The Green Forest Princess Goes Camping

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. 

Spring Break Blues

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

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

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.

When Good Gets Even Better

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

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.

Moms Aren't Supposed to Get Sick

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.

I'm A Goofy Goober, Yeah.

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.)

Knee, Myself and I

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

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.

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!

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)

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).

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

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.

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'

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...

I've Got Designer Genes.

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.

What To Do With Big Little Men...

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 Pre-School Predicament

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.

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...