Roger's 40th

Here's a short photo-video I put together for our good friend Roger Coulter, who turned 40 on April 8th. Many thanks to the many family and friends who submitted photos and birthday wishes.

To watch, just click on the photo below. Or, if you have trouble, open QuickTime and go to File / Open URL and enter http://www.thalassa-stjohn.com/media/Roger40-v3.mov.

The Daily Minute

Two nights ago, just started to implement a "Daily Minute"routine. Making a 1-minute recording each by Ben and Sophie. In which they answer questions about whatever they did that day.

We'll see how disciplined we end up being about actually doing these recordings. My hope is that they'll provide an archive of sorts. So that when we move back to Seattle and the kids wonder what life was like back in Holland, they can just poke around in the archive and hear in their own words about a given day.

There will be a lot of "lasts" in the next few months. The last time we'll see tulips bloom here together. The last birthday here. The last day in a Dutch school. The last day we stay in our house. Perhaps the Daily Minute will allow us to capture those milestones, in among the other possibly more mundane bits and pieces.

This could either be a colossal waste of time, taping endless minutes of banal observations. Or a time capsule-like treasure trove of insights into the past on some undetermined future date, when the kids are older and want to find out more about their past. Who knows.

But in any case, this experiment starts today! Well, more accurately, 2 nights ago. But you get the idea. Will post future "minutes" on a sidebar...

>>UPDATE 4/19/09<<

Rather than a sidebar, decided it'd be just as easy to update this post regularly and link to it from a sidebar. Here's the full archive so far...

• Sophie 4/19/09
  
• Ben 4/19/09
  
• Sophie 4/18/09
  
• Ben 4/18/09
  
• Sophie 4/17/09
  
• Ben 4/17/09
  
• Sophie 4/15/09
  
• Ben 4/15/09
  
• Sophie 4/14/09
  
• Ben 4/14/09
  
• Sophie 4/13/09
  
• Ben 4/13/09
  
• Sophie 4/12/09
  
• Ben 4/12/09
  
• Sophie 4/11/09
  
• Ben 4/11/09
  
• Sophie 4/10/09
  
• Ben 4/10/09
  
• Sophie 4/8/09
  
• Ben 4/8/09
  
• Sophie 4/7/09
  
• Ben 4/7/09
  
• Sophie 4/6/09
  
• Ben 4/6/09
  
• Sophie 4/5/09
  
• Ben 4/5/09
  
• Sophie 4/4/09
  
• Ben 4/4/09
  
• Sophie 4/3/09
  
• Ben 4/3/09
  
• Sophie 4/2/09
  
• Ben 4/2/09
  
• Sophie 3/31/09
  
• Ben 3/31/09
  
• Sophie 3/30/09
  
• Ben 3/30/09
  
• Sophie 3/29/09
  
• Ben 3/29/09
  
• Sophie 3/28/09
• Ben 3/28/09
  
• Sophie 3/27/09
  
• Ben 3/27/09
  
• Sophie 3/26/09
  
• Ben 3/26/09
• Sophie 3/25/09
• Ben 3/25/09
• Sophie 3/24/09
• Ben 3/24/09

Skating on the Canals

After three weeks of opportunity, we finally borrowed some skates yesterday and headed out on the ice with Dutch friends.

Seemed as if the entire population of The Netherlands had the same idea. Turned out to be the last day of good skating.

Latest word is that the last good freeze was actually 12 years ago. Maybe we'll get another chance 12 years from now to learn more than just how to slip, slide and fall on our bums.

Of course, while we're frolicking on the ice, it's easy to forget what millions of families in Eastern and Central Europe are experiencing, given the Russia-Ukraine dispute that's limiting the flow of natural gas westward. Hard to imagine what it'd be like to be in Bulgaria or Slovakia or Serbia, cooped up in an apartment without heat, trying to care for an elderly parent or infant.

A good reminder that we've got a lot to be thankful for...

Let It Ice, Let It Ice, Let It Ice

Today's the day. The day that temperatures are forecast to break out of the cold snap that's held The Netherlands in its sub-zero (Celsius) grip for the past 3 weeks, almost every night and day.

The last time the Dutch experienced a deep freeze of this length and magnitude, according to friends here, was about 10 years ago.

Sporting goods shops, normally accustomed to supplying skates to only users of skating rinks, are practically sold out. Everyone and their mother has taken skating on the canals, which are covered with a foot-thick block of ice.

Last year, apparently there was one day on which the canals froze enough to support skating (while we were vacationing in the States). This year, news reports herald the advent of a New Generation of Skaters. Kids who've been able to simply walk a couple blocks to the nearest neighborhood canal, pop on their skates and jump-start their ice hockey or speed skating career.

The impact on moods has been palpable. Accustomed to dreary overcast winters not unlike those of the Pacific Northwest, the Dutch have long endured December through March with a perpetual Seasonal Affective Disorder. But this winter has been different so far. Cold yet sunny days have lifted the national disposition. Hours of outdoor skating have heightened the already high level of physical exercise.

Today, we take the kids out again onto the ice with some friends. The notoriously unreliable weather forecast hints that today will be the last day of the current icy period, followed tomorrow by moderation and Tuesday by rain.

Soon enough, we'll be back to normal - the mostly cloudy, soggy dimness with occasional "sunbreaks" that we know and love.

Dutchlish

"Daddy," Sophie said in her best I'm-complaining-but-really-deserve-your-sympathy voice, "Ben is laughing me out."

Ben started giggling.

"Laughing you out?" I replied. "What do you mean?"

Somewhat involuntarily, Sophie joined in the giggling.

"Making fun of," interjected Josy with a smile. Hysterical giggling ensued. Over the next five minutes, Ben and Sophie each traded a flurry of tongue-in-cheek accusations that the other was "laughing me out."

Such is the world of Dutchlish. Or Engutch. That linguistic netherregion where predominantly English speaking children living in Holland become so familiar and comfortable speaking Dutch that their spoken English starts to exhibit hybrid vocabulary and Dutch sentence structure.

After 2 1/2 years of living over here, Dutch has now become Ben and Sophie's default language. But it makes sense. They speak Dutch every day in class at school and after school with friends. More and more, they've taken to playing in Dutch together at home. What a concept.

For Christmas, Sophie's big present was not what we would call a "scooter." Sure, it looks like a scooter. It rides like a scooter. It even says "scooter" on it. But it's a "step." And she can't get enough of layering up in full body armor and helmet (see photo) to go around the block on her "step." "I wanna go ride my step," she says.

Their less frequent use of English comes with a downside, too, of course. Words that were once second-nature are fading from memory and sometimes hard to recall at all. The other evening at dinner, Sophie politely asked - mostly in English - for a "mess" (knife).

A couple nights ago, when looking at the outdoor thermometer, I asked Sophie where the needle was pointing. "Between dertig and veertig," (30 and 40) she answered.

Just this morning, when setting up their Ikea kids' table for breakfast in a pretend kids' house quadrant of the living room, Ben declared that in this zone we'd have to converse with them "in onse taal" (in our language). Their language? Egads.

Once we move back to the States, the one Dutchism most likely to earn them a double-take from other American kids will be their tendency to say "I also," when meaning "me too." Ready for ice cream, guys? "Yeah, me!" one will say. "I also!" the other chimes in.

The upside of all this, though, is their incredible fluency in Dutch. Living here, in many ways, has been like free language training for them. Many Dutch adults they meet comment on how truly Dutch the two of them sound. With real Amsterdam accents.

Hopefully, all this bi-lingual living will help open doors for them down the road. Or perhaps activate language learning synapses that will enable them to pick up other, more commonly spoken languages.

And if one starts to learn Spanish or Chinese, the other may just try to keep pace. I can already hear the choruses of "I also!"

The Prince Is Dead! Long Live the Snake!

When nephew Josh and his fiancee Skye passed through Amsterdam during their European vacation earlier this month, little did they know the drama, action and intrigue that awaited them.

After months or perhaps mere minutes of preparation, Ben and Sophie produced the world debut of the original puppetshow "The Prince Is Dead! Long Live the Snake!"

A heartwarming tale of loss, animalistic violence, tragedy, mourning, kissing, rejuvenation, celebration of life and a non sequitur reference to an alarm. What's more, Josh and Skye found themselves caught up in the actual production themselves!

Rated PG due to fierce language (Dutch). English subtitles. Running time: 3 min.

A Jolly Holiday...in Burgundy

Had a great time two weeks ago in the village of Tailly in Burgundy, France, visiting the country villa of our friend Nina and her husband Paul's family.

Ben and Sophie had a blast tromping around the grounds, playing games with our friend Peter who was also visiting from New York, and hanging out with Nina and Paul's 1 year-old Julia.

Amazing hospitality, unforgettable sights such as a tour of the family's winery cellars, and scrumptious French cuisine that has left us with a lingering longing for more.

Here's a short photo-movie of our favorite pictures, most of which are courtesy of Peter. Set in part to the soundtrack of "A Jolly Holiday" from the movie "Mary Poppins," which the kids watched endlessly - on the 7-hour ride there, one morning during our visit there, and on the ride back home.

As Mary Poppins would say, our visit was "practically perfect in every way." ; )

Czech Us Out!

We spent this past weekend just outside of Prague with old friend Tomas, his wife Helena and their two boys Matej (6) and Adam (4).



The last time we'd seen Tomas and Helena was at their wedding 10 years ago this September. They looked exactly the same. Leave it to Czech beer to have the secret to everlasting youth... ; )

Great to catch up while staying at a hotel in the town of Jicin, about 90 minutes northeast of Prague, close to Cesky Raj, an area known as the "Czech Paradise" for its picturesque naturally shaped sandstone rocks.

The kids demonstrated how play is the universal language of fun. With little overlap between Czech and English or Dutch, Matej and Ben kicked the soccer ball back and forth like it was going out of style.

On the second night of our stay, Tomas and I relived old times in co-founding an English teaching program shortly after the Velvet Revolution. With more than a little help from fellow co-founders and friends, the program resulted in 60 Stanford students teaching several hundred Czech university students in a summer-long, experiential "study tours" format: 2 weeks river rafting, 2 weeks in the mountains, 2 weeks in Prague, etc.

Fun to recall how we'd first met on my initial trip to Prague in the dark yet heady winter of 1990, just 2 months after the revolution and while the Berlin Wall was still coming down. Tomas reflected that while many foreigners had passed through the offices of Vaclav Havel's Civic Forum back then and offered help, my visit was only one of a few that eventually led to something of tangible value.

I reminded him that, thanks to him, me and several of my best friends from Stanford had a truly unforgettable time. To feel a part of a historic transition behind what had been the Iron Curtain, hosted by some of the most hospitable, friendly and inspiring people on earth - now that was something of tangible value.

To this day, Tomas still speaks with a very slight stutter, the direct result of a police baton to the head during pro-democracy protests in the run-up to the communist regime's eventual capitulation.

I can still picture Tomas sitting behind a desk, selling posters that commemorated the revolution - a harbinger of his emerging entrepreneurial prowess. He later went on to establish one of the very first major t-shirt distribution companies in the Czech Republic, and then formed a successful nationwide chain of jewelry stores. One of his most successful t-shirt designs featured the headline "Czech Me Out!"

In Jicin, after several beers and shots of the licorice-hinted Czech liqueur Becherovka, the years seemed to melt away and transport us back to the festive din of the u.Flecku pub in Prague.

Prosim, jedno pivo (one beer, please). Dva piva (two beers). And then ordering in increments of 1 or 2, or 2 plus 2, because pronouncing 3 or 4 in broken Czech ends up sounding more like a sneeze than a number.

To maximize time in Jicin w/ Tomas and family over the long weekend, we had flown from Amsterdam to Prague. But while it was great to catch up a bit, doing so was bittersweet because I began to realize just how much more catching up could be done.

Hopefully, Tomas and I will find a way to make that next visit happen soon. If we could conjure up the start of an English teaching program out of the blue that winter's day 18 years ago, maybe we can apply a little magic to connect again in the near future.

It's Spring, Let It Snow!

Today is Tweede Paasdag (tuh-vay-duh pahs-dagh) or, loosly translated, Second Easter. The day after Easter. A holiday in Holland. Time for chocolate Easter egg sugar highs and food comas and...well, this year anyway...snow!

The past couple days have seen flurries on and off during the daytime, none of it really sticking. A light coating covered the ground on Easter morning, but not much to speak of. But today...today was a different story.

A whole inch of snow! Okay, sure, that's not much for what you might think of as a Northern European winter. But considering that this winter was one of the mildest on record, with hardly any snow at all, the inch overnight was something to write home about. And on the, what, 4th day of spring? Wow.

Ben was so excited when he looked out his window at 6:30am that he couldn't resist waking the rest of us to share the good news. "Daddy," he said in his best letting-mom-sleep-no-really whisper, "there's snow everywhere."

"Okay, Ben," I muttered, "that's great. Mommy and Daddy are still sleeping, though." He obediently went back into his room where, seconds later, came the unmistakable sounds of a 3.5 Richter scale rattling. Ben shaking the bunkbed to wake up Sophie.

Things had just settled down, and Jo and I figured we had lucked out en route back to sleep, when in he came again. "Daddy," Ben said in his most serious voice, "the cars probably can't drive because the road is all covered with snow too."

"Okay, Ben," I replied, eyes half open. "But it's still early. Please close your door and keep your voice down, okay?"

"Okay," he answered, hardly containing his excitement.

Just barely drifting off to sleep a few minutes later, a certain, persistent recurring chorus could be heard emanating from downstairs. "Daaaaaaaaadddeeeee....Daaaaaaaaaaaaddeeeeeeeee." Ben's voice. Then Sophie's voice. Then Ben's voice. Then Sophie's voice.

Jo and I exchanged knowing, groggy smiles.

Game over on sleeping in.

But game on for playing outside in the snow!

The Up Downs of Turning 40

Welcome to the Grand Hotel Opduin (“op-deaun”) read the sign outside the door. Josy and I had snuck away for the weekend to celebrate – or perhaps mourn the advent of – her 40th birthday.

We’d left the kids in care of one of our favorite former nannies. Ever since the kids were born, this was one of just a handful of times we’d been able to take time away overnight all by ourselves. How refreshing!

The destination was perhaps fitting for a milestone birthday getaway. The hotel sits on the west side of Texel Island, the first in the chain of islands running from the northwest corner of The Netherlands in an arc to the northeast. The islands mark a sort of breakwater between the North Sea and the Waddensee (“vahh-den-zay”), the body of water that separates the northern provinces of The Netherlands from the ocean.


With a name like Texel, an American can’t help but think of Texas. It’s not far, after all, from the British oil rigs out on the North Sea. And when pronounced with a George W. Bush twang, Opduin sounds an awful lot like “up down.”

So there we were for Josy’s 40th, ready to celebrate or have a stiff drink, at none other than the Grand Hotel Up/Down.

Just as Texel (“tess-el”) and its related islands demarcate the more placid seas of the Waddensee from the rougher, untamed expanse of the North Sea, so too did Jo feel like she was crossing the line out of youth and into…well, the great unknown. Good thing we had a GPS.

The weather did its best to underscore this transition birthday. Winds reached gale force, delaying our ferry for three hours and driving massive swells that broke through various dikes on the island and flooded a few isolated areas.

When floods occur in places like Washington state, the forecasters often caution residents living in “low lying” areas to seek safety on higher ground. But in The Netherlands, just about everywhere is a low lying area, at risk from the sea.

Expectations can make all the difference, though. And when one dreads the impending floodwaters of a 40th birthday as much as Josy did hers, it’s hard not to be pleasantly surprised.

Maybe it was the fact we were able to spend some quality time together, without rugrats underfoot.

Maybe it was the secluded, windswept beauty of the dunes along Texel’s western shore.

Perhaps it was the picture-perfect red lighthouse beckoning out to sea from Texel’s northernmost point, while we were being buffeted silly from winds that howled with sandblaster velocity and spraypaint-like coverage into ones cheeks, hair, nose, ears and any exposed areas.

Or maybe it was simply the act of getting away from it all, and finding time to reflect on bigger questions and joys, that made Josy forget the angst of 40 and remember just how good we have it. Even with all of life’s ups and downs.

Sinterklaas Liedjes

Saint Nikolaas songs are a hallmark of the pre-Christmas season in The Netherlands. Ben and Sophie took a moment to share some of their favorite ones, which we recorded back in November. Check out this 2- minute snippet, if you're feeling brave:



I was reminded of this performance during dinner last night, by the level of Dutch that Ben and Sophie are now showing they understand and can speak. Ben, for the first time rattled off several sentences that I completely didn't follow. And Sophie launched into post-dinnertable vocal entertainment that included several new songs she'd picked up this week at her daycare.

Josy and I just looked at each other in awe, as we both realized that our children have become bilingual. One of our biggest goals for moving over here.

Here's hoping that they continue to retain the language and a connection with the culture and extended family once we return to the States in July/August...

A Pox on You...

"Daddy," said Sophie, her face showing a puzzled, slightly horrified expression, "I don't like your face."

And who could blame her. It was covered with pustulent boils and 5-days of pre-beard growth, making me look like more of a Haight Ashbury paintball casualty than, well, just her dad.

Today as I write, about a month after my grown-up bout with the chicken pox, the boils and facial hair are thankfully gone. (About this photo at right - I've always wanted to take a picture halfway through shaving off a beard.) And while energy has returned to normal, the faintest lingering topical discolorations remain - the last reminders of two weeks of insatiably itchy, sleepless, listless and lethargic fun.

I won't dwell on the tedious pleasantries of the pox, but suffice it to say that the rumors are true that it sure can be tougher as an adult than as a kid. Of course, there are many worse things that people experience health-wise, but I can't tell you how much I wish I'd gotten the vaccine.

One friend of mine who had the pox in his 30s said, "I thought I was gonna die!" I'm not sure mine got that bad, but it was even less fun than doing taxes.

Amazingly, since getting the pox, I've discovered that our elderly neighbor, our housecleaner and our part-time nanny have never had it either. And this in The Netherlands where they basically don't believe in vaccinating against this disease, which means that if you ever set foot in a primary school or daycare, you're playing with fire.

The stats on the Centers for Disease Control website don't paint a pretty picture for adults who get the pox -- much higher incidence of complications and morbidity the older you get, especially for those over age 50. Good thing I'm still 39.

Funny, but one of the most striking memories I have of the pox was the day I got my appetite back. Somehow, the act of making (and keeping down) a fried egg and cheese sandwich as the first real breakfast in a week was such a huge pleasure. How nice it can be to feel human again. And how easy it can be to forget what it's like to be sick.

It's Thanksgiving - Please Pass the Chicken

As Americans, living in The Netherlands on Thanksgiving Day is a bit surreal.

Absent are the omnipresent Thanksgiving decorations that adorn the schools, shopping malls and public places back in the States.

And the Dutch don't exactly get fired up about Pilgrims, despite the history of Pilgrim leaders living in Holland after fleeing England and before settling in Massachusetts.

(Truth be told, I didn't actually remember that - I just pulled it from Wikipedia. Josy, when reading this, couldn't believe my ignorance - apparently, this historical nugget isn't lost on Massachusetts natives like her.)

The day itself comes as something of an afterthought. A workday not unlike any other November workday. Oh, but wait, it's Thanksgiving - shouldn't we celebrate...?

While we'd talked for weeks about doing something special on Thanksgiving weekend, plans had a way unraveling the closer we got to the day itself. The hot idea of heading to Paris and EuroDisney for the first time got derailed when French train workers went on strike and highways turned into parking lots. Josy and I got preoccupied with work. The kids got sick. And, finally, Thanksgiving arrived and oh, look at the time, it's 4:30 in the afternoon.

I did the only thing a self-respecting Yank could do in this situation. I immediately headed to the store to buy the closest thing they'd have to a Thanksgiving dinner.

I waited patiently while Dutch shoppers at the meat counter ordered ahead of me. What on earth was that? Filet americain? God knows how they came to name this raw ground beef delicacy, eaten uncooked, after a country where nobody in their right mind would risk a slow, painful death by e.coli. To each their own - Josy loves the stuff.

Then again, she also can't get enough of drop, the Dutch candy that tastes a bit like American black licorice but roughly 1.75 trillion times more concentrated. And it comes in a spectrum of varieties, from the milder Really-Incredible-Horse-lick-Salty to the more extreme So-Salty-You'll-Shrivel-Up-Like-a-Slug-No-Really. Needless to say, I prefer red licorice.

My turn came. When I asked for a whole chicken, the clerk looked at me with a smile and asked if I might prefer turkey. Turkey? I nearly did a double take. They had turkey?

Maybe this shouldn't have been such a surprise in an area known for expats. But just because they had expacts, they didn't keep the stores open past 6pm or bother to stock more than one or two brands of any one item. Yet, turkey?

Alas, the smallest option was a 2.9kg bird that would probably take 3 hours to cook. Way longer than the kids would ever stand to eat. And no whole chickens remained. Chicken legs and thighs it would have to be.

Somehow, we managed to pull the key ingredients together. Stove-Top(TM) Stuffing. Cranberry sauce made from fresh cranberries. Pumpkin pie and crust - all of which I made from scratch because, well, they might stock turkey here on Thanksgiving but don't get your hopes up about pie crusts.

The Pilgrims would've been proud. If they'd ever bought in to the whole Thanksgiving mythology that a budding nation eventually fostered.

And the kids seemed to enjoy it, too. The pie, mostly. After downing his first piece in roughly 0.2 seconds, Ben sat back and appeared to gather his thoughts for a moment. "Daddy, can we really, really eat the whole pie tonight?"

Top 10 Memories from Our Summer Vacation

10. Rain, rain, go away.

The sun never shines on the 4th of July in Seattle. When it did this year, that should've been our first warning. When two weeks of sunny and even hot weather followed, that should've been our second warning. By the time we flew in from Amsterdam on July 12th and headed out camping at Fort Flagler with Matt's dad and sister Wendy on the 16th, the rains returned. At least our new tent held up and we could take shelter in Grandpa Dean's camper trailer.

9. Seeing old friends.

Matt's 20-year high school reunion took place two days after we arrived in Seattle. Recovering from jet lag is one thing when traveling alone. When traveling with kids in tow, it takes on a whole new meaning. Extended sleep deprivation did wonders for memory ("What's your name again?") and made a fun but already surreal experience even more surreal.

8. Can you hear me now?

As fate would have it, our trip coincided with Matt's company closing an investment round. Rather than taking advantage of the periodic "sunbreaks" to stroll on the beach, fly kites or just hang out with family, Matt was instead on his phone and laptop for hours each day. His makeshift "office" -- a covered picnic shelter with unobstructed views (no walls), fresh air (exposure to rain) and a feeling of being at one with nature (bird droppings everywhere).

7. Wendy's graduation party.

Big Sistah just graduated with a mastah's degree in psychology of animal behavior. Threw a blowout party for family and friends at her Vashon Island log cabin retreat. By also spending the night there with Ben and Sophie, we gave her new fodder for animal behavior observations...

6. Wildlife.

Deer near the campground. Bald eagles overhead. And a visit to the Sequim Game Park, which is filled with a diverse yet rather beleaguered-looking array of animals - from roaming buffalo that sidle up to your car to peacocks that flash their feathers like you're the hottest bird that ever happened to drive by their roost. One llama in particular took a special liking to Grandpa, or at least to his bread handouts.

5. Ben Franklin would be proud.

Grandpa treated Ben and Sophie to their first kites. Had good winds one afternoon. Of course, they were spurred on partly by a large thunderstorm that was passing some miles to the west. At one point, it seemed the thunderhead was getting too close for comfort and we made a quick dash for the car. But the foreboding, dark storm mainly just provided an impressive backdrop.

4. Please, sir, may I have s'mores?

Few things motivate children more than food. And when it comes to camping food, there's nothing that competes with the combination of graham crackers, chocolate and roasted marshmallows. Don't want to clean up those toys? Don't forget what you can have tonight if you do. Not gonna finish your breakfast? Remember the s'mores. Don't want to nap? Don't forget what good nappers get at the campfire later...

3. Daddy, why do you have to be on the phone all the time?

This is really just more of #8 above. But it's a question no parent wants to hear. One that unleashes feelings of guilt without end and fears of childhood scars. Visions of future counseling sessions in which the then grown-up child wrestles with deep-seeded feelings of abandonment by distant parents who were preoccupied with work, even on vacation. Parents who later develop odd-shaped tumors on the sides of their heads from over-exposure to mobile phone transmissions.

2. Who needs Tylenol PM when you've got legal documents to review?

The sheer mind-numbing properties of a well-drafted stock purchase agreement cannot be overstated. Anyone with insomnia or restless leg syndrome, or who drank too much coffee late in the day only needs to peruse a legal document of this kind to experience an immediate and overpowering urge to close one's eyes and enjoy a fast track to REM sleep.

1. Someday, we'll have a real vacation.

Despite these endless complaints, there were more than a few wonderful moments and family bonding times. More s'mores around the campsite at Grandpa's house, countless hours of fun with two electric remote-control cars Grandpa gave Ben and Sophie, and unbridled frolicking on Grandpa's front lawn. Next time, we'll have even more of these moments...

Who's Bigger Now?

Sophie turned 3 on May 7. In a testament to our uncanny inability to plan ahead more than a half hour, we threw a momentous celebration consisting of Sophie, Ben, Josy and myself. The nice thing about being 3 is that birthday expectations are pretty much a blank slate.

She had a blast.

The highlight of the day consisted of a trip to the local bike store where Ms. Sophie got to pick out her very own, first-ever bicycle. A purplish-pinkish girly-girl model with training wheels fit the bill.

Ben proceeded to ask her every couple minutes if he could ride it. "Noooo, Ben!" she'd shout, gripping her new fiets ("feets," or bicycle) with unprecedented determination.

Sophie managed to ride the bike for the entire 10-block distance back home. At first needing a hand on the back for stability. But after 3 blocks, she only needed the faintest touch from a finger on her shoulder for the appearance of reassurance.

On the last block before home, I managed to surreptitiously remove my finger from her shoulder. Almost without knowing it, Sophie was riding her "big girl" bike all by herself.

Not to be outdone, upon arrival at the house and after further refusals by Sophie to let him take her new vehicle for a spin, Ben proclaimed that he wanted us to take the training wheels off his bike.

We were pretty sure he was ready. For the past couple months, he'd been riding his bike in such a way that his training wheels wouldn't touch the ground, except for going around corners. This often resulted in him swerving unpredictably in persistent efforts to keep the training wheels aloft while going over uneven ground. And, on this day, after his fifth or sixth request, we decided he was serious.

Ben took to his training wheel-less bike like a fish to water. Nearly fell a couple times when mounting the bike or coming to a stop. But otherwise looked like he'd always been riding in this "big boy" way.

I took him for a short ride up the neighborhood canal to check out some wild ducklings that had just hatched. We passed Josy and Sophie out on the sidewalk. From the look on Josy's face, I could tell that Sophie had been fussing. It was well past her naptime.

Only the joy of riding her new bike had kept Sophie going. But even the smooth sidewalk had become a rocky road as Sophie fought increasing fatigue while struggling to keep her balance.

That said, the power of sibling rivalry knows few bounds. Sophie took one look at Ben on his bike and said, without hesitation, "I want my training wheels off, too!"

Bored of the Flies

There's only a handful left. Bodies are scattered everywhere. Tiny, stiff reminders of the buzzing annoyances that have plagued our ground floor kitchen/dining room/living room all week long.

It all began last weekend. We started noticing an unusual number of flies indoors. The weather had been sunny and warm for weeks, and we chalked up the flies' presence to having left our windows open without screens.

And then their numbers started to rise. Dramatically.

Monday, Tuesday - Maybe a couple dozen, mainly on the south end of our ground floor. Congregating near the large foot-to-ceiling window. No obvious sign of where they were coming from. No rotting fruit on the counter. No open food containers. No signs of them in the cupboards or pantry. A mystery. Rains had returned, deterring us from opening the windows and doors to shoo the rascals outdoors.

Wednesday - Our housecleaner arrived and was totally grossed out. Somewhere between 60-80 flies had taken up residence along the southern window and the window of the kitchen door. Her face paled when I asked if she'd mind just vacuuming them up. Bless her heart, she went ahead and "hoovered" them, sucking up dozens into the cramped dark coffin of the vacuum bag, buried alive.

Friday - Desperation began to set in. Despite the thorough housecleaning, the problem had gotten worse. Much worse. Literally, more than 100 flies covered the windows and curtains.

Two school friends of Ben came over to play. They raised more than one eyebrow in amazement at the peppered pattern of flies covering the window glass and curtains. I started mulling over various ways I might explain all this to their mother when she returned to pick them up. I could just see word getting around - "The Eldridges... Nice family. Shame about all the flies, though..."

I called an exterminator, wondering to myself why I hadn't done so sooner. But after describing the problem, he said it was almost certainly due to having a dead animal somewhere under the house or in the nooks and crannies where the heating pipes run. He advised calling a plumber or heating system installer instead.

The exterminator's opinion echoed that of our landlord's father, whom I'd called earlier. And it occurred to me that rather than hire someone to rip up floorboards and trace our heating pipes into the nether reaches of our Netherlands' abode, the better solution might just be a waiting game. After all, there was no smell whatsoever - whatever dead critter was ensconced in hard to reach places was certainly so tucked away that the search would cost an arm and a leg to find it. And the flies just might die off after their maggots had finished devouring the nourishing corpse.

This wasn't an easy decision. The plague had reached nearly Biblical proportions. It was just so disgusting, words can hardly express the feeling of walking downstairs and into the presence of more than a hundred nasty flying varmints.

But fortunately the weather cleared up just enough to open the sliding door of the large window, and the kitchen door. Waving my hands and shouting like a madman, I managed to usher the vast majority of flies outside, to infinity and beyond.

And the strategy seemed to work. By evening, only a half dozen flies could be seen. This morning, they'd declined to one or two.

All the fun of a trip to the garbage dump, but without the garbage, the stench or the price of admission.

An Unexpected Visit from Mom

Mom stopped by the other night.

Josy and I were in a house somewhere along the west side of Hood Canal, packing our things. We were about to move. We were either relocating or just gathering everything up after a long weekend.

For some reason, I needed to go to go uphill through the town. To get something out of the car or pick up something at the store. Josy continued putting things in our bags while I headed out.

The small town was laid out not unlike the hillside smattering of homes, hotels and roads near the ferry landing on Orcas Island. Our house was at the bottom of the hill, near the water.

I walked outside and up the steep roadway. Not far ahead in the distance, just beyond the shops and cafes that lined the street, and a forested hillside immediately beyond, the Olympic Mountains rose high in the air. This was one of those quaint towns that had both sea-level waterfront and a mountain range in its backyard.

The weather was great. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm. One of those picture-perfect Pacific Northwest days that Seattlites long for during those long, grey, wet winter days and relish with zeal in the summertime.

As I passed by an outdoor café with umbrellas shading small round tables with bar stools, I saw Mom and Dad. They had decided to surprise us. Our eyes met and they both had big smiles on their faces.

I walked up to greet them, a feeling of happiness rising up at the unexpected visit. We shared the moment with big grins all around.

A second passed and I realized this must be a dream. After all, Mom had died just over a year ago.

She looked fantastic. Like she did the year before she got sick. I told her so and she just smiled.

I looked at Dad and he was smiling too. As I turned my eyes back to Mom, she was no longer there.

I glanced back at Dad. Instantly, we both knew that Mom wasn’t here and yet had been here.

The main feeling at this moment was not one of sadness. Instead, there was an overriding sense of warmth tinged with a hint of longing.

It was so nice to see her.

Not long after moving to The Netherlands, I’d get the impulse every now and then to give Mom a call. As if time had gone by and somehow I’d forgotten to pick up the phone and check in with her.

This cognitive dissonance always surprised me. The sense, all at the same time, that I needed to give her a call and yet I knew she’d been dead nearly a year.

For months, the urge to call her would hit me. Not unlike other times when I’d lived overseas and would make the trans-Atlantic update every week or so.

And the realization she was dead would always follow, by roughly a second, the desire to call. There would be this fleeting moment in which I missed her, was looking forward to catching up and didn’t yet know she wasn’t there anymore.

While reality would hit me with sadness, the brief surreality in which Mom was still alive would leave a lingering aftertaste of happiness.

I would come to treasure these moments, despite their reminders of grief.

Nowadays, about five months after the anniversary of her death, those moments happen less and less often.

But her surprise appearance the other night reminded me how much I loved her. And how much I love her still.

What’s in a Game

When our friend Leslie visited back in the fall, she introduced Ben and Sophie to the wonders of the “I Spy…” game. Ben’s figured it out. Sophie’s invented her own unique variation.

The latest edition of “I Spy…” unfolded at dinner the other night while Josy was working late at the office. It began the way the game is supposed to be played:

Ben: “I spy…with my little eye…something blue.” His eyes fix on the ball outside on the patio. I pretend not to notice.

Sophie: “Is it…the plate?”

Ben: “No.”

Matt: “Is it the chair?”

Ben: “No.”

Sophie: Looking outside, “Is it the ball?”

Ben: “Yeah, that’s it!”

And so the game goes. The person who starts picks an object in the room, tells the color of it, and then the others have to guess which object it is.

But Sophie has her own way of playing…

Sophie: Her eyes wandering around the room, “I spy…with my little eye…something purple.” Her eyes continue to wander.

Ben: “Is it…the balloon?”

Sophie: Mulling it over, eyes scanning the kitchen and moving toward the living room…”No...”

Matt: “Is it your stockings?”

Sophie: Looking around the dining room, “…No…It’s round and there are animals in it and it’s got triangles…”

Ben: “Is it the bowl?”

Sophie: Still looking…“No.”

Ben: Pointing to the bookshelf, “Is it the book up there?” There’s nothing on the shelf that’s round, has animals or has triangles.

Sophie: Turning around to see the bookshelf for the first time, “Yeah, that’s it!”

Ben: Starting to get bored, “Let’s play Simon Says!” We had just introduced them to Simon Says a few days earlier.

Sophie: “Yeah!”

Ben: In a clearly older sibling, I’m-in-charge way, “Okay, I’ll start.”

“Simon says…Touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon says…touch your ears.” Everyone touches their ears.

“Simon didn’t say touch your ears!” says Ben.

Matt: “Yes he did, Ben.”

Ben: “No, he didn’t.”

Matt: “Yes he did.”

Ben: “NO! He didn’t!”

Matt: “Ben, here, I’ll show you how it goes…”

Sophie: “It’s my turn! My turn!”

Matt: “Okay…”

Sophie: “Simon says…touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon didn’t say touch your nose.”

Matt: “Yes, he did Sophie. You just said, ‘Simon says touch your nose.’” I demonstrate the game a few times, taking pains to obviously show when Simon says and when Simon doesn’t say. “The trick,” I tell them, “is when you tell people to do something but don’t say ‘Simon says’ first. You want to trick them.”

Ben: Triumphantly, “Okay, my turn! Simon says…touch your arm.” Everyone touches their arm.

“Simon didn’t say touch your arm.”

Sophie: “I want to play the ‘I spy…’ game.”

Something tells me it’s too soon for Monopoly or chess…

Late Winter's Weekend in Berlin

While I was away on a business trip, Josy and the kids hopped a train for a long weekend with her brother Marnix, his wife Lucy and daughters Helene and Lizzie. Much fun was had by all, as this short photo-movie will attest.

The Pied Pooper of Hamelin

Had a relaxing long weekend getaway with Josy's brother and his family the other day. After a bit of Internet sleuthing to find a location in between Amsterdam and their home in Berlin, we settled on a ferienwohnung ("fairy-en-voh-noong" or vacation rental house) in northwest Germany. In a little town called Molbergen.

Rolled in after dark on a Friday evening. Passed through a picture-perfect, quaint German village just before reaching our destination. The one stoplight in town brought momentary confusion, as each part of the intersection had its own stop sign as well. Does one stop no matter what? Or just go with what the light says? If the latter, then why the need for stop signs? We cautiously approached the intersection, noticed that other cars just obeyed the light, and did the same.

Not far from Molbergen is the town of Hamelin, the setting for the Grimm's fairy tale about the Pied Piper. No rodents spotted en route. Perhaps no surprise, since the Pied Piper had lured all the rats away and supposedly drowned them in a river. Or had he merely escorted them beyond city limits, to the chagrin of nearby villages that became new homes for the vermin? Unsuspecting hamlets like, oh I dunno...Molbergen?

The vacation house was part of a larger complex of several dozen houses in a semi-enclosed park-like area, complete with restaurant, gift shop and swimming pool. Neatly-kept grounds and a large playground signaled that this place might not be too bad.

Lovely setting.

But then we opened the car doors and it hit us. The unmistakable, potent odor of cow manure. And not just a whiff. An overwhelming wall of stink. There must have been a large dairy farm nearby, or at least not far away upwind.

Made the industrial "Aroma of Tacoma" back home seem like a fresh ocean breeze by comparison.

Fortunately, between the super-insulated German construction of the vacation house and the rain that started that evening and lasted the weekend, we soon forgot the secret eau de cowlette that had greeted us so unceremoniously.

All in all, a great weekend. Kids had a blast together. Lots of time in the pool. And nice catching up with Josy's brother Marnix and his wife Lucy. (Photo-movie here.)

We made sure not to let the kids wander off with any strangers playing musical instruments.

And we never did see any rats. But that bovine odor was so powerful, its source must have been massive in scope. So perhaps it shouldn't be news to anyone that the area might have its share of rodents. What with all those tasty cow pies to choose from...