black and (A)broad

Then - about an hour ago.

Chloe’s crying because Papa left for work.
Paige is crying because she bit her own finger as she was eating the grilled cheese sandwich she asked for

“Mama, mijn buik doet pijn,” Chloe complains.
“I’m sorry your belly hurts, Chloe,” I reply, mustering up what sympathy I can without having had my breakfast. “You can either go lie down or have a banana.”

“Paige, Mama would like you to put the toys down and go back to the table and eat your sandwich.”
Boink.
Another round of crying after Paige hits her head on the table.

“I know you hit your head, but that’s why Mama asks you to eat in your chair and not under the table.”

Finally, a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. One sip. Two sips.

“Ok babies. Let’s get some coats on and get going. Chloe has to go to school.”
Of course it’s raining!

Now - about an hour and a half later.

Listening to “I Am an Endangered Species” by Dianne Reeves while reading Mridu Khullar’s blog. I’m always inspired after reading it.

Drinking a warm cup of coffee (with milk and sugar) in peace, waiting for a former colleague and friend to come over for tea and talk.

I congratulate myself for finishing the first revision of my memoir. It’s currently being edited.

I congratulate myself for sticking to my decision to take two weeks off. I finished Stieg Laarson’s third installment of the Millennium trilogy, “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest” (Go put your records on/tell me your favorite song/you go ahead let your hair down/sapphire and faded jeans). Yesterday I finally bought a new pair of jeans after my favorite ones ripped last week during mother/toddler gym class. I confess: I also bought some boots, two sweaters and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

I wish my friend would hurry up - I want another cuppa and a slice of that delicious-looking heidelbergtaart I just picked up from the bakery.

Posted in Lazy Dayz, Reflections | 2 Comments »

My oldest daughter keeps informing her little sister that spring’s almost here. Her declaration falls on skeptical ears.

“Mama, isn’t spring coming next week?”

I turn sad eyes outside. I must disappoint her. “No, Chloe-bear,” I reply. “Spring’s a long, long way off.”

Around this time of year, when Dutch people ask me what I miss most about the States, my answer is always the same: blue skies.

“In Indiana, where I’m from,” I explain, “winters are long and cold. But, no matter how cold, windy and miserable winter may be, the skies are clear and the sun likes to shine.”

During the wet, gray days that accompany Dutch winters, I’ve taken to bringing up my spirits by focusing on the things I love about living here. We’ve had a lot of snow and ice this winter, which has been unusual since I’ve been here. Many Dutch people still brave the slippery bike paths, as many don’t have cars. Others have taken to transporting their children around on sleds. What a brilliant idea!

I got our sled out of the shed, where it’s been hiding ever since my husband got it as a gift last year, and pulled my kids on it through the schoolyard. Not only did they get a kick out of riding on it, I didn’t have to carry Paige, who was afraid of falling.

I’m actually a bit disappointed all the snow and ice are melting away that little bit of winter fun. But, I’ve promised myself to get through these long days by focusing on other reasons to appreciate winter in Holland. What are you doing?

Posted in Dutch culture, Lazy Dayz | 6 Comments »

June 21st is supposed to be the longest day of the year, but not this year. December 31st stole that honor. In Holland this day is distinguished by what Julie Duke, a British woman and lovely writer in my Life Story writing circle, describes as being “beseiged all day by something that sounded like the intermittent gunfire of trench warfare, culminating in the outbreak of World War 3 at midnight!!”

Firecrackers. All day long. Fireworks. All night long. I only go outside when absolutely necessary, and unfortunately a minor emergency arose that necessitated my stepping out of doors. Hubby ran out of frosting about a third of the way through helping the girls decorate their gingerbread house (a thoughtful gift from Denise one of my dearest friends). As I quickly cycled to town, I passed groups of young boys, usually in three’s or four’s, who’d randomly throw a firecracker, seemingly with little regard to who may be in the vicinity. On every other corner stood hapless teens and younger children setting off fireworks. This latter group of unsupervised children have always put me on edge.

Chloe is terrified of the day-long bangs and booms that accompany Oud en Nieuw (New Year’s Eve). I got smart this year and bought a package of earplugs for her, but that didn’t stop her from walking around with her hands covering her ears. Paige copied her sister and ran desperately to me and literally jumped into my lap whenever a particularly loud clap struck, which was frequent. Hubby and I did everything we could think of to distract their attention from the outside noise: decorating the gingerbread house, singing and dancing to their favorite CDs, watching a favorite movie, coloring, etc. It all worked, I must say, but it was temporary. We even went to a friend’s house at around 8.00pm in the hope that a new environment might distract them enough to sleep. We left at 10.00.

When they finally fell asleep at 10.30, hubby and I sat on the couch and opened a bottle of champagne. For the first time in over ten years, we’d be bringing in the New Year, just the two of us and sober! Not my idea of a fun time on the one night per year that having fun is obligatory. At about 11.55 both kids woke up, so we decided to bring them downstairs with us, knowing that at 12.05 all hell would break loose, which it did.

As I sat on the couch with a sleeping Paige cuddled up in my arms, I looked over at Chloe, sitting on Vinz’s lap with her hands still covering her ears and her long legs dangling over the side of the chair, I realized I didn’t want to be anywhere other than where I was, comforting my children while colors danced in the air. This is where my life has brought me so far, and I love it.

That said, I was never so happy to see a day end, which of course, it made January 1st all the sweeter. Vinz had to go to the office for a bit, and I spent the morning cleaning the kitchen, while the girls colored and watched TV. We spent the afternoon at my sister-in-law’s snacking and drinking champagne (but not too much!) before coming home, eating, and putting the girls to bed.

2009 was a relatively quiet year for my family. We’ve had many blessings and countless beautiful moments. We’ve fared well in the midst of the global economic crisis and dodged the swine flu. We cried at Obama’s inauguration and cried at Michael Jackson’s funeral. We traveled to Portugal, Italy and twice to Austria. We worked hard and spent lots of time with our friends. We’re hopeful that 2010 will be just as beautiful and filled with as many (or more) blessings than the one we just said good-bye to.

Best wishes for 2010 to you all. I hope you have the best year yet.

Posted in Dutch culture | 8 Comments »

Just got back from my in-laws, who live in the Dutch province, Zeeland. My husband always refers to it as the Florida of Holland since, supposedly, the sun shines there more than any other place in the country. Mmmm Hmmm.

The week before hubby, Chloe and I spent a week in Austria. For the second year in a row, we shared a chalet with a family that also lives in Voorschoten. I met my friend years ago at the mothers and toddlers gym class our daughters were taking. We immediately hit it off, despite her British accent (lol). She’s Chinese by biology, Malaysian by culture and British by heart (my assumption, not hers). Also being married to a Dutchman, we had a blast comparing notes about our common lovepat experience.

We decided to go to the same place as last year and stay in the same chalet. We weren’t disappointed. In fact, the owner showed us around the new wing of luxury suites he’d had built in the course of the year. A tad bit outside our price range, but hey, we go to ski not sit in the lap of luxury. Yeah, right.

Anyway, the first day out was a blistering 18 below zero. Not an avid skiier, I surprised (and impressed) myself by staying on the slopes until the kids and my friend finished their lessons. Alas, with each day temperatures rose, and by Christmas, our last day, all pretense of snow vanished. It rained and even hailed, sending the kiddies into fits of tears. Hubby relayed this last bit to me since I was the only one with the sense to go back to the chalet at the first sprinkle!

Besides the heatwave, this year’s trip varied in one other way: I saw other black people on the slopes. Not the requisite one (which I thought was me), not even two, but three other brown faces graced the slopes of Scheffau in Tirol. I do have to say that after living in Holland for ten years, I don’t tend to look for other brown faces when I attend an event or go to a restaurant or take Paige to the mother-and-toddler gym class. Indeed, the Dutch don’t go out of their way to make me aware of my race. That notwithstanding, the slopes seem to be that one last place (at least in Austria) where I’m the only proverbial one.

On the drive over to Austria, we stopped in Munich and stayed with a friend of mine over night. She’s a beautiful German woman I also met years ago at the gym class. She was my rock-solid support system during the months I was deciding whether to leave my job at the university to work from home as a freelance writer, translator and editor. A few years before, she’d given up her career as a very successful architect who was in demand all over Europe to explore her love of horses and alternative healing. She provides cranio-sacraal healing on horses, and apparently she’s very gifted.

Anyway, about a year ago we were discussing her upcoming ski vacation when I mentioned that I’d never seen another black person skiing (take that with a grain of salt because I ski maybe once a year for one week). “That can’t be true,” she answered me in disbelief.

“Well, when you go, take a look around.”

Sure enough she told me later that she hadn’t seen any black people. She asked me why I thought not too many black people skiied, and I explained that, at least in an American context, it had less to do with race than economics, i.e. money.

Skiing is a ridiculously expensive hobby/sport. If you can afford to travel to the few places in the US where you can ski (I won’t even mention flying to Canada or Europe or Asia for obvious reasons), you still have to have a place to stay. And food is important because you really work up an appetite. Proper attire is a must. High up in the mountains, it’s cold. Period. A ski suit offers protections from the elements, so you need to have one. Thermal underwear, ski socks and gloves add to the expense. Then you have to rent the ski boots and skis. Add to that money for a ski pass and you begin to see why this sport is out of reach for many black Americans.

I think it’s a pity because it is an enjoyable atmosphere. I mean, the skiing’s ok, but stopping at lunch for a bowl of hot goulash hits the spot when your toes start going numb. A pit stop for a glass of gluhwein or jagertee in front of the fireplace always manages to warm up the coldest of the cold-fearing people. Me. And, I’ll admit, though never to hubby, that being outside all day - even when it’s cold - is exhilarating.

I do notice the occasional stare, but the Austrian people I’ve come into contact with are hospitable and are kind enough to humor me when I mangle their gorgeous language. They don’t seem to judge me because my skin is brown. I’m trying to choose my words carefully so as not to make a racial issue out of something that probably isn’t, but it’s hard not to comment on such an obvious absence of color.

On a lighter note (couldn’t resist) I’m glad to be back home getting back into my routine. I think this year hubby and I are on our own for New Year’s eve. We’re planning to cook ourselves a very chic three-course meal and drink lots of prosecco, well, maybe just one bottle. Hubby has to work on the 1st.

I’ll be lifting my glass up in a toast to all of you at midnight - my time, of course - wishing you all a happy new year.

Posted in Reflections, travel | 9 Comments »

Several months ago I read this review of Erika Kennedy’s second novel Feminista, by Rebecca Walker, an artist who’s work I respect. Finally, I thought, a black woman who’s created a powerful, black female main character who breaks the stereotypical mold from which most black female characters are cast. Ms. Walker, a self-proclaimed feminista who describes herself and other feministas she’s met as “smart as hell and not afraid to flex. We shop hard, love harder and care about the world even more…” was nothing about positive about this book. If it was good enough for Ms. Walker, surely it was worth the twenty bucks for me to buy. I was so excited about reading it, that I invited a fellow blogger, Saffia Farr at Motherhood and Anarchy to read it and join me on Skype to talk about it.

Saffia and I have a lot in common. We’re both freelance writers who blog about our experiences, we work from home while mothering small children and we both have an expat experience, which broadly informs the first two similarities. It took us a couple of weeks to even make a date for our first unofficial virtual book club because of our hectic schedules, but we managed to have a stimulating and thought-provoking discussion.

The book basically follows Sydney Zamora on her quest to find a husband in New York city. That’s it…basically. All right, all right. Sydney represents today’s American citizen: her father was an Afro-Cuban lawyer and her mother’s a socialite of Irish descent. She’s a celebrity writer for one of New York’s top women’s magazines and has the wardrobe to rival Carrie Bradshaw’s, although Sydney bought most of hers on sale.

She might very well represent today’s American woman: focused on her weight – she was fat until she met a nutritionist who coached her down to a size six – slightly neurotic yet loveable, opinionated to the point of judgmental and trapped in the same old clichéd dilemma of motherhood vs. career. Oh, and she loves her designer clothes.

Well, let me change that: she may very well represent Hollywood’s version of today’s American woman.

I wasn’t quite sure whether or not I liked Feminista, so I made a short “likes/dislikes” list to try to nudge my opinion one way or the other.

Liked

It held my interest to the very end despite it’s being a romance novel

I love how Kennedy deconstructs the old-fashioned Harlequin genre. Sydney is believable, especially in a 21st-century context where the world is much broader than intra-racial love, “pure” lineage, obsolete gender roles, unconditional acceptance of motherhood as a woman’s ultimate goal or using a hotshot career in exchange for it.

I also loved getting a peek (even a fictional one) inside the personalities, if not the lives, of New York’s elite social circles. The same goes for getting on the inside track of writing for a high-circulation magazine.

I love that Erica Kennedy is a black female author who has broken into a mainstream genre. I know she’ll inspire plenty of aspiring writers.

Didn’t like

Sydney.
She was too judgmental. I was deeply disappointed that judgment here is equated with feminism. Sydney’s attack on her psychiatrist or her deeply seeded hatred for another character’s high-society lifestyle, for example, have nothing to do with supporting the choices other women make.

There is no progression in the motherhood vs. career debate. Where’s the character that’s balancing both and all the while grumbling? Where’s the stay-at-home mom who has a fulfilling life defined outside of her children? What about a stay-at-home dad who’s still sexy?

Can chick lit really call itself feminist?

Saffia and I discuss where Feminista missed the mark

We both agreed that Kennedy’s brand of feminism was way off base.

Saffia: My definition of feminism involves choice. To me a modern feminist is someone who makes positive choices, a woman who chooses what role she wants. Due to the Feminist movement we now have a choice whether to work or stay at home, we do not have to “do as we are told” in the same way.

There’s this whole argument about stay at home mums being negative role models for their daughters because they are not working. I do not agree because for me it is all about choice. I worked hard to have a career but then CHOSE to give it up.

Sydney was not a strong character because she just seemed to be drifting into things and complaining all the time. And then she just decides she has to get married…She was an angry young woman, very anti-man and male establishment… Generally she just moaned and complained too much to be a positive female role model!

black and (A)broad: Anger. That’s what got the movements started so many decades ago. I’m not sure if anger is driving women today. Maybe it is. But my guess is that we’re looking for support. Anger is an outdated notion, in my opinion.

Whereas the traditional feminist movements were largely about getting our VOICEs heard, women today are moving towards making their own CHOICEs – like you said - and seeking SUPPORT for their choices.

Nor was Sydney the most credible role model for our two-woman, international book club.

Saffia: The whole fashion thing for Sydney didn’t sit well with me; the fact that
she’d been so fat and then suddenly was size tiny and obsessed with high fashion.
For me that belittled the intelligence she was supposed to have.

black and (A)broad: I didn’t even catch the size thing, but you’re so right. If Kennedy’s agenda is to deconstruct today’s (or yesterday’s) image of woman, she missed the target on this topic. On the other hand, I’m afraid American culture is still too limited to accept an overweight heroin.

And then there’s the working mom vs. stay-at-home mom debate

Saffia: I felt she was very dismissive of motherhood.

black and (A)broad: For me, I’m still waiting to read about a woman who has an experience similar to mine. Yes, I work, but from home. I’m probably closer to housewife than I am to career woman, but I’m not at all desperate or demented. In fact, I feel like I’m more in control of my days and my life in general than a lot of people out there doing the 9-5 corporate thing. Where are the strong female characters who take on motherhood AND work-hood in a realistic way? That’s what I want to read about.

I think Saffia and I were online for almost two hours. We had a stimulating conversation about writing and publishing, as she’s also busy with her next book. In the end, reading this book and then discussing it brought me to ask this question: isn’t it time to lose the word “feminism” and all its derivations? Aren’t we tired of being defined in such polarizing terms as mother or professional? We have so many more options, our lives have expanded way beyond the motherhood/career dichotomy that this novel ultimately re-presents.

Posted in book review | No Comments »

Last week marked my 10^th anniversary of living in the Netherlands. Gefeliciteerd, congratulations to me!

3,650 days I’ve cycled in the rain (a good thousand of those days with at least one child strapped in a seat either on the handlebars or behind me), attempted to speak Dutch without making a fool of myself, eaten stompoot (traditional meal made with mashed potatoes, kale or any other green, leafy veggie and bacon bits served with smoked sausage or meatballs), partaken in the Koninginnedag festivities (celebration of the queen’s birthday when the Dutch dress up in orange, hold yard sales and drink) and celebrated Sinterklaas (St. Nicholas Day).

Actually, that’s not true: I’ve always stood on the sideline of December 5^th, when Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet come banging on the door and leave a sack of presents and other goodies to kiddies who are, by that time, bouncing off the walls in anticipation. Honestly, it took me a couple of years to get over the whole Black Pete/blackface controversy, which I blogged about last year ago, but I have moved beyond it. And, boy, am I glad I have because for the first time in ten years, I finally understand the thrill of it.

Chloe, Paige and Friend in Piet and Sint Hats

I owe that to my six-year-old daughter, Chloë, whose enthusiasm and matter-of-fact explanations about everything leading up to the big day (tomorrow) have been as infectious as the swine flu, which she may have just had. She’s even spread it to her two-year-old sister Paige, who, even though she has no clue what it’s really all about, she jumps up and down when she gets a present in her shoe because Chloë jumps up and down. In fact, Chloë and I baked peppernoten (spiced cookies that Pete throws to the kiddies) yesterday and plan to bake more this afternoon.

I can’t wait until tomorrow when the day will culminate in a new tradition that hubby and I are creating in our own little American/Dutch, black/white/mixed family. Right before dinner hubby and I are going to sit at the table and play a couple of games with our little girls. Then we’re going to clear the table and lay out our hot plate, which we only seem to use at this time of year, and grill our pieces of peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, chicken breast, sausage, hamburger and steak – Bennihana style.

Then I’m going to make up a batch of homemade eggnog, and as I’m adding the cognac – whiskey for hubby – the neighbors will bang on front door, pretending to be the Klaas. Chloë and Paige will scream and jump up and down and race to open the door. The gleam of utter pleasure in their little eyes as together they yell out their thanks to Sinterklaas and drag the bag of presents into the living room is what the day is all about.

Sometimes we Americans – black and white – living here get too caught up in imposing racism on a custom that may or may not be deserving of it. We could try focusing less on that, and when we do our attention will be freed up to be placed on the sheer joy of the season. We’ll be able to devote our attention to creating new traditions that bump out the old negativity.

Sunday morning, December 6^th, after Sinterklaas, his horse Americo and Pete have boarded the steamboat and are on their way back to Spain, hubby and I will take our precious girls to the garden center to buy a beautiful Christmas tree. As we’re decorating it later, we’ll drink up whatever’s left of the eggnog, I’ll put on my Christmas Carol playlist and pass along to my girls a bit of my culture. That’s what I’ve learned in the last ten years, and that’s what I want them to carry into the future.

Posted in Dutch culture | 15 Comments »

My six-year-old has reached another milestone in her brief life: she got her swimming diploma. “What the hell do you do with a swimming diploma?” you’re asking (I know because I asked the same question). Someone once told me their parents let them go to swimming parties. I’ve never known a child to throw one of those. On the other hand, all the children I know don’t have their diplomas. There are so many levels here.

I didn’t know this before moving to Holland ten years ago, but it’s a country of water, a good portion of which actually lies below sea level. The Dutch are in a constant –if not bloodless - battle to keep the sea at bay. Cities and villages are decorated with sloten, grachten and canals (and dykes), which are made to prevent the land from becoming saturated by water and/or flooding. Some windmills work to constantly pump water from the polder (an area of land that has been “reclaimed” from the sea) back out to sea.

The balance of land and water is what makes the Dutch landscape so unique and picturesque. It’s also what makes it so dangerous, even deadly. The Storm is the film version of the tragedy that beset Zeeland in 1953. A major dyke broke after several days of constant rain, and thousands of people lost their lives. Even today most people either lost someone in that storm or know of someone who died.

On a more mundane level, children could fall into a waterway. To prevent large-scale incidents of drowning, the Dutch have structuralized swimming lessons. From the tender age of 4 or 5, Dutch kids spend a half hour, two times a week learning how to float, tread water and do the breast stroke – with their clothes on (once a month).

On Saturday, 24 kiddies swam their little hearts out. One after the other dived into the deep end, squeezed their bodies through an underwater tunnel and swam to the other end of the pool. They floated like a star on their bellies before flipping over like hamburgers and gazing at the ceiling while the man with the deep voice counted to ten.

We parents walked from end to end, taking pictures and video taping them, sweat dripping from our collective brow. No, we weren’t nervous … we were hot as hell. It’s a heated pool and feels like a tropical rainforest. I was this close to taking my shirt off. “Is your bra clean,” asked my neighbor, whose daughter, and Chloe’s best friend, was also swimming for her diploma. I laughed and threatened to drag her with me when I jumped into the pool to cool off.

All the kids “passed” and were given a certificate. Before treating her to McDonald’s, hubby and I let her open her present, a “Moxi Girls” doll, which was probably the highlight of the afternoon.

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter what she does with the certificate. We shared a special moment with our baby, and that’s what really counts.

Posted in Geen categorie | 4 Comments »

…and this past week, it’s been cats and dogs. I don’t want to complain, but I feel compelled to do so after the week I’ve had. There are still two more days left in the week, so there may be a second part to this post.

On Monday I missed an appointment. I could have sworn a friend and I were meeting in the cafe around the corner, which was where I was waiting for her. Of course I didn’t have my cell phone with me, so after 20 minutes I went home. I checked my Franklin and, sure enough, I was waiting in the wrong cafe. I called my friend and apologized profusely. We agreed to meet up fifteen minutes later, at her house. On my way to her house, my car stopped … in the middle of the street. So, there I was, in my big car, blocking the narrow Dutch side road a couple blocks from Paige’s daycare.

Of course, I still didn’t have my cell phone with me. What to do? I could stand there next to my car, subjecting myself to horns tooting in obvious aggravation and anonymous heads shaking in reproach and hoping some kind motorist would offer to push my car to the side. The problem with that scenario was that I had to pick Chloe up in half an hour, and I could have been waiting forever for that nice good-looking strong muscle-bound man to rescue this damsel from her distress.

In the immortal words of Bob Marley: “my feet is my only carriage” so I started walking. As I passed the daycare I thought, “Hey, why don’t you go inside and ask if you can make a phone call?” And that’s just what I started to do when, just in the nick of time, I saw Paige playing outside. I crouched down behind some bushes until I was sure she couldn’t see me before scurrying around the corner on my way home. Had she seen me, she’d have thought I was there to take her with me, and I couldn’t handle her crying when I left without her.

I got home, called hubby for the name and number of the garage and called them. The first question was, “What is your license plate number?” I had no idea. I mean, who memorizes their license plate number? “Sorry, Mame, but we can’t do anything without that and other details about the car.”

“But all that information’s in the car, which is stuck in the middle of the road.”

She continued to be sorry but couldn’t help me without those details. Another call to hubby - maybe he know the license plate number. He did. I guess people do actually memorize it. So I asked him to please call the garage because I didn’t feel like dealing with a whole lot of technical questions in Dutch. I could probably understand them, but I wouldn’t be able to find those technical words to answer back.

To make a long story short, I went back to my car, and a few seconds later a nice man offered to push it over to the side. A few minutes later, hubby pulled up. He’d left work to come help his wife (awwwww). About an hour and a half later, a mechanic from the garage came - without a tow truck - and, blah blah blah.

Monday’s and Tuesday’s are my busiest days. I’m taxiing both of them from school to gym class to swimming, etc., which I now had to do on my bike. That’s not even a big deal except it’s been raining like mad here since…you guessed it…Monday.

This morning it was pouring. I had another appointment in town immediately after I dropped off the kids. I made it on time - dripping wet, of course - but I made it. As I was taking off my rain gear I realized I’d forgotten the documents I was going to discuss at my appointment. So, on went the plastic pants and poncho and on my bike I hopped back home.

I got to pick up my car late this morning, and do you know what? It stopped raining.

Posted in Geen categorie | 7 Comments »

I’m going to give it a go. Every day for the rest of November, I’m going to post. I’ve been so busy with my book and other work projects (and family of course) that my blogging has kind of fallen to the wayside. I’m hoping that this challenge will get me back into the blogging habit.

Posted in Geen categorie | No Comments »

It’s 13:30 and I’ve just sat down for the first time today. My plan was to write. You see, I’m a bit behind on my 850-word-a-day deadline for my forthcoming first book, so maybe right now isn’t such a good moment to stop and look around me. There’s a mess everywhere. Have a look for yourself:

Do you know that I felt tired when I looked at the mess and thought to myself that maybe I’m spreading myself too thin. I don’t even have time to straighten up my house. As I write this piece, my toddler is yelling through the baby phone that she has a poop diaper. She’s supposed to be napping. So, before I finish this post, I’ll have to trudge upstairs and change her stinky diaper. Let me go on and do it now. Excuse me for a few minutes …….

Oh, my bad: her doll has a poop diaper. See what I mean? See why my house is a mess?

Despite needing to work on my book, I’m blogging because as I sat here looking around at all the messes, the words “live smarter not harder” flew through my head. Then I asked myself this question: do I look at the mess or should I look at what the mess means?

I already know how simply looking at the mess makes me feel: tired and inadequate; so, I thought briefly about what the mess means, and this is what I came up with.

I picked Chloe up from school this afternoon so she could eat lunch at home with her little sister and me. They sat agreeably on the couch and watched a bit of tv while they ate their sandwiches. I joined them when my leftovers from last night were warmed up. Paige passed gas, and the three of us cracked up when she laughed and said “pardon”.

When I finished my lunch, I went to the kitchen and made tonight’s dinner. Since Paige has her “mother and toddler” gym class this afternoon, I won’t have too much time afterwards to get dinner done so that we can eat early and put the kids to bed early enough to have some adult time. I made some delicious chili, by the way, also known as macaroni in Dutch.

While dinner was going, I also made myself a delicious pot of lentil soup with coconut milk since tomorrow I won’t have time to make it - I have several appointments. Tomorrow Paige goes to daycare, but today she’s home with me.

I realize I made a conscious decision to leave my position as an advisor at the university, in part to be at home when my kids get home from school. I realize I made a conscious decision to do my work during the three days that Paige is in daycare so that I’d have the other two free to spend with her and only her.

I noticed myself relaxing a bit and even patting myself on the back for spending quality time with my kids, preparing healthy, home-cooked meals for my family and giving up control over those things that, a month from now, won’t matter. I smiled at myself for realizing that a few years ago, I was almost obsessive with outer orderliness as a way to cover up my internal chaos. I’ve worked smart the last years, striving to be “OK” with where I am in my life or even in my day, and by allowing myself a few moments to look at what my messes mean, I’m rewarded with the gift of self-acceptance.

And a messy house!

Posted in Living smarter not harder, Reflections | 6 Comments »