Apr 11, 2014

Dear Babysitter: We Definitely Know What We're Doing, But if You Have Any Helpful Tips Let Us Know

Thank you all for your advice and encouragement last week. We still haven't made The Big Decision yet, but (and get ready for the sappiest thing I might ever say on this blog) every comment  felt like a hug or high five from all the people I care so much about. It was very grounding, and made my heart swell and all that good stuff.


We are getting ready to go on an early anniversary/Mark's 40th Birthday trip to the Cinque Terre in Italy. Without the kids.


A young hipster couple we know will stay with the kids while we are gone, and I've been thinking of all the things I need to tell them about.

Which leads me to a bit of a conundrum: should I tell them about all our parenting strategies that don't work at all? And should I tell them about the ineffective strategies that we like to pretend are helping, but really just make things worse? Or should I just show them where my chocolate stash is?

This reminds me of a panel discussion I went to once, where one of the panelists gave a single suggestion, and then said to the audience I don't really know, do any of you have any ideas? 

I don't think she understood how panels work.

But I'm not judging because I don't think I really understand how parenting is supposed to work, and that's why I'm hoping the hipsters will come up with some solid parenting strategies to help us deal with our kids.

I'm imagining we'll have an email conversation like this, about 24 hours in:

Mrs. Hipster: Hi! So, what do you normally do when Sam and Nate make kissing noises just to bother Mia, and she starts screaming, and then they do it more, and then she screams louder, and nobody will stop, and now they're all trying to kill each other? 

Me: Well, what would you normally do in a situation like this?  

Mrs. Hipster: What do you normally do in a situation like this? 

Me:  Ummm, I personally believe that Super Nanny because Love and Logic and the uh, attachment parenting out there, such as, uh, Talking and uh, the Feelings, everywhere like such as, and it should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up a future, for us. 

Mrs. Hipster: That's not really helpful, or even a coherent sentence. 

Me: Oh, you want a solution that works? Yeah, I don't have any of those, but there's a large amount of chocolate hidden behind the sauce pans in the kitchen. 

This is why we need to get away.

Apr 2, 2014

Stay or Go?

Definitely two years, three years at most. 

That's how long we said we would live here. Two years for sure, no more than three. It's funny how, at the time, three years seemed like an eternity. I never would have thought that it wouldn't be nearly long enough.

We've been in Amsterdam for two years and eight months, and now it's decision time: stay in Amsterdam for one more year, or move back to the US (mostly likely right back into our old house). The good news is that it is almost entirely up to us. The bad news is that it is almost entirely up to us.

Making quick, good decisions is not a life skill I've mastered yet.

For months this has been weighing on my mind, and I've been jotting down little reasons to stay or go as they come to me, hoping to stumble upon The Magic Thing that will decide everything so I can get some sleep at night. Or at least so I can lie awake worrying about other decisions.

Here's what I've come up with so far, in no particular order.

Reasons to stay in Amsterdam:

  • 5 weeks paid vacation 
  • travel opportunities 
  • wonderful friends we've made here
  • cousins in England
  • neighborhood shopping (the nearest store takes me 90 seconds to walk to)
  • good Dutch schools
  • Hema, my little European Target
  • 1 more year of Dutch for kids (since they will probably never speak it again)
  • children are statistically happiest in The Netherlands (US ranks 26 out of 29 countries by the way)
  • Belgian waffles at the grocery store for .79 cents
  • boating on the canals
  • Dutch cheese shops
  • best playgrounds ever
  • The Nine Streets, Spui, Tuschinsky Theater, Vondelpark, Van Gogh Museum
  • tipping is more or less optional
  • stupid US politics
  • fresh mint tea
  • fries with mayo (it's just better here)
  • there are opportunities for me that are just starting to open up (writing, possibly starting travel blog...)
  • could be advantageous to have one more year with Mark's current company
  • we might never be able to do anything like this again

Reasons to go back to the US:

  • Craigslist 
  • family close by
  • wonderful friends we miss there
  • curbside recycling
  • free public libraries, all in English (with the tax rate here, it is a CRIME that anyone has to pay for library memberships)
  • Costco Mango Salsa (without which my life is incomplete)
  • Target
  • solid deodorant 
  • Lake Washington, Burke-Gilman Trail, Mt. Rainier, ferry rides on Puget Sound
  • having a yard for the kids (and they're old enough to do yard work now)
  • education in English for kids (so I don't have to play Grammar teacher each Summer)
  • TV: Parks and Recreation, Community, Jimmy Fallon, Saturday Night Live
  • Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
  • my slow cooker 
  • 40 minute wash cycles
  • root beer
  • national parks/wilderness
  • camping/ hiking
  • mail and paperwork in English
  • being able to understand people talking around me
  • financially responsible thing to do
  • time to move on to whatever is next?

Of course, it's more complicated than all that, and the decision will probably be determined by important things like "logic" and "money" and "Cafe Rio." But because I can't handle complexities and nuance, I like to imagine that it all comes down to fresh mint tea vs root beer.

People who are good at making decisions would probably say that imagination and sugary beverages shouldn't have much weight in major life decisions. To those people I say, so Reeses Peanut Butter Cups vs Belgian waffles then?

This is why I'm terrible at decisions. 

Mar 29, 2014

Anarchy in the UK: Family Tour

Earlier this week, our apartment buzzed with the reverberations of President Obama's helicopter procession flying overhead en route to the Rijksmuseum. Over 50 world leaders were in The Netherlands for the nuclear summit in The Hague, resulting in the largest security operation The Netherlands has ever undertaken. Tensions were high. Mark was unable to go to work for 2 days due to public transportation disruptions, and police and security forces swarmed all over Amsterdam and The Hague. Although it went off smoothly, I think we were all a bit on edge.

And all the apocalyptic doomsdaying reminded me that I haven't written about our semi-recent visit to the UK.

Actually, I didn't need a reminder. Some family vacations can't be written about until much later, after the emotional trauma has dimmed, and you can uneasily laugh about it. And by emotional trauma I mean that we rented a car, and drove around England for a few days. You could also call it The Reason We Won't be Getting in a Car Together Anytime Soon.

Hahahaha, yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh.

On New Year's Eve of 2013, we spent the day driving from York, England to Coventry, where my brother lives. The journey is about three hours by car, but my husband's ancestral town of Bardsley was just a few hours detour, which would also allow us to take back roads through scenic Derbyshire.

Here's a tip, if you are ever thinking of going out of your way to visit little towns in Europe that your ancestors once moved away from, first visit them virtually via the Google Maps street view setting-- you might find out the reason the ancestors moved away in the first place.

Also, when driving on the opposite side of the road than you are used to, and on the opposite side of the car with the stick shift in the opposite hand, narrow back roads are the exact kind of roads you want to avoid. Wide, open highways, with few turns and intersections-- those are the ideal conditions for driving when everything is backwards.

So we made it to the town of Bardsley, where my husband had been dying to go, because I think he had been imagining that we would be welcomed home by all the locals with open arms. When we arrived, it was so small and indistinct, we had already passed through it by the time our GPS informed us that we had reached our destination. The only thing around that let us know we were in the correct place, was the garbage can in front of the old church that said "Bardsley Church" on it.  And the only person around to welcome us was a foul-smelling man who knocked on the car window to ask if we had any cigarettes. When we said no, he informed us, most unnecessarily, that he was drunk, and went on his way.

And that was Bardsley.

Amazingly we managed to spend much longer there than we had intended. We soon realized that half of our scenic drive would be spent in the dark, thanks to the short winter day-- rendering the scenic drive part rather pointless.

This is the part where I should remind you that everything about this drive was backwards to us. And that the country roads in England are unbelievably narrow-- with almost no shoulder, and traffic passing uncomfortably close on the side of the road my husband keeps instinctively veering into. And, that navigating complicated roundabouts in this situation is probably considered a form of torture by some more progressive governments. And, there was the backseat situation, where my children were infuriatingly close to each other, for many hours-- also a form of torture. And most importantly, it needs to be mentioned that even the best GPS systems are not marriage therapists (though how amazing would that be?-- Garmin, call me).

You could say we were a bit on edge.

After stopping for a some snacks, we reluctantly climbed back into the car, with the sun setting and three hours of driving ahead of us. The GPS was still powering up as we pulled out of the parking lot and entered a roundabout, so we guessed at which direction to go. Clearly, the stress of the day had taken it's toll, and we were not in our right minds.

We guessed wrong.

20 minutes down the road the GPS prompts us to turn right.

"Wait, where was I supposed to turn?"

"Um, I think there was a little side road. It was hard to tell in the dark."

"What? That thing that looked like a cattle trail? What the?"

"Let's just turn around and see."

"Mom, how much--"


Turning around required an 82-point turn in a muddy driveway, and 5 minutes later we were sitting in front of the world's tiniest road, listening to the insistent prompts from the GPS to turn left.

You know that episode of The Office where Dwight and Michael drive into a lake because their GPS told them to? Yes, it was exactly like that, except instead of driving into a lake, we drove into the icy cold waters of being tired, hungry, and lost while married.

Words were said. Words were yelled actually. Words like FINE! and HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?! and MAYBE I WANT US ALL TO DIE OUT HERE and DO WHATEVER YOU WANT BUT JUST GIVE ME THE PRINGLES. All in front of the children, who were suddenly being very quiet in the backseat.

So, we did turn left onto that road that was barely a road, and eventually it wound it's way to civilization, we made it to my brother's house, and barely spoke to each other until January 3rd. The End.

The moral is: always travel by train.

Actually, apart from every time we got in that car, the rest of the trip was not so bad. Here's the quick photographic version:

We took an overnight ferry across the North Sea in the middle of a severe wind storm. 

After 24 hours of traveling, we arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland. It was cold, windy, bleak, and also pretty cool. 

While we could barely stand to be outside for more than three minutes at a time, this bagpipe player stood outside for much longer with bare hands and bare who-knows-what-else. 

You do not want to mess with these Vikings. 

At this point we rented the car, and drove down to York with only a few near-death experiences. York is lovely, though we took almost no photos, except this nativity scene at York Minster: 
Do you see it? That brontosaurus is my favorite thing ever and just might have healed my strained relationship with Christmas.

We spent a few days with my brother and family, washing our clothes over and over again just to experience the healing softness of machine-dried clothes. And home-cooked meals. And Costco. 

Yet, we couldn't resist putting ourselves through another test of human endurance and fortitude: a 1000-piece Thomas Kincaid, Painter of Light (TM) puzzle. All I can say is, burn in hell, Thomas Kincaid, you sick SOB.

Ah, the old how-many-cousins-can-you-cram-into-a-red-phone-booth-before-they-pass-out-from-the-stench-of-urine game.

While at my brother's, I ordered the best souvenir from Amazon UK: a box of 48 Cadbury creme eggs. And I never told the kids. It was such delicious therapy. Then we picked up the worst souvenir: the all-purpose family stomach ailment.

We headed to London with our fingers crossed, and spent the day with my old college roommate.  Everything was fine, until Sam threw up just as our train was leaving Liverpool Street Station. Everyone on the train politely ignored his ralfing, which was just so British of them.

After another ferry, more trains, and thankfully no more barfing, we arrive home with a fair amount of emotional scarring, but an almost-full box of Cadbury eggs. So worth it. 

Mar 5, 2014

Majority Rules! Or Why I'm Proud to be an American.

It's been a mild, uneventful winter here in Amsterdam. No Polar Vortex. No Russian invasions. And the Oscars were broadcast at 2 AM so when Ellen broke Twitter, no one really noticed.

But speaking of heartache and woe, my kids were home for mid-winter break all last week.

We had decided to stay in Amsterdam for this break, which sounded like such a good idea at one point, long ago. But I forgot that even though I'm not afraid of many things, I am absolutely terrified of three specific things, which are: big, hairy spiders, skinny jeans, and being home all day, alone, with my children. And when I am in a constant state of fear, I cry. For example, while listening to stories from The Moth podcast. Or every time one of my kids says I'm hungry, what's for dinner?And possibly in the produce section at the grocery store while Elton John was playing. Look, I was a mess-- it was like a hostage situation here.

One day Nate asked me if he could pretty please set fire to a blueberry. When I said no, he squished said blueberry on his head.

At one point, Sam spent over 30 minutes quizzing me about every aspect of allergies, and specifically which ones can kill you and under exactly what circumstances and how likely is it. I said, why don't you go set fire to some blueberries with your brother? 

Three days in, I suggested that we go outside, and you would have thought whining was an Olympic sport. The teeth-gnashing and melodramatic collapses were exquisitely executed. Possible world records.

This week, however, the kids are back in school, emotions are back in check, and I can grocery shop with dignity again. What's more, it's time to get motivated and accomplish something, because I looked at the calendar today and did you know that it is March already? I'm not even kidding. MARCH. For realz people.

I took Sam to a blind playdate recently (this is one of the things you do as an expat), and it turns out that the kid's mother is an expert on motivation and accomplishing things; she used to be a life coach and all that. It's a bummer because she's very nice, and we have so much in common. For example, she moved here from Seattle and has a quirky little boy, same as me. She gets up early every day to run because she does marathons, and I also wake up eventually each day, and occasionally run for minutes at a time. She is an actual published author, and earns a living as a writing coach. And I publish biannual blog posts, and could probably benefit from having a writing coach. She's the type of woman who gets all the crap done, and I'm the type of woman who thinks, oh crap, I should really get something done. But first, how would John Travolta pronounce my name

Who knows though, it could be the beginning of a beautiful, codependent relationship. Or maybe not so much codependent, as one-way dependent. I think they call those stalkers.

FYI, while googling the spelling of codependency, I just came across this actual sentence on a mental health website, regarding dysfunctional families: Don’t feel bad if that includes you. Most American families are dysfunctional. You’re in the majority!

While that's not at all reassuring, it does make me feel weirdly patriotic. Strange, the things that make you miss home sometimes.

So, how's your winter going?

Feb 14, 2014

Four Things for Friday

1. I've actually blogged 4 weeks in a row. I haven't counted, but that's probably more than I blogged all of last year. I've also been watching a fair amount of Olympic coverage, so in case there are any Sportscasters reading out there, I want to say that I'm just taking it one blog post at a time, and giving 110% hoping it gets me on the podium. I don't want to count my chickens, but at the end of the day, I didn't come here to make friends. I only came here to use as many cliches as as humanly possible.

2. Did you see the Lean In stock photos released this week? Isn't this photo just a picture of Lena Dunham's head photoshopped onto a baby?
I rest my case. 

3. Life Decisions, I don't like you anymore. You're officially on my List of Things That Need to Go Away, along with selfies, Honey Boo Boo, and people who don't understand how percentages work.

4. Finally, it's that special day of the year. Happy Winter Leg Shaving Day ladies! You know what I'm talking about.
I made this Venn diagram just for you. 

Feb 11, 2014

Unintentional Phallic Drawing by My 5 Year-Old: Not So Unintentional Edition [NSFW]

I was a little afraid to ask about this recent gem, but it just begged for an explanation.

Me: So, what's this a picture of?

Nate: It's a nose-man in his house.

Me: Oh, right-- a nose-man.

Nate: And that's his penis.

Which solves the mystery of whether nose-people have genitalia. You know you were wondering. 

Feb 5, 2014

It Turns Out I'm Banking With Big Brother

I'm a little freaked out.

I think my bank knows everything about me. And if you have any connection to me in any way, I think my bank might know everything about you too.

Are you a little freaked out now? Then you might be interested in this only slightly exaggerated conversation I just had with my US bank:

Bank Rep: Thank you for calling MajorUS Bank, how may I help you today?

Me: Hi, I need to activate my new PIN.

Rep: Not a proble-- oh, actually, it looks like the phone number you are calling from is different than the primary number we have on file for you, so I'm going to need to connect you with my Illuminati colleague, who is authorized to take you through our  Security Verification Rigmarole(TM). Please hold


Rep#2: Thank you for holding. I see your account has been placed in Suspected Terrorist Lockdown Mode, so I'll just need to ask you a few questions. Can you please verify your birthdate, Social Security Number, current address, former addresses, and every phone number you have ever been associated with?

Me: Ummm, I can't remember most of my old phone numbers.

Rep#2: Well, I'm afraid that's going to require some Enhanced Interrogation Questions, ma'am.

Me: Interrogation?

Rep#2: Please answer the following question: the address 4213 West Main Street is associated with which of the following people? A. Reince Priebus; B. Benedict Cumberbatch; C. Saxby Chambliss; D. None of the above.

Me: Are those just made up names?  I don't know, D?

Rep#2: Correct. That's just a psychological game we like to play. Next question. [Your sister-in-law] most recently lived in which city? [Lists 4 cities, all of which my sister-in-law has lived in.]

Me: Uhhh, the answer is C. This is getting creepy.

Rep#2: Next questions: November 26th is the birthday of which of your sisters?

Me: OK, wait. I have definitely never told you guys Katy's birthday. How do you know this stuff?

Rep#2: You should really consider sending a card next year, by the way. Next question: while you were wasting time online today, you found out you were which emoji, according to Buzzfeed?

Me: Wha-- I don't even-- I would nev-- (clears throat)...Winky Kiss Face.

Rep#2: Thank you.

Me: For the love, I just need to transfer $75.

Rep#2: OK, ma'am, I've just received the results from your DNA test, and everything has cleared. I've been able to lift all restrictions from your account. However, you might want to get tested for a gluten allergy. Have a nice day.


Have you ever felt violated by a conversation with your bank? They knew an alarming amount of things about my family members and places I used to live long before I opened this bank account. What's more, I might have granted my bank Health Care Power of Attorney, and falsely confessed to killing Jimmy Hoffa. It was very stressful...

On the bright side, I'm fairly confident that no one else will ever be able to call my bank and impersonate me, without first murdering me and transplanting my brain in their body. So, that's comforting?

So everyone, please email me your entire address history, your current Netflix queue, and the name of your first crush-- I might need to know next time I have to call my bank. And if anyone needs me, I'll be watching back episodes of Preppers, while making some tinfoil hats.

Note to the NSA: next time I need to do a $75 bank transfer, can your people just do it for me?