest.

Mia seems convinced it would still be a fun idea to go outside, where it's absolutely gushing down rain and there are gale-force winds blowing at about three-hundred miles an hour. I'm afraid if I let her go out, she'll either be swept up by a gust of wind and carried away to Kansas, or a house will blow down right on top of her, showing only her curled-up red-and-white-striped socks.

Bram is so stir-crazy, he's bouncing off the walls. I decide to take them for a drive to distract them, and on the way back from going nowhere, I think it would be fun to make a sort of roller-coaster ride out of it by applying the breaks a few times in a row so we'd all lurch forward, as I cry over-enthusiastically 'Weeeee! So much fuuuun!' I find out the hard way that this was a very poor idea because Bram barfed his breakfast all over the floor as soon as we walked back in the house.

Now, Bram is creating a 'no-environment' for himself by doing all the naughty things he knows he's not supposed to do in a row. Mia is complaining that she has an owie on her foot and needs a band-aid pronto. Upon inspection, I see that her wound is nothing more than a freckle. I try to explain to Mia what a freckle is, by showing her the one on my face. She persists that it still hurts, and is now convinced mama needs a band-aid too. Mia is pleased, since her owie has miraculously healed once the band-aid is applied. I am not so pleased, since I'll be wearing a band-aid on my face for the rest of the day.

I decide now to preoccupy them by reviving the toys in the toy box in the kids' room. It's something I've been procrastinating because the toy box is so full of toys, it's actually quite dangerous to try to take one out. All the toys are piled on top of one another so precariously, that if someone were to disturb the pile by, for example, breathing too close to it, the toys would in all likelihood cascade on top of them and bury them alive. The only way to actually play with any of the toys is to dump the entire contents of the toy box onto the floor. This on its own provided some entertainment, and the kids actually started playing with stuff they hadn't seen since they were newborns. Success!

Now is a perfect opportunity to get some mialeentje marketing done! I switch on the computer and am about to go online when I realize I don't hear anything. Oh my god, it's silent... Have they killed each other?

I go in the room to check, which I should never do. As soon as she sees me, Mia decides her owie hurts again and starts crying. Misery loves company, so Bram decides he too is unhappy with the current activity. They both need a hug simultaneously, but do not feel like sharing mama or taking turns, resulting in some pushing, a significant amount of screaming and a whole lot of discontentment in general. I need to come up with a new activity, stat.

Jumping on the bed! They love to jump on the bed. I lure them to the bedroom and initiate the fun by jumping on the bed myself. Mia joins me without hesitation, but Bram looks a little apprehensive. Suddenly, I am regretting this idea, for fear that too much verticle motion might cause him to repeat this morning's barfing incident. I decide to take the risk and help Bram up onto the bed, figuring if he spews, it's about time I change the bed sheets anyway.

So we start jumping. Giggles and smiles fill the room and, for about thirty-five seconds, things are good. Then, I witness the inevitable - Mia and Bram bump heads. I should've seen it coming, since their heads are proportionally huge as it is, and the way they were cavorting all over the place, it was bound to happen. There was a millisecond of silence before Mia started wailing like a banshee. Bram (who is blessed with a titanium alloy skull) simply shook it off and immediately began jumping again, which caused Mia to fall off the bed and wail even harder. One more band-aid, coming up.

Now it's finally time for Bram's nap. Best case scenario, Bram goes down for a couple hours so I'll only have one child's needs to cope with. But Bram is two, which by definition means he will not do anything I want him to do. He has his own agenda, which would be fine if he were a 42-year-old man in a suit and tie, but not when he is a two-year-old boy who needs his diaper changed. Naturally, on this particular rainy day, Bram did not agree with my plan of going down for a nap. I put him to bed anyway, and subsequently listen to him lament for an hour from the confines of his crib. If he had an aluminum mug, you can bet he'd be banging it against the rungs of his prison-like confinement. I, on the other hand, was ready to pull my hair out at the sounds he was making. After much suffering and plugging of ears, I give in and take him out of bed. He was a free man.

A DVD it is, then. Which Disney favorite will it be this time? I may be the one with the remote, but Mia is the one with the power:
Me: 'Okay, kids, time for... Wall-E!'
Mia: (throwing her head back in protest) 'Noooooo! No Wauweeee!!'
Me: 'Okay kids, time for... Toy Story!'
Mia: (rolling over in agony) 'Nooooo! No Toyshoriee!'
Me: 'Okay, kids, time for... Finding Nemo!'
Mia: (getting impatient and irritable) 'Nooo-ooooo! No Nee-moooo!'
Me: 'Okay, Mia what do you want to see?!'
Mia: 'Doggie.'
Me: 'Sweetie, we have fifty different movies about doggies - which one do you want to see?'
Mia: (disappointed in mama, who is obviously not good at mind-reading at all)'Dogg-gie!'
Me: 'Okay kids, time for... Bolt!'
Mia: (throwing her head back and close to tears) 'Nooo! No doggieeee!'

Rather than going into a discussion with her about her definition of a doggie, I decide to put on a more challenging movie to get them completely engrossed: 'The Dark Crystal'. (If you don't remember this mid-80's movie because you were either too stoned, or not interested in the whole Jim Henson-plus-Brian Froud-equals-mystical-muppets thing, it's a semi-dark, rather weighty fantasy movie with extravagant muppets and Frank Oz does his falsetto voice for about 98% of the characters.) 'The Dark Crystal' works like a charm. Both kids are glued to the TV, overwhelmed by the bizarre puppet-critters and trippy colors. This should hold them for a good half hour at least. Okay, back to that marketing I need to do.

Instead of doing any marketing, though, I write this blog post. I am aware of the precious time I am wasting, but I can't seem to stop writing. They say you should never snuff out the flames of inspiration, and knowing me, the content of this post will keep me awake tonight if I don't get it off my chest. It's still raining, the kids are quickly losing interest in the freaky muppets and I am running out of ideas. On top of that, the weatherman is predicting rain all week. I'll just have to write another letter to him. Will you sign my petition?

The Urinator, Awaaaaay!

2010-05-06T14:51:00.000+02:00

In an attempt to get involved in the coincidental theme that my two favorite bloggers, Patricia and Jacob have unintentionally initiated, I am dedicating this particular post to a phenomenon with which I have recently had to cope with on a whole new level: my son Bram's 'piemie'. (I just can't bring myself to call it by its official name yet - he's still my baby...!)

Bram has been aware of his fascinating appendage for some time now, a fact I have tried not to pay too much attention to, for fear it become an obsession before he's even anywhere near puberty. But, I realize it's a part of his body like any other, and should be explored in a healthy way - like my mother said, 'It's just as important as his nose!' (Well, perhaps it's just a bit more important.)

The discovery of his piemie and all it can do is just as interesting for me as it is for little Bram, but it doesn't make my job any easier. What is my job as Bram's mom? Essentially it's to provide food for him to eat, a place for him to sleep, a lap for him to sit on and clean diapers about every fifteen minutes. You see, Bram's piemie might be the size of a slightly overweight earthworm, but he has the peeing capacity of a drunken British football hooligan on vacation in Ibiza.

Bram can pee through anything. The force with which the pee shoots out of his piemie is something a Jedi knight would be jealous of. It doesn't matter what kind of magical mega-absorbing brand diaper I put on him, he can still manage to pee right through it, as well as several more layers, at a time. Nothing escapes the wrath of Bram's pee - his diaper, his PJs, his sleeping bag, his sheets and the protective spongey layer on top of his mattress which is meant to absorb the excess pee. Bram's pee penetrates this layer with no difficulty whatsoever and continues to leak about three inches deep into the mattress.

Now, the crazy thing is, his diaper his more often than not virtually dry even though his clothes look like he just dove into Niagra falls. How can this possibly be?! It can only mean one thing: Bram has been blessed with the super-human strength of Power Peeing. Maybe this is the reason why he still hasn't started talking yet - he's been too busy developing his peeing-power, which will undoubtedly aide him in saving the planet one day. I can just hear the cries of citizens in distress crying out,
'Is it a leaking faucet?!
Is it a hole in the roof?!
No!
It's Bram - The Urinator!'

The first thing that I am met with when I go into his bedroom in the mornings is an overwhelming aroma of boy-pee. So obviously, Bram has either peeed through everything again, or a bum has been living undetected under Bram's crib for the past month. Well, there ain't no bum under there. Bram is just so happy to see me, he starts jumping up and down in a puddle of his own piddle. The only thing he wants is for me to pick him up so we can have a big morning cuddle, but his entire body is soaked with slightly luke-warm pee. Naturally, my maternal instincts outweigh my desire to remain pee-free, so we cuddle. As you've probably guessed by now, Bram isn't the kind of man who does things half-heartedly, including cuddling. I get the biggest squeezes in the mornings from Bram, which is the best, but they do tend to make his pee to leak through my bathrobe and onto my PJs as well! Like I have nothing better to do than run yet another load of wash! I mean, I need to watch Columbo re-runs and pick the balls of my sweater, for starters!

This summer, we plan to start Bram's potty-training. I pray to the Mother God (that's the Big Man's assistant, who was hired specifically to watch over moms in particular) that Bram's Power-Pee won't destroy us all in the process. To be honest, I'm a little concerned for my safety and the preservation of my house - what if he pees a hole in the wall or something? I've never potty-trained someone with super-human powers before. I'd better go join that 'parents of super-human power-peers' support-group on Facebook. Any tips from people with super-human power themselves are more than welcome!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have laundry to do.

Letting Go (the Skinny Of It)

2010-05-04T13:46:00.002+02:00

Now before you click away this post, let me reassure you: this is not going to be about my journey of self-exploration that got me from the total mess of a human being to the well-balanced Martha Stewart-like person that I am today. It's about my body and how I seem to be letting go of it, or rather, how it seems to be letting go of me. (Okay, men, feel free to click away now - unless you want me to let you in on an age-old femine secret that will undoubtedly aide you in understanding the female psyche once and for all.)

The other day, I was going to take a shower. Just as I was undressing, my son Bram barged into the bathroom, which, incidentally, is something we encourage in the hopes this will familiarize him with the concept of doing pee-pee on the potty. Anyway, he barged in and saw me naked. He has seen me in the nude before, but now that he is a bit older and has developed some more brain cells, he must've experienced it on a different level. If you're wondering what he did, I'll tell you: he laughed. Seeing me in my birthday suit made my two-year-old son crack up.

Now, I am well aware that my son's uninhibited sense of humor should not in any way be a device with which to measure my own self-confidence, and yet I felt compelled to take a scrutinizing look at the fleshy exterior I had admittedly been neglecting the past few years.

Hello, full-length mirror. Behind the greasy fingerprints and drool smears (I mean on the mirror), I managed to get a good look at my body. There I was, looking to me something like Mrs. Potato Head with a couple of tea bags dangling from her shoulders. Where the heck did my boobs go? I was sure I had them last year... Not to mention my waist - it seems to have packed up and left town, leaving lots of room for the rif-raf to move in and start constructing mega apartment buildings. Dare I turn around? I dare. Lord, there are less craters on the surface of the moon! Okay, let's move away from this particular hemisphere. What the -! Is that long, wirey grey hair actually growing out of my scalp?! Omg, there's another one. And another! Since when did I have grey hairs?! Wait, when did I stop dying my hair? A-ha. Mystery solved.

Has it really come this far? Have I actually let myself go? Is this the fate that every engaged man dreads his wife-to-be will someday succumb to? I sucked in my gut - that looks a bit better. But how long can I actually go around without breathing? Not long enough. Seeing as I was already in the process of torturing myself, I decided to pull out that one piece of clothing and subject myself to the test that will determine whether or not I should send myself off to a fat-farm this very afternoon. Yes, (ladies, you know what I'm talking about) it was time for the 'skinny me jeans' test.

Every woman has a pair of jeans she wore long, long ago when she was young and thin, affectionately known as her 'skinny me jeans'. These jeans may never be discarded, since they are required for a periodic trying-on session; the result of which can cause the woman in question to be hurled into a fit of either unadulterated rapture or send her careening into a full-blown depression.

Every now and then, (coincidentally, just around the time the woman in question is about to get her period) the 'skinny me jeans' emerge. The trying-on commences. One foot goes in. The anticipation builds. The other foot goes in. Suspense can be cut with a knife. The jeans get pulled up, slowly, gradually, until they reach that oh-so crucial point: the lower thighs. Oh, fellow pear-shaped ladies, how we loathe those lower thighs! If the jeans can't even make it over the lower thighs, you can pretty much forget trying to get them up at all. If that happens, you've failed the 'skinny me jeans' test and you might as well go and eat an entire cheesecake.

So there I was, trying to pull on my 'skinny me jeans'. The pulling continued. The pulling became jerking. Jerking turned into wrenching. I had reached my mid-lower-thigh area and was starting to chafe my skin. I had no choice but to proceed with the 'lying down on the bed and yanking' method (see, I'm not making this up - if there's a copyrighted stock photo of it online, then it's true). I threw myself down on the bed, sucked my gut in so far I was close to imploding, and started yanking. I cringed, I grimaced, I broke a nail. But my efforts were not in vain. Hallelujah! I made it over my upper-thighs! My 'skinny me jeans' were on! Now came the next obstacle... zipping the fly.

Instead of getting up from the bed and letting gravity have an adverse effect on my accomplishments thus far, I decided to remain lying down in the sucked-in-gut position to attempt zipping up my beloved 'skinny me jeans'. This was a momentous occasion in itself, considering the number of times my 'skinny me jeans' and I even made it this far. It was a delicate procedure, seeing as vulnerable tummy flab could potentially get caught in the zip, resulting in physical as well as emotional agony. I felt for that oh-so familiar zipper-puller thingy and started to zip. Nothing happened. For a moment, I considered forgoing this stage of the test and just wearing an extremely long, baggy sweater over the unzipped 'skinny me jeans'. But I knew it wouldn't fly. My conscious simply wouldn't allow it. I pressed on. The zipper began to move. And under the control of my steady hand and my relentless determination to succeed, it zipped.

Now, don't think I could actually stand up at this point. My 'skinny me jeans' were on, and zipped, but that didn't mean I could actually wear them in public. The excess skin that had been forced upwards was now hanging over the waistband of my 'skinny me jeans' in such a mass that no sweater I owned could conceal it. Not to mention the fact that the 'skinny me jeans' were rapidly cutting off the circulation to my upper body.

What mattered was that I had passed the 'skinny me jean' test. This time. After more pulling and perspiring, I managed to get my 'skinny me jeans' off again, folded them neatly and returned them to the back of my closet, where they will remain until the next time my self-image is in doubt (which should be some time next week).

It's 'A-Parent'...

2010-05-03T12:15:00.000+02:00

So, my husband and I went on a date. Yes, an actual date, away from our home and our kids. Now, I know you're asking yourself: 'Are parents actually allowed to go out anywhere without their children??' It's indeed a common misconception that parents, as individuals, have needs that do not in any way involve their kids. Be this as it may, my husband and I found at one point that we simply could not justify not going out.

Because we are married, my husband and I need to talk about and justify everything we do before we do it. Going out on a date without sufficient reason to do would simply be unacceptable. Last December, when I turned 34, I suggested my husband take me out to celebrate. At the time, however, both kids were down with the swine flu, so that didn't happen. Then, our wedding anniversary came around, which was arguably a perfect opportunity to go out. But, for reasons I can't remember, we didn't go out again. Then it was my husband's birthday, and we didn't go out. Then a whole series of occasions came and went, ranging from semi- to very special, and when we added these to the list of special occasions we hadn't celebrated in the past six months, we decided we couldn't justify procrastinating any longer. We had to go out.

Once the reason to go out was established, we reviewed the criteria that a parent must meet before even considering the possibility of going on a date:
1) You need a babysitter.
2) You need money to pay the babysitter and still be able to afford to go out.
3) You need to be able to stay awake long enough to go out, complete the date and come back home.

We finally decided, after some diplomatic contemplation and discussion, that we met the criteria. On a date, we would go.

I capitalized on this opportunity to squeeze myself into something sexy for our date. Since becoming a mom, my wardrobe has gone through a rigorous transmutation - what used to be a closet full of slinky, close-fitting garments now consists exclusively of baggy jeans and bally sweaters. Fortunately, the sentimental sap in me held on to a little black dress or two; neither of which fit. In fact, nothing in my closet seemed to fit. I finally settled on skinny jeans, paired with a loose-fitting but semi-transparant black top with only minimal traces of Bram's dried snot on it. I couldn't resist polishing off the ensemble with a pair of heels that had been slowly gathering moss at the bottom of my closet. I was dressed, and I felt completely uncomfortable. Mission accomplished.

Once the babysitter arrived, my husband and I proceeded to drill her on the do's and don'ts essential to the survival of an evening with our children. I stuck post-its with detailed instructions on everything I thought the babysitter might come in contact with, then duplicated these instructions again onto a piece of paper which I put on the fridge. We made sure she understood some crucial facts about our children, for example, that Bram will want to watch 'Toy Story' exactly three times in a row, and Mia will only drink anything from the pink cup. Definitely not the blue one. (For the love of God, if your life means anything to you at all, I beg you, don't give her the blue one!)

I gave the babysitter my mobile phone number. Then, I wrote down my mobile phone number on a post-it and stuck it on the fridge. Subsequently, I sent a text message to her mobile phone number with my mobile phone number in it. Just to make sure, I asked her if she had my mobile phone number. When she said she did, I asked her to call my mobile phone number to make sure she really had my mobile phone number. On the way to the restaurant, I was suddenly convinced the babysitter didn't have my mobile phone number, so I sent another text message with my mobile phone number. Just in case.

After being seated at the restaurant, I made sure my mobile phone was in plain view at all times during the meal, and checked it regularly to make sure it was still on. Then I checked to make sure the reception was good. I considered calling the babysitter to make sure everything was okay, since she wasn't calling me, which could mean everything was fine, or it could mean that Mia swallowed something poisonous and Bram fell and cracked his head open, but she didn't have my mobile phone number, which was why she wasn't calling me. My husband is extremely sensible, and was able to exterminate my worries by saying 'Oh, unclench. They're fine'. That was good enough for me, and I was able to turn my full attention to a three-course meal of food I didn't have to prepare, served on dishes I wouldn't have to wash. Divine.

Since becoming parents, my husband and I are allocated exactly three-and-a-half minutes per person to ingest our food at dinnertime. The rest of the meal is spent making sure some dinner actually makes it from the kids' plates into their mouths, and that they don't poke their eyes out with the silverware. During the meal on our date, I found it possible not only to eat my food in the tempo I saw fit, I could do it without having to navigate around a child on my lap. It was a strange, surreal sensation.

When the bill came, the waiter waited patiently at our table as I rummaged around in my purse to find my wallet. To get to it, I had to remove a variety of items lying on top, including a green Hot Wheel, an extra pair of Mia's panties (in case of an accident in public), two snotty hankies and a Hello Kitty sock (Hey, I was looking for that!). Another strange sensation swept over me, which was hard to identify at first. Then it occurred to me: it was the uncanny experience of paying for something other than groceries! Truly bizarre.

On the way home, I had visions of our living room resembling something similar to an episode of 'Malcolm in the Middle', with bits of food stuck to the ceiling, children hanging from the rafters and our babysitter tied up and gagged in a corner. What I was met with was pure serenity. The kids had eaten their dinner, the babysitter actually managed to work the remote control for the TV and was now reading a book while both kids were sound asleep in bed. If I hadn't been so dumbstruck, I would've asked the babysitter what her secret was...

This experience taught me something I already knew: parents are parents all the time, even when they are away from their kids. Parents like to talk about being parents, parents want to be friends with other parents, and parents write blogs about being parents. It's amazing how much child-rearing I can achieve without even being in the same room as my children, not to mention in a subconscious state! I understand now why I will always be my mom and dad's little girl, and that poor Mia and Bram are destined to the same fate.

Going out is not a way to escape my parental duties, it's a way to intensify them. I figure, the next time a special occasion comes around, we'll celebrate it next year...

I Laughed, I Cried, I Kissed Thirteen Euro Goodbye...

2010-05-01T12:27:00.003+02:00

Yesterday was 'Koninginnedag' or Queen's Day, the one day of the year where the entire country is clad in orange to pay homage to Holland's 'queen bee', Queen Bea.

To an ex-pat like me, it's a confusing day. Apparently, it is a celebration of the Queen's birthday on the 30th of April, which is not actually her birthday at all. It's actually in the fall, or something, but it's celebrated in April because the weather is supposed to be better...

So what happens on Queens Day? Queen Beatrix and all her entourage parades through one lucky town somewhere in Holland, shaking hands with boyscouts and showing off her hat. It's also the day where the 'Vrije markt' or Free market takes place, meaning anyone and everyone can empty their garages and attics onto the street and sell their junk without a permit. (This is a huge exception in a country where you need a permit to breathe the air.) But what it has to do with the Queen's birthday has me stumped. Maybe it represents some kind of benevolent gesture by the monarchy, that the common peasant can also earn a bit of cash on her Majesty's birthday.

But aside from selling your crap in honor of the Queen and the celebration of it not being her birthday, there are all sorts of activities for young and old to participate in throughout the country. It seems to me that the main requirement for the adult activities is a colossal amount of beer. For the kids, it's a lot more complicated. There need to be pony rides and dressing up and fire-engines and making noise and toddler discos, to name but a few essential ingredients. This year, Mia and Bram were invited to attend, and compete in, the local 'decorate-your-bicycle-and-make-as-much-noise-as-you-possibly-can' parade.

Seeing as they are both crazy about their tricycles and ride them around incessantly, I couldn't imagine a better way for all of us to enjoy the day and have a memorable, positive experience. I was wrong. And I was right too. I'll explain...

In the days leading up to the parade, the entire Stolk family was involved in decorating the aforementioned tricycles. I went to the store and bought thirteen euro worth of plastic bicycle ornaments, which my husband and I painstakingly attached to the trikes under the uncompromising instruction of our children. Mia shoved some peacock feathers in the back of her trike, threw some flowers in the basket on her handlebars. Bram and I wrapped some old Christmas decorations around his handlebars and hung some flags along the back. Both kids adorned their trikes not only with sparkle, but with a huge amount of love. I was convinced: the parade was going to be a hit.

The day before the exciting event was about to take place, it reached temperatures of up to 80 degrees. Pretty exceptional for the end of April, and a promising prospect for the outdoor festivities planned for the next day. My wonderful mother-in-law, 'Oma' Rik, showed her unconditional love and support by accompanying us. I was blindly confident, it was to be a lovely day for all.

On the day of the parade, it rained. No, it didn't just rain, it poured. It pelted. It continuously drizzled, then it cat-and-dogged, then it just poured some more. Unphazed by the adverse weather conditions, Mia was just thrilled to be a part of it.

Mia pedaled her way to the group of kids gathered at the starting line, who were mounted upon the most extravagantly embellished bicycles I had ever seen. I was convinced, as I gawked at the constructions most of the children were riding around in, that if those bikes were decorated by the kids, well then my name is Martha Stewart. After all the effort Mia put into decorating her tricycle, I knew she could kiss a prize goodbye. But, I told myself, we weren't here to win, we were there to participate and have a good time.
Outside in the cold. And the rain.
Without an umbrella.
And, I had to pee.

For at least a half an hour, kids, 'omas', 'opas', moms and dads, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters stood there getting drenched as the mayor of the town commemorated a bunch of total strangers, who were called up one by one to receive totally irrelevant awards. Kids all around me began to get restless. One kid in particular was making it very clear he did not want to be there anymore, and that kid was Bram.

Bram had wriggled his way out of the seat-belt on his trike and made a break for it. He scurried through the crowd, dodging this way and that, protesting loudly as he ran. He tried to escape down someone's driveway, then attempted to mount an elderly man's lap. When he realized his efforts were futile, he promptly threw himself down on the wet pavement and began to wail. My husband and I looked at each other and knew, it was literally raining on Bram's parade. He needed to go home.

Thank goodness for 'Oma' Rik! While trying to retain the kicking-and-screaming Bram, I explained to her and Mia that we were taking him home, and that I would come back a.s.a.p. She agreed to escort Mia, who didn't even seem to notice Bram's screams and the persitent rain. Amidst the impatient bicycle horns and bells, I hurried through the sheets of rain to the car as my husband cleared the path like a police escort, barely managing to hold the flailing and fussing Bram in my arms.

It only took about fifteen minutes to get Bram home and get back to the parade, by which time it had ended. Utterly disappointed, I turned into the street where the finish line was to find it completely abandoned. I had missed the entire thing. Bram didn't get to participate, thirteen euros of plastic crap was down the drain. We all got wet, and, I managed to take only two measely photos (which is a record for me)! A memorable and pleasant day for all? Hardly.

That's when I heard a familiar voice call, 'Mamaaaaaa!' It was Mia, drenched to the bone and wearing a smile broader than the Grand Canyon. She had reached the finish line, all by herself, and was carrying a bag of sweets that she had rightfully earned by doing so. 'Oma' Rik was also wearing a smile, which warmed me to my very core. I felt raindrops mix with the tears on my face, and gave my mia a Grand Canyon-size smile back, plus an even bigger hug.

Photo of Queen Beatrix courtesy of the Reformatorisch Dagblad

My First Born and Her First Love.

2010-04-26T12:25:00.000+02:00

I can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. Mia has a boyfriend. She's not even four years old yet and she has a boyfriend. Wait! I'm not ready for this!!

The apple of her eye is Nigel, the little boy who lives nextdoor. When I say 'little boy', I actually mean 'dangerous hoodlum'. Never have I known a little boy who has a death wish like Nigel. Every time I see him, he has some new gash on his forehead or series of bruises on his arms that make me wonder if he is even familiar with the concept of pain. This is most likely the reason Mia likes him. Nigel is a 'bad boy'.

Our neighbor, Nigel's father, has piled up old rocks and branches against the fence that separates our properties, which is the idea place for Nigel to grace us with his dare-devil talents. He seems completely unphazed by the imminent danger of jumping head-first into a pile of jagged rock and sharp branches, especially when encouraged by Mia's squeals of delight.

When our neighbors moved in, I heard the sounds of children playing nextdoor, and the prospect of playmates for Mia and Bram just a few meters away was promising. But, when I met Nigel, I was sure of two things: 1) there was no way Mia was going over to his house to play, and 2) there was no way he was coming to our house to play. I am positive, broken bones or broken furniture would be the inevitable result. My husband just recently had to reinforce the fence that separates my daughter from this budding Evil Kinevil, and if he can trash a fence, then you can be sure he can trash just about anything.

So it's become a very Romeo and Juliet kind of situation - the two lovers (Mia and Nigel), professing their admiration for one another at the insurmountable barrier that separates them (the fence) under the scrutinizing supervision of the evil parent who forbids their love (me).

I had no idea this relationship had even begun till the other day, when I heard Nigel's unmistakable voice screaming at the top of his lungs: 'Miiiiiiaaaaaaaa!' There he was, on top of his mound of branches, clad in a pirate's coat and bearing proudly some fresh cuts and scratches. Mia answered his call without hesitation by skipping to the fence and standing there, watching him perform his perilous feats. I observed it all from a distance, keeping an eye on anything sharp he should happen to get hold of, making sure he didn't try to poke Mia's eye out with it. When Nigel found a broken bottle to dazzle Mia with, that was my cue to enter the scene. When he saw me, he put on a broad grin, pointed at my daughter and said 'My Mia'.
Excuse me?
Did he say what I think he just said?
'My Mia'?!

Could this be but a foreshadowing of what's to come? Is my daughter slipping away from me already? Because this is just the beginning, isn't it? Before I know it, she'll be a teenager, and she'll be bringing home boys. Teenage boys. First, boys with scooters, then, boys with cars. Then boys with leather jackets and motorcycles!!! And then Mia will be going around with a leather jacket with 'Property of Nigel' embroidered on the back! If Nigel is any reflection of the type of boy Mia likes, then I'm seriously considering getting her to convent now.

But, as always, I should not underestimate my daughter. Mia knows what she's doing, which she made clear yesterday. As anyone who knows Mia knows, Mia goes ga-ga over flowers. Seeing as my husband and I are trying to teach Mia not to pick every single living thing in our garden before it even gets a chance to bloom, she has discovered another way to get her daily flower fix: yup, you guess it: Nigel. Nigel's yard is full of posies that Mia wants, so under her exact instructions, he runs around gathering any and all flowers she desires and hands them to her through the fence. Once she's got the flowers in her hand, her interest in Nigel seems to diminish. Mia gets her flowers, I get my peace of mind, and Nigel, well, Nigel gets another injury somewhere on his body in the process.
So, everybody's happy.

(I think I'll find out where the nearest convent is, just to be on the safe side...)

'Me Time'

2010-04-23T13:28:00.000+02:00

I love my kids. I love them with every inch of my soul, every drop of my existence. They are my inspiration, my reason for being. But I also love dropping them off at pre-school and leaving them there for a few hours, because that's when I get some well-earned 'me time'.

'Me time'. I never seemed to need it before I had kids. Back then, it was 'me time' all the time. I had so much 'me time', I didn't know what to do with it. Frankly, I was bored of it. I was with myself all the time, why should I spend extra time with myself? And when my husband and I were together without kids, we not only had an abundance of 'me time' for ourselves separately, we also had an excess of 'us time'. At one point, we were sick of the sight of each other, we had so much 'us time'.

Now, things are different. 'Me time' is valuable commodity around here. Especially since the kids don't take 3-hour naps anymore in the afternoons. My husband and I battle for 'me time' regularly. Sometimes I will use going to the bathroom as an excuse to get an extra bit of 'me time', when it isn't actually my turn. And I'm convinced my husband will sometimes invent a chore that needs to be done outside in order to steal a bit of 'me time' for himself.

And when I finally do get those few precious hours of 'me time', I blow them. I vacuum, wash dishes, do the laundry, work on mialeentje marketing. 'Me time' isn't supposed to be wasted on household chores and work, is it? 'Me time', I'm sure, is for having a massage or a facial, enjoying fresh flowers, having a laugh, catching up on fashion trends in the latest issue of Elle, that kind of thing.

The thing is, though, that I get all that stuff during my non 'me time', with my kids I mean.
Having a massage, for example: If I should lie down anywhere, the kids see that as an invitation to jump on my back, which is better than any Thai massage you could pay any amount of money for.
As far as a facial goes: having kids pretty much means going around without make-up on anyway, so my face is in such good condition lately, I don't even need one!
As for fresh flowers: My daughter Mia can find a flower within seconds of being outside, with which she'll decorate the house and herself. So I am pretty much surrounded by fresh flowers, even if they are in the form of weeds, every day.
And catching up on fashion trends? To be honest, I never really paid any attention to trends anyway. I prefer to make up my own, and watch what Mia is doing. She is my trend guru when it comes to gathering inspiration for mialeentje.

Come to think of it, who says 'me time' has to be when you're by yourself? I tend to find lots of 'me time' opportunities throughout the day, like when the kids are busy playing in the dirt or when my husband is venting his frustrations about lousy drivers. For a moment, I can enjoy the sound of a breeze rustling the leaves or a particularly pretty birdsong and recharge my batteries until one of the kids get a dirt clot in its eye or my husband realizes I'm only half listening to him. So it was just a few seconds of 'me time', but a valuable few seconds nonetheless!

So, as it turns out, I actually get plenty of 'me time' satisfaction when it's not officially 'me time' at all! I guess I should re-define what I understand to be 'me time'. It's a time to rest, to think, to ponder, to dive into the lake of me... make that a dip my toes in the shallow end of the lake of me (a dive would simply take too long to manage in the few hours the kids are away). No, real deep self-exploration and peace of mind can only be achieved during an extended period of time of 7-9 hours, and the only time I can manage that is when I'm asleep. I guess I'll just have to rely on my subconscious to ensure I get the 'me time' I'm entitled to...

A Conversation with Mia

2010-04-20T12:54:00.000+02:00

Mia: 'Mama?'
Me: 'Yes, sweetie.'
Mia: (a little louder) 'Mamaaa?'
Me: 'Ye-e-s?'
Mia: (even louder, and slightly irritated) 'Mamaaa!'
Me: 'Yes, Mia, what is it?'
Mia: (bordering on hysterical) 'Mama! Mama! Mama!'
Me: 'Mia, I'm right here, listening. What is it?'
Mia: 'Mama?'
Me: 'Yes?'
Mia: 'Muk.'
Me: 'Muk? What is muk?'
Mia: 'Mama, muuuk!'
Me: 'Mia, you need to take your pacifier out of your mouth when you want to say something, otherwise I can't understand you.'
Mia: (takes her pacifier out) 'Muk.'
Me: 'Can you ask me properly?'
Mia: 'I...'
Me: (silent)
Mia: '...want...'
Me: (waiting patiently)
Mia: '...Muk!'
Me: 'Mia, do you mean you want milk?'
Mia: 'Yeah! Muk muk muk!'
Me: 'Mia, try saying it like this: m-iii-lll-k.'
Mia: (concentrating) 'Mmm-iii-ulllk'
Me: 'Good! Now can you ask me properly?'
Mia: 'Mama! I...'
Me: (nodding)
Mia: '...want...'
Me: (smiling and nodding)
Mia: '...Muk!'
Me: 'Can you say: Please, mama.'
Mia: 'I...pyeeez...want...mama'
Me: (knowing where this is headed)
Mia: 'Pyeeze...'
Me: (stifling a giggle)
Mia: '...Muk!'
Me: 'Ok, Mia, now put all those words in this order: Mama, I want milk, please.'
Mia: 'Mama, pyeeze...'
Me: (nodding some more)
Mia: '...I...'
Me: (waiting some more)
Mia: 'I...want...'
Me: (nodding, waiting)
Mia: 'pyeeze...Muk!'
Me: (thinking: at least she got the 'please' in there) 'Ok, Mia, yes. You may have some milk.'
Mia: (seconds later) 'Mamaaaa!'
Me: 'Yes, sweetie?'
Mia: 'Mamaaaa!'
Me: 'Yes, Mia, what is it?.'
Mia: '...Muk!'

Men are from Mars, Women are from Upstate New York.

2010-04-19T14:00:00.000+02:00

My husband is a man. Which means: 1) no, I am not a lesbian, and 2) no, I am not a single mom. It also means that, because my husband is a man, he is incredibly focused, but totally incapable of doing two things at once.

My husband's wife, a.k.a me, is a woman. That means: 1) no, he is not gay and 2) no, he is not a single dad. It also means that, because I am a woman I am able to do two things at once, but my timing sucks.

These two well-known character traits belonging to men and women can cause some really interesting - and yes, somewhat sticky - situations, as you are probably more than well aware, I'm sure. Being a man or a woman on this planet makes it pretty much impossible not to bump into someone of the opposite sex eventually. And as difficult as it is for most modest woman to admit, it's true, there's just no two ways about it...men are hopeless at multi-tasking.

Seriously, last night, I managed to get both kids in bath (consecutively - not together), finish two chapters in the book I'm reading, make out a grocery list, pluck my eyebrows, and come up with the idea for this blog post, all at the same time. It is somewhat miraculous when you think about it, and yet second nature to us women.

My husband would not be able to do all these things at once. Not that he needs his eyebrows plucked per say, but the act of performing more than one task simultaneously is just not possible for him. He says so himself, repeatedly, when I ask him to do something for me, he'll cry: 'I can't do two things at once, woman!' But this cry is not one of frustration due to his lack of the ability to multi-task; it is one of pure annoyance, since the timing with which I asked him to do a task is more often than not, how do I put it: lousy.

As a woman, I have this uncanny ability of asking my husband to do something at exactly the same moment he is preparing to do something else, a 'project', if you will. I should know better. 'A project' requires a man's full concentration, which I definitely should know, since I read 'It's A Guy Thing: An Owners Manual for Women' by David Deida. I'm telling you, ladies, this book is a must-have read for women who feel compelled (or forced) to understand the men in their lives.

In his book, Mr. Deida answers several of women's faq's about men, and explains the elaborate details of his unstoppable aspiration to contemplate, commence and complete 'a project'. If a woman should interrupt this process, the results can be, well let's face it, disastrous. This is why I am eternally grateful for Mr. Deida's research, since it taught me when the correct moment actually is to ask a man anything while he's in the midst of a project. That moment is, quite simply, never.

Thank you, Mr. Deida. I'll try and remember that in future, but right now, I have to check my e-mails, do the laundry, wash the dishes, put Bram to bed and three other things I can't remember right now but will come to me, I'm sure...

*This post has only been slightly exaggerated for literary - and naturally dramatic - purposes.

I've Got Designer Genes.

2010-04-14T13:10:00.000+02:00

When I was eleven or so, my dad and I were having one of those talks about what I was going to be when I grew up. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but I remember at one point he told me I had 'designer genes'. I remember being shocked, since I was sure I didn't own a pair of designer jeans at all! Much later, it became clear to me what he meant, and that it was true.

My parents are both designers - my dad is an industrial designer and my mom is a photographer. My brothers are also both designers. In my early teens, I tried to rebel against design. You see, I wanted to be an artist, like my grandfather. I wanted to use pure mediums like charcoal and wear oil paint stains on my clothes and go around smelling of terpentine, like a real artist should! I wanted to roll up my sleeves and mix my own sweat and tears into my work; only then could I consider myself a true artist.

After art school, what did I end up doing? I became a graphic designer. And after that? A fashion designer. My dad was right - I really do have designer genes. It's undeniably genetic.

Now that I'm a mom, I am curious as anything about what my kids will grow up to be. They have such an interesting mix of creative genes in them! Next to all the artsy folk in my own family, my husband is the result of an artistic gene-pool as well (which is incidentally probably why we accept one another's eccentric behavior; we're just used to it). He is a professional musician and his parents were both artists.

Both of us can't help but assume our children will be artistic in one way or another when they grow up. Heck, they already are! My daughter Mia was able to draw with a crayon before she could even feed herself, and my son Bram can beat out a rhythm with his bottle that would make Steve Gadd green with envy.

When Bram plays a tune on the keyboard, Mia starts doing arabesques. And when they're finished, they applaud for themselves. They're natural-born performers.

When Mia wants a new dress, she will skip into my studio and point out exactly which fabrics she wants, how many pleats she wants and which trimmings she wants it to be trimmed with. Her gift for styling at three-and-a-half just blows me away.

When Bram empties out his box of blocks, he immediately begins constructing the world's most inconceivably high tower. He's two years old, and he has a dream.

When Mia sees anything that even remotely resembles a flower, she goes ape. She cannot resist the temptation to pluck even the teeniest weed or dead bit of grass if she thinks it would look nice in a bouquet. Her eye for composition is astounding.

But there are also times when my kids are about as artistic as a sack of potatoes. When Bram tries to paint, he seems to think the object of the activity is to throw as many paintbrushes as he can on the ground and then run all over the paper while giggling madly. And when Mia was recently introduced to the concept of painting Easter Eggs, she was much more interested in how quickly she could make them spin them around till they rolled off the table and broke. (Needless to say, we had a lot of egg salad sandwiches that day.)

I have to remind myself, they are still kids. They are doing what all kids are doing at the same age, so before I go and declare how amazingly artistically-inclined they are, I should probably take a step back and just let them do what they think they're doing, namely, making a mess and having a really good time in the process.

And at the end of the day, who knows, they might just both grow up to be accountants. Which is absolutely fine with me...as long as they're accountants with a passion for music and flower-arranging, that is.

Third Culture Mom

2010-04-06T17:13:00.002+02:00

Only a couple months ago, I found out I am a 'Third Culture Kid' , or as I prefer to call myself, 'Terminally Unique'. I was born in the U.S.A, but I moved to the Netherlands when I was 15 and became an adult in this country, which essentially means I don't feel really American... And even though I am now a Dutch citizen and have been living here for almost twenty years, I don't feel Dutch either. I'm a bit of both but neither one completely. It's confusing, I know, but that's what it's like to be 'terminally unique'. And it doesn't get any easier when you start raising kids.

But being a TCKid or 'Global Nomad' (as we're so lovingly nicknamed), is not just about feeling like you don't belong anywhere. If that were the case, we might as well be called 'Eternal Pre-Teens'. I've found there are three other especially tough things a TCKid has to cope with when raising children - there's the language issue, the cultural idiocincracies and the family dillema.

the language issue
Because my native language is English, but I live in a country where the first language is Dutch, my husband and I decided to raise our kids bilingually. It's a challenge, to say the least, since they both are taking a lot longer to get the hang of comunicating in general than other kids their age who are raised in a single-language environment. But, thanks to Holland and its wealth of government subsidies for bilingual kids, both Mia and Bram are benefiting from extra attention and speech therapy, so they'll be able to hold their own once they start school.

Besides raising my kids bilingually, I am also set on presenting mialeentje in two languages as well. Not only because I hope to reach the largest amount of potential customers by offering two languages, but also because I want to present my business just like I present myself. I just am both languages, in person and online. On my site, I label and describe everything in Dutch and English, and use little flags to make things clearer... I just don't know if that's helpful or utterly confusing.

the cultural idiocincracies
Dealing with a different culture is tough enough without kids, but once they come into the picture, it gets even more complicated. I'm talking, in particular, about the holidays. Just about every holiday is celebrated differently, named something different or involving different things in Holland, and ever since the kids were born, I've struggled with how to deal with this. I grew up with the American versions of these holidays, while my husband grew up with the Dutch versions. So which version do we go by? A perfect example is good ole Christmas versus the Dutch gift-giving holiday, Sinterklaas.

There are some fundamental differences: firstly, the man himself - in Holland, you've got Sinterklaas, and in the states, you've got Santa. Two completely different guys bearing gifts. Secondly, the day - in Holland, Sinterklaas bangs on your front door and leaves behind a burlap bag of gifts on the doorstep on the evening of the 5th of December. Santie Claus, on the other hand, lands on the rooftop while everybody's sleeping and whips down the chimney on the 24th so that the Christmas tree is surrounded by presents on the morning of the 25th when everybody wakes up.

Then there's the issue of the good man's residence, his choice of vehicle and his helpers. Sinterklaas, who lives in Spain, journies to Holland by steam boat, accompanied by a few dozen acrobatic Zwarte Pieten (Black Petes) who apparently are instructed to bring back the naughty kids in the same burlap bag that held the presents. Santa leaves his home on the North Pole and his staff of handy elves behind to make his journey by a flying-red-nose-reindeer-drawn sled. Let me tell you, it is not easy to mesh these two into something the kids will comprehend, let alone buy.

For now, my husband and I have decided to wait till the kids are actually able to tell us what they want as gifts before we worry about explaining the differences between the two versions. Call it procrastination if you will, I call it good sense.

the family dillema
So what happens when your nomadic parents pick up and move from one country to another when you've barely got a handle on your zit problem, then pick up and move back ten years later? You've got a family dillema on your hands, is what happens.

When my parents moved back to the states, we didn't have Skype or Facebook or cheaper rates for our mobiles. We had a very poor internet connection and e-mails in which you couldn't send an attachment larger than 1.5mb without the whole system crashing. Thank the Scandinavians for inventing Skype so that I, for one, can let my kids get to know their grandparents via webcam, or 'be there' for my brother's wedding in Phuket! It's certainly no surrogate for the real thing, but it certainly makes online communication a lot more worthwhile. Last year wasn't my first Skype Christmas, and it will most certainly not be my last.

TCKids, Global Nomads and Terminally Unique Syndrome... Put together it makes for a steadily growing phenomenon, now that the borders of this world are diminishing and people are having babies all over the place. Take another look at the people you know, you just might know someone who is terminally unique too - in any case, you do now.

The Easter Bunny

2010-04-04T11:48:00.001+02:00

As a kid, the Easter Bunny was the only fantasy holiday creature I really believed in. Santa Claus was a little too far-fetched for me, the Tooth Fairy was just beyond comprehension, but the Easter Bunny had something special.

I remember one year (perhaps it was the year I started to doubt) when I wrote a letter to the Easter Bunny. I asked him (for some reason I assumed it was a him) to draw a picture of himself. The next morning, I didn't rush after my brothers in search of eggs or baskets, I went straight for the little folded-up piece of paper - the answer to my request.

When I unfolded the paper, I saw a true-to-life pencil sketch of a rabbit, very much like this one:

So the Easter Bunny wasn't some goofy-looking rabbit that stood on two legs and wore a kooky hat after all! It was a real rabbit! Every time I saw a real rabbit after that, I always sort of wondered: could it be him? And you know, I think that to this day.

My Easter Bunny experience had much more of an impact on my life than any gift under the Christmas tree or money under my pillow ever did. I find it important that my kids grow up appreciating nature and all its beauty way more than anything they can get at Toys-R-Us...

On this Easter morning, outside our little house in the forest, there are rabbits running around in the grass - baby rabbits on their very first jaunt outside the hole, and older more cautious rabbits sniffling around for a particularly yummy bit of grass. On Easter morning, we've got Easter Bunnies galore. Real ones.

*This beautiful sketch is by pandahead

Viva La Social Media!

2010-04-01T09:30:00.000+02:00

Social media. Without it, we'd be lost. I, for one, rely on Facebook to find out what my family and friends are up to, whether it's just acknowledging their status update or posting huge virtual hugs and kisses to my loved-ones (who all live in different hemispheres). It really is an ideal way to share banal information with each other, as if you were literally sitting in the same room together having a chat over a cup of joe.

But what is really so social about social media? According to my Facebook profile, I have something like 311 friends, which does not in any way whatsoever reflect my real social life. But it certainly gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside when I see how many friends I've accumulated since joining Facebook. When it was the rage to 'unfriend', I didn't 'unfriend' anybody. Why should I? I like all my friends! On what basis would I 'unfriend' someone? That they invited me to join a ridiculous group or install a pointless application? I couldn't warrant that as an excuse, since I've been guilty of doing the same myself. No, all my friends are staying right where they are, regardless of how much they've spammed me in the past.

So social media has been blooming for years, and it's just now dawned on me, that it's not only the perfect way to reconnect and stay connected with friends and loved-ones (or perfect strangers, or old classmates I had crushes on), it's also the perfect way to spread the word about mialeentje! I'm also finding out that just about every entrepreneur who's anybody knew this already. (I am a bit defiant when it comes to online trends...) And it's all connected, thanks to the magic of internet feeds. Now I can write something on one site, share it onto another, follow it on a third and post it via a fourth. It's an automatic, instantaneous media offensive! I love it!

Lately, I've been following reactions on a Facebook discussion forum regarding blogs. I only just recently breathed life into my own little blog after having neglected it completely the past couple years (having another baby kind of got in the way...), and now that I've given it a new purpose and an extreme template make-over, I'm finding it to be a wonderful way to vent frustrations and share ideas and anecdotes in the hopes of inspiring like-minded souls. Literally minutes after posting, I got a few positive reactions and even some new followers! I've been 'liked'! And I like it.

I know now that if I want my webshop to succeed on the net, I need to dive into it and take full advantage of all it has to offer. The only problem is that, in my opinion, it has too much to offer. Let's take Twitter, for example. I have never, nor am I likely to ever, tweet anything. I blame my inferior mobile internet connection (with a connection speed that was considered fast in the 1980's), but in reality I am a little apprehensive about heaving yet another portion of social media on my already heaping plate. When I Googled 'mialeentje' recently, I found that I'd been tweeted about, which is even better. Someone found my little business interesting enough to tweet, and it wasn't even me! I see that as a compliment, as well as a relief that I didn't have to do it myself...

Social media is wonderfully time-consuming but it does pay off! Like everything else in entrepreneurship, it's all about investing time, and money. And since I don't have a cent, I turn to what I have plenty of: time... Well, when the kids are asleep, that is.

What To Do With Big Little Men...

2010-03-29T13:46:00.001+02:00

My son Bram is not only a handful physically, he is an entire armful emotionally these days. That makes sense, since the big little man just turned two.

Suddenly a day in Bram's life has become busy and mentally challenging when it used to be a matter of simply waking up, eating food, napping, eating food, playing, eating food and going to bed. Now he's dealing with big emotions, growing pains, pre-school, other kids... it's a lot for any man to handle, especially a two-year-old one. He's neither familiar with nor capable of multi-tasking yet! He has officially graduated from babyhood into the era of toughness and now needs to dress accordingly.

As Bram deals with these developmental leaps into big-boyhood, I am experiencing parallels with the mialeentje boys' collection I lovingly named after him, bramboy. Apart from the 'everlasting pants - for kids who won't stop growing', I am finding it difficult to come up with new and exciting boyswear that I can put the same amount of passion into as I do the girlswear. A girls' garment has endless possibilities when it comes to ruffles, ribbons and gathering... A boys' garment just doesn't - and shouldn't - require the same approach, but what approach it does require has quite honestly got me stumped.

When I look at Bram, I see that he needs to be able to run, jump, climb, fall, trike, roll over and fall some more and he needs the proper attire to do all that in. When it comes to making clothes, I tend to lean towards cute, not tough. In fact, my inspiration for boyswear tends to fizzle out after size 74 (18mo), and after that, it's just no longer okay to be cute. A little boy who can slosh through a knee-deep puddle, get stuck haflway up a tree or carry a log half his own size simply can't be seen wearing powder blue or anything with a teddy bear motief on it. No, now it's got to be made of heavy denim, camoflauge and canvas. It's got to have cargo pockets everywhere, big enough to hold a frog, two worms and at least half a cup of sand.

My affinity for girlswear comes not only from the fact that I worked as a professional girlswear stylist for years, but also stems from the fact that I am, in fact, a girl. I recognize what a girl needs, what a girl wants, what a girl simply can't live without. The fact is that boys don't really care what they're wearing, as long as it doesn't get in their way while they're trying to ride a trike over a pile of branches. I seriously doubt Bram will develop the same desire to pick out his own outfit every morning as Mia did when she turned two. I get the distinct impression he has more important things to think about, namely how fast he can get his hands on his HotWheels.

So, what to do about big little men? I don't think I'm prepared to give up on bramboy completely - there are simply too many green-minded parents out there who are interested in my eco-friendly upcycled clothes for boys. But perhaps the line needs to be exclusively for the littlest of little men. The ones who can still get away with teddy bear motiefs and powder blue. The big little men who are still little enough to be cute.

And as for the bigger big little men - I'll keep my eyes on Bram and keep you posted...

The Dressing-Up Phenomenon

2010-03-27T13:43:00.002+01:00

When I was a little girl, I didn't need an excuse to dress up, but Easter was when I especially went all-out. My mother even bought me an Easter hat occassionally, which I remember was donned with ruffles and ribbons and everything else girlie and splendid. I loved Easter, when I could prance around in a princess dress and Mary-Jane's, looking for my Easter basket and wearing my hair in curls.

My daughter Mia doesn't need a special occassion to dress up either, which is why I refer to her as an 'everyday diva'. Her wardrobe consists of more princess-gear than I ever owned as a kid, and I owned plenty myself. I was in the habit of changing outfits up to three times a day, and sometimes even slept in a party dress if I felt so inclined. My mom told me that I owned so many dresses that if I didn't put on three a day, I would've grown out of them before I even got a chance to wear them. So we were both pleased with my dressing-up obsession.

Sometimes I wonder if I might be depriving Mia of that extra-special feeling of getting dressed up for something extra-special, instead of just because it's a Tuesday. A special occassion deserves special attention, and what could be more attentive than getting all dolled up! But then I remember, my daughter is the product of my own dress-obsessed loins, so I can hardly deprive her of her own natural desire to dress up whenever she wants to.

It's all about accessorizing, knowing how to not overdress. For example, I am a strong supporter of girls wearing tutus to school, as long as they're dressed down enough, like with a pair of jeans underneath. Personally, I've been known to wear an evening gown with Doc Martens to school. Dressing up doesn't have to be saved for a special occassion - just a Tuesday can, and should, be special enough!

Mia is pretty lucky to have a seamstress for a mom, who can put together a dress fit for an everyday diva pretty much on demand. She only need knock on the door of my studio, pick out all the pink flowery fabrics she likes, wait a bit while I assemble them and voilà! She has a new frock, and I have a happy daughter. Like the new mialeentje patchwork dress - Mia chose all the bits of fabric, so I know she will love it. It's pretty enough for Easter and just about every other Spring day! And best of all, when Mia gets tired of it, I'll just put it up for sale on mialeentje!

So when Easter comes along, I won't need to go out of my way to make sure Mia gets dressed up. She takes care of that on her own. And I am happy to know that the days leading up to and following Easter are considered just as important to her. Every day is a special occassion, every day is to be celebrated, and every day is another excuse to dress-up (for us everyday divas, that is).

What's Up with Upcycling?

2010-03-26T08:59:00.002+01:00

The term 'upcycling' originates from the book 'Cradle to Cradle - re-inventing the way we use things' that came out in 2002. Since then it's been a sort of guidebook for folks like me, who believe strongly in recycling and re-using all the stuff we already have. To my knowledge, there is no term for 'upcycling' in Dutch, which makes me wonder: what's up with that? Does 'upcycling' even exist in Holland?

I had the advantage growing up that my parents had a very nomadic way of thinking, and our furniture represented that mentality. We moved around, so our belongings had to be easy to take apart and put back together again. We were sort of like our own personal Ikea. We slept on beds made out of old doors, read by lamps made out of styrofoam cups and played on jungle gyms constructed from huge plastic sewage piping, to name but a few examples. So I was raised how to think creatively about building something I wanted or needed out of existing materials. It's no mystery why I am passionate about my business, mialeentje, which is completely based on re-using.

Now that I have been running a business in 'upcycled' kidswear for over six months, I am beginning to understand how Europeans - the Dutch in particular - think about re-using existing materials. I could be wrong, but I get the impression Dutch people just don't like the idea of re-using anything that's already been used. The secondhand stores I frequent are usually empty, the kids in my son and daughter's pre-school class are all wearing the very latest in new kids' fashion, even the houses people want to live in and the cars they want to drive are most preferrably new and very definitely un-used. There seems to be a very prominent desire (in a large percentage of Dutch people anyway) to maintain a certain status, a status that does not include using secondhand anything.

When I spent a month in America last year, I saw a very different mentality. There, upcycling was not only a known phenomenon, it was accepted, it was practised and it was considered an all-round good thing! Maybe the book 'Cradle to Cradle' had more of an impact om Americans than it did on Europeans, but I was thrilled to see how many people were busy creating their own things out of used materials like it was just a normal thing to do. I should probably mention, however, that I am talking about an extremely small slice of America where a community of exceptionally creative people live, so my preconception that all Americans are pro-upcycling might not be completely realistic... In any case, the term is certainly known and accepted by Americans, whether or not they actually read the book.

I ask myself on a regular basis why my products seem to be more popular with Americans than with the Dutch, and the only conclusion I can come up with is that 'upcycling' is simply 'not done' in Holland. The mentality here seems to be that the value of a new garment goes downhill as soon as its purchased, and after it's been worn a few times, it might as well be thrown away. I am lucky to have a few friends and family who still believe in handing down clothing - without them my kids would be forced to go around naked! Sure, I could buy new things for them, but I can't seem to shake the idea that 'upcyling' is better - it doesn't require any production in the far east for starters.

'Upcycling' is also very simply the way to go when it comes to giving our environment a break, which is struggling as it is. By using what we've got right in our own backyards, attics or basements, we won't have to create any extra co2 in the production, importing and exporting of new stuff. And besides all this, 'upcycling' demands creativity. It forces you to come up with a creative solution, challenges you re-invent, rethink and re-use.

So I guess I 'upcycle', therefore I am.

The Pre-School Predicament

2010-03-16T13:05:00.001+01:00

As of April 1st, Mia and Bram's pre-school will only be open two mornings a week. No, it is not a practical joke, it is the cold hard reality of living in a small town in a low-populated region. There are simply not enough kids being born around here, a fact that I always figured was none of business, but which has now abruptly become my problem.

Right now there are only 11 children in Mia and Bram's pre-school class, when there should be a minimum of 16. We're 5 kids too short. I tried to argue that my son Bram really counts for two, but apparently it's not about personality, it's about physical presence. And the saddest news, is that the sweetest most wonderful teacher, the number one reason I can even convince Mia to get dressed in the morning, is forced to leave the pre-school. Without a fulltime job, she can't pay her bills. Logical. Heart-breakingly logical.

When I pick up the kids in the afternoon, I can't help but notice the number of baby buggies scattered around the school yard. Off the top of my head, I would say there are about 20 potential candidates for the pre-school in town who will be able to attend just as soon as they've done a bit more growing. Why oh why did the committee decide to take away two mornings when in a year's time, they're just going to have to give them back again? It makes no sense to me, or to any of the other parents caught up in this mess.

I'm not the only one trying to earn an income while raising one or more toddlers. The other moms and dads I talk to are scratching their heads too as to how they're going to manage to go to work when their children have no place to go three days a week. Even if we do find another alternative, it will be a logistical nightmare to drive our kids all over the place just so we can get a few hours work in, plus it's going to cost us an extra arm and a leg as well! I don't know about the other parents, but I was already on my last limbs...

We're in the process of launching a media offense at the moment via newspaper and radio. We're getting no reaction from the folks in charge of making the decisions that directly affect our lives, which makes us feel like we're not being taken seriously. At this point, it feels like us parents can do nothing but stand by and watch as the 'gods' of pre-school education systematically pluck everything that's important to us and our kids away from us. Well we won't. I don't know quite how yet, but we won't.

The 'M' word.

2010-03-10T09:33:00.002+01:00

My name is not 'Mama'. But I'm thinking of getting it legally changed to 'Mama', since it's the name I go by these days in this house.

It is the very first thing I hear in the morning. 'Mamaaaaa!' my daughter will wail, followed by all the different variations: 'Mama!', 'Mama?' and 'Mamaa-aaaaa-aaa.' My son Bram prefers to use his own version: 'Ma-ma-ma-mah-huh-huh-huh'. I can't help but answer, since 'Mama' is my name, no matter how you pronounce it, which is my identity, which is a pretty important thing, especially if you're a kid.

I accept and embrace 'Mama' as my name, which is probably why I love the term: mamapreneur. It's a delightful combination of the two identities that I am trying to combine in real life. I am finding out, though, that running a business and being a mom are two really completely incompatible things that are extremely difficult to combine, even if you are Martha Stewart. If I were to make a list of thirty priorities, I might manage to get three of them done on a good day. On a not so good day, I can't even manage to make the list.

Even as I write this, my son Bram is using me as a jungle-gym, which I am utterly ok with, but since he's using my right arm for leverage, it makes typing without mistakes a little difficult. Now, he seems to have turned his attention to a marker on the bureau behind me, with which he could potentially scribble all over the walls of the house if I don't take action immediately. And yet I am still writing... sometimes it's just more important to get my thoughts down than cleaning scribbles. It's now suspiciously quiet, so I am going to look around to see what he's up to... It was not a marker he'd gotten his hands on, it was my digital camera. Accompanied by quite a few 'Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma!''s, I have just managed to separate him from the camera and distract him with blocks. But for how long...?

My daughter Mia has a different tactic. She has her regular spot in the nook of the couch from where she uses as many varieties of the 'M' word as possible to get my attention. Mia's main goal is to move as little as possible once she's situated in her spot, so she needs her personnel to do her will, a.k.a, 'mama'.

As I write this, Mia is quiet. I am a little surprised, since a few minutes ago, during the camera incident with Bram, she was calling my name repeatedly, and even using a few new varieties I'd never heard before ('Maaaa-ma-ha-ha-ha' and 'Mammmmmaaaaaa'). I guess she was just crying wolf (who, incidently, might as well change his name to 'Mama' too if he lived here).

But after an entire day of being called 'Mama' in every frequency, decibel and volume level possible, bedtime comes around. 'Mama' is the last thing I hear when I kiss my little diva goodnight. 'Mama...' she whispers. Hmm. You know, it does have a nice ring to it...

This Little Business Went to Market.

2010-03-08T16:58:00.004+01:00

The most important thing I've discovered about being an entrepreneur isn't the product I'm trying to sell, it's finding people to buy it.

When I began my online business last summer, I made the naive assumption that word would get around and that my target group would simply find their way through the virtual jungle of the internet to my webshop. As familiar as I am with the utter vastness of the internet, I underestimated its virtually limitless virtual borders. There are exactly five zillion webshops specialized in kidswear all over the world wide web, and another zillion are being launched a day. These days, you need a virtual machete to hack your way through advertisements, spam and penis-enlarging products to get to what you're looking for. How on earth would I get the right people to my shop?

Like any beginning entrepreneur set on success, I wrote a business plan and executed various marketing research techniques to determine my target group. (Essentially this meant I went out with a questionnaire and a clip-board and asked people on the street how they felt about children's clothes.) Upon gathering my data, it was clear that my target group consisted of people exactly like me: 30-something 'green' parents.

So now that I knew who was most likely going to buy my products, I had to somehow pave a path on the internet for them to reach me. Then it occurred to me: I had to step outside the box and turn my virtual product into a tangible one. The way to do that was to set up shop. And since I don't actually have a shop to set up shop in, I figured I'd do the next best thing: go to market.

There are various market possibilities in Holland, most of which impossible for me to participate in. The weekly market, a sacred and protected phenomenon in this country, is made up of a select group of regulars and I'd need all sorts of permits and some influential friends to get into one. Then there are flea markets scattered throughout the country in large wharehouses that smell of urine, where anyone and everyone can set up a stall and sell the contents of their garages for next to nothing. I've tried to sell my products at a flea market like this with very little success. Sure, people liked my stuff, but one of my handmade dresses was outrageously expensive for flea market standards. Especially when customers could buy ten dresses for the same price at another stall... Needless to say, my first attempt at a flea market was also my last.

Last summer, while visiting my parents on beautiful Orcas Island, I set up a stall at the local farmer's market. It was an amazing experience! Not only was there an inspiring positive vibe among the other vendors, my target group was all around me and walking right into my stall! People were able to touch, feel, examine, take a closer look at and even sniff my products, which I am sure worked towards their ultimate decision to purchase something. After the summer was gone, I was sad to leave the island, and my target group, behind.

Then I found out about specialized markets for handmade goods in and around Holland. Apparently, there are lots of creative folks around here like me who set up at these markets to sell their crafts; slowly but surely, I was finding out about them. Unfortunately, as soon as I found them, I hit some obstacles. First of all, most of these markets are few and far between. Either they're located at the other end of the country, or they take place so sporadically, it's difficult to apply for one on time. Some of them are affordable, some are absurdly overpriced. I finally found a handmade market that was affordable (that is to say, I was 99% sure I'd earn back my investment) and took place relatively nearby. I packed up my kit and kaboodle and set up shop among a wonderful variety of artisan vendors. I was thrilled to bits - it semeed I had finally found a nitch!

Although I only sold seven items that day, I consider it to be the most successful market I've participated in to date in this country. Although the advantage of having an online business that can reach the far corners of the world pretty much speaks for itself, being able to offer my products in 'real time' and in real life to the right people has more advantages in the long run. But turning my virtual product into a tangible one had one chrystal clear advantage: it sells. Yep, this little business will be returning to market for sure.

Priorities...

2010-03-05T10:30:00.003+01:00

I have to get the spring/summer collection online!

But before I can do that, I have to Photoshop every garment onto a clear blue sky background.
But before I can do that, I have to photograph every garment.
But before I can do that, I have to sew labels into every garment.
But before I can do that, I have to order more labels, since I'm almost out.
But before I can do that, I have to arrange a photo session of kids modeling the garments.
But before I can do that, I have to make the garments.
But before I can do that, I have to gather inspiration and come up with ideas.
But before I can do that, I have to sort out daycare so I can concentrate fully on my work.
But before I can do that, I have to set up my new overlock machine.
But before I can do that, I have to give the overlock machine I've been borrowing back to my mother-in-law.
But before I can do that, I have to clean her overlock machine out and pack it up.
But before I can do that, I have to wash all the spring/summer materials.
But before I can do that, I have to gather all my spring/summer materials together.
But before I can do that, I have to sort through the fall/winter materials to find all the spring/summer materials.
But before I can do that, I have to make room in my studio by holding a big sale on the winter/fall collection.
But before I can do that, I have to advertise the sale and announce the spring/summer collection in a newsletter.

And in order to do that, I have to get the spring/summer collection online!

Arg!

I've set a goal for myself: April 1st.
No joke.
On April 1st, the 2010 spring/summer collection will be online. Which means I have to get all the other priorities on my list done, and am scratching my head a bit as to how I'm going to actually go about doing that. More importantly, in which order!

Julie Andrews once sang, 'Let's start at the very beginning, it's a very good place to start'. Hmm. If I knew where the beginning was, I wouldn't be having this problem...

This kind of situation is typical for me, as a multi-tasking mamapreneur. It drives my husband crazy when he sees me starting another project when I haven't completed the last one. I admit, it drives me crazy too, but how else do I do it? Multi-tasking is all I know.

Being a mom is the very definition of multi-tasking, if you ask me. I don't know too many people who are capable of changing a diaper on a squirming kid while poking a straw through the little foil circle on a package of juice while googling something or other online all at the same time, unless it's a mom. I don't even think dads are capable of this kind of multi-tasking - it's got to be a mom thing. Men always finish what they start. Women are always starting something new.

I guess it's in my nature to mix it all up, and till now, it's worked for me. It'll work for me again, you just wait and see.
April 1st.
Spring/summer collection online.

No joke.

A 'Mamapreneur' in the making

2010-02-28T12:43:00.004+01:00

Last summer I finally made a life long dream come true.

As a kid, I had this dream of owning my own shop. I would transform my room into a store all the time. I put price tags on my teddy bears, created my own promotional material, even turned a My Little Pony notebook into a booklet of receipts. Once I managed to get my parents and brothers to visit my 'shop', I relished the moment when I could place their purchases into one of my handmade totes, add a handwritten receipt and say 'Come again soon!' as they walked out the door.

The dream has been growing, gnawing, itching and festering inside me for years. As a grown-up, I was conditioned to do the responsible thing, which was to find a real job instead of pursuing the dream. As a result, the dream got pushed back into the realms of the 'If Only' category of my mind. The dream kept me awake at night. The dream followed be everywhere. The dream wouldn't let me go.

In the years that followed, events beyond my control took place that inspired (or perhaps forced) me to take a career leap from freelance graphic designer to fashion designer. I went to work full-time at an international fashion concern designing clothes for girls 7-14 and loved it while it lasted.

Things changed again almost four years ago when I gave birth to my daughter, Mia Leentje. 19 months later, my son Bram came along. Suddenly I was no longer a nine-to-five career gal, I was a mom. I was no longer researching the latest trends on WGSN; I was researching educational childrens' programming, sterilizing bottles and installing car seats. I couldn't see how I could ever become an entrepreneur with two toddlers running around the house in need of my constant care and undivided attention. The dream had to take its place even further back in my subconscious, so far back I almost forgot what the dream was.

Don't get me wrong! Being a mom is the best thing ever. Being a mom is what finally made the dream come back to life. When I had to stop working at the big fashion concern due to a knee injury, I found myself facing the deep, bottomless pit of unemployment and disability. According to the local unemployment agency, there was not a single job in the region that I was qualified for, or rather, that was qualified for me. One day my job coach suggested I start my own business. They would even foot the bill for a specialist to help me write my business plan! I was tickled pink - the dream went from the back burner to front and center faster than I could say 'chamber of commerce'.

So here I am, a half a year later, owner of my very own online shop where I sell my very own line of upcycled kidswear. Somehow I am managing to combine my professional expertise, motherhood and the dream into something tangible and real. I'm not just an entrepreneur, I'm a 'mamapreneur'.

I am working towards the next stage of my dream, which is to open an actual shop where I can hold workshops, create garments for my customers in an in-house studio and can actually say 'Enjoy, and come again soon!' instead of having to write it in an e-mail. Now, I run a virtual shop, which makes it possible to balance the amount of time I work with the amount of time I spend with my kids. I'm still a long way away from paying the mortgage on the profits, but hey, at least I won't have to quit my day job. Now that the dream is a reality, there's simply no stopping it.