Displaced – Mass and Matter and Volume

January 5, 2022February 16, 2023Sarah Zipp 1 Comment

This post is a collection of writing that started with a prompt for the Isolation Journals, a writer’s group that I joined early in the first lockdown of 2020. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was already writing about my brain tumour. I’ve been jotting down/intermittently journaling my experience. Here are some of my reflections on this terrible, remarkable journey.

April 2020

Thin Places – A writing prompt for the Isolation Journals

“Often, “thin places” are literal places, geographical locations that feel holy or otherworldly, but you could also imagine these kinds of thresholds popping up anywhere: in a hospital room, in a bar, in your apartment, in your relationship, in you.

The title of my book, Thin Places, comes from a notion in Celtic mythology that the distance between our world and the next is never more than three feet (i.e. just a little more than an arm’s reach away). There are “thin places” where that distance shrinks and then vanishes, where you can glimpse some other world or way of being for a brief moment. Often, “thin places” are literal places, geographical locations that feel holy or otherworldly, but you could also imagine these kinds of thresholds popping up anywhere: in a hospital room, in a bar, in your apartment, in your relationship, in you. A thin place may also be a moment, a time when you were briefly suspended between a world/life that you knew and something totally new, different, awesome, frightening.”

– Jordan Kisner

May 2020

Displaced

– Sarah Zipp

When I was a kid, one of my chores was to back the car out of the garage in the morning (80s kid). Afterward, I would stand in the garage and think about how I was in the space where the car just was, but now it was empty and I stood here unharmed. I thought of my body tangled up in the metal of the car. It felt weird and uncomfortable in my gut. I thought of a science project measuring displaced water. Mass and matter and volume. Maybe that was a Thin Place.

On the bubble. Displaced. Thin Place. It happens mostly when I’m alone in nature. The wave of heat crashes across my face, settling across my temples and floating like sea foam, leaving a knot in my gut. Somehow I know this exact place but in a different way. Déjà vu? I feel wobbly and weak. Panic? I feel the presence of someone else, or is it a different me? Like I’m in a dream, trying to figure out if all of the characters are actually me.

These days, I think a lot about boundaries and borders, thin lines on a map. Six years ago we took a blind leap and moved our family of four humans (+ cat and dog) abroad. The Netherlands is called the low country for a reason, much of it is below sea level and land was reclaimed from the sea. Sandbags and canals created new land to live on. It literally is a Thin Place. How can people reclaim land from the sea? Who’s land is this to claim? Clearly not ours.

(Insert pic of moving bags at airport)

It was in the Netherlands that I first remembered that feeling in my garage. I wondered what it meant that my kids were growing up without a garage, or a car, or a house, or grandparents around. We were on our bikes, riding in the countryside. I felt the now familiar wave of heat crash down across my head and body. I saw us from above, through a child’s eyes. These tires are too thin to support a family. The wind was blowing us around. It was spring and the tulip fields were waving at us. Or were they shaking their heads, “nee?” My hands were cold but my head felt hot. My husband looked at me. We started signing “Journey” songs into the wind.

*Biking to school in Amsterdam* *(2016-ish)*

Time is also a funny Thin Space. Your morning is my evening. I can have FaceTime morning coffee with mom in Texas after lunch. Sometimes it feels like a do-over for the day. Other times, it makes me feel out of sync or like I’m missing something. On an autumn night in 2016, I went to bed hopeful and light. But when I woke up, America had chosen a conman. How did I sleep through this disruption in the universe? I cried on the couch with my daughter. Was this a Thick Place? I felt disconnected and distant from so much that I knew and loved. Or was it a Thin Place because two vastly different worlds were separated by so little. I felt more panic, like a door was closing on us. I held on to my daughter.

We opened a different door, to firmer ground in Scotland. This land is relentlessly beautiful. Here, more than anywhere before, I find myself in Thin Places. Is it the Celts or fairies or selkies? Is age 40 a magic age for opening portals to different realms? Have I watched too much Outlander? Is this a mid-life crisis?

*Clan Zipp of Stirlingshire, in the Scottish highlands near Creiff. (2017)*

I feel suspended in time and place. The past hangs heavy in the air here, but I’m as likely to encounter a Thin Place on a freshly gravelled path as sitting on a 500-year-old crumbling rock wall. Unsettling and growing more intense. A glimpse of other lives that could have been or still may be. It’s difficult to tell which is which and if I am the fool or the hero of these stories. Slowly, I am learning to ride this wave. But it’s still hard with so many feelings weighing me down. I am displaced and displacing, all at once. Mass and matter and volume.

October 2021

I don’t know why, but this prompt came up in my FB memories just now, even though it was not posted on this date. Maybe I do know why it found me again. Because time is passing and trying to tell me something, again. I completely forgot that I wrote about this. A lot has happened.

That feeling? The deja vu… I know now that those were aura seizures caused by a brain tumor that was growing on my right temple. It was pushing the button on my temporal lobe that controls memory (and eventually smell). I thought I was passing through realms, but it seems now it was all very technical and functional. I guess I was the fool, thinking I was touching some time-space void.

It was just mass and matter and volume. A glob of cells pushing up against my brain and bumping into things. Displacing things. Disrupting me and disturbing me. Displacing my whole life. A relatively tiny little thing causing so much trouble. A thin difference between normal life and whatever this new version of life is.

*My head, with a big ol’ tumor. This was at the neurosurgeon’s office when we first saw it, January 2021.*

I can’t stop thinking about this passage and who I was before I knew I was a person with a brain tumour. I was a healthy person, an athlete, a “young” mom. A Strong Woman. It was a benign meningioma and removed, with minimal complication on February 19th, 2021. Alone in a hospital bed during the Covid second wave. They tell me I’ll recover “fully” but I know I’ll never be the same person who wrote that Thin Places story.

That’s ok. I’ve shed dozens of versions of myself over the past (nearly) 42 years. But this time it’s different. This is a before and after that I’ve never known. And it’s all wrapped up in time and futures and pasts that I can’t untangle.

I’m a teacher. Last fall, before I knew about the clementine sized tumour, I recorded video lectures for my students (university). This fall, as I returned from 6 months of medical leave, I started watching these videos again to prepare my classes. Rage. Sadness. Disgust. How could I sit there in those videos – blah blah blahing on, all while this horrible thing was happening? I screamed. My world was about to come crumbling down and I was sitting there nit-picking about word counts on an assignment. Stop wasting time on trifling shit!

I’ve tried to sort through why I was so mad and saddened by the sight of pre-catastophe me. I think it’s this- How will I ever know that I’m not that fool again? How will I trust my body, this world, not to fall to shit? I felt betrayed.

A friend who also survived a meningioma brain tumour told me: That you, on the screen. That’s the person who was strong enough to get you through this. She’s right. And I’ll be the me who is strong enough to get through the next round of awfulness that comes my way. But will I be wise enough to stop worrying about small shit in the meantime? That’s unclear.

People have always considered me strong. Strong-willed and physically strong. Being “mentally tough” is a badge of honor for us Schmidtheads (my birth name is Sarah Schmidt).

January 2022

Over the past few months, I’ve been (somewhat) quietly marking the milestones from last year. It was October when Aaron (my husband) heard a story on the radio about a woman who was having the exact same symptoms as me – waves of déjà vu and an intense metallic smell. She was having aura seizures from a brain tumour. We took this information to my doctor, who I had been telling for nearly 2 years that something was wrong. She tried to help – trying anti-anxiety medication and other remedies to sooth my obviously stressed-out academic mind. Hearing this new input, she referred me to a neurologist. It all unfolded quickly from there. An abrupt, jarring turn in our lives. All set on the backdrop of a global pandemic and our own family financial crisis as Aaron’s tourism buisness was crushed by lockdowns. A crisis within a crisis within a crisis – a Turducken of Crises.

December 16^th 2020

Neurologist confirms I am having (textbook) aura seizures. He schedules an MRI for after the holidays. I now “have” a neurologist. He asks me to surrender my driver’s license to the DVLA (the DMV of the UK). I’m not allowed to drive until we can resolve the seizures. Over a year later, my seizures are long gone, but I’m still not allowed to drive.

January 4^th 2021

I go for an MRI at the hospital. According to Covid protocols, Aaron can’t come in. He drops me at the front door and I scurry through the freezing rain to the covered entrance. A porter is there to guide me to the correct ward, avoiding the Covid zone. Aaron waits outside in the car on this cold grey day. While I’m in, the sun sets (mid-afternoon).

I’m not claustrophobic and have had an MRI before, so I’m not too bothered. They ask if I want to take my mask off. I say no. They put the big helmet box thing over my head and I go “tubing” for the first time on this journey. (I’ve learned from brain tumour groups that we call getting an MRI “tubing”). After 15 minutes or so, they pull me out to inject the dye in my arm. I hear one of them say “we saw something.” Wait, what? I ask what they saw. “It’s ok,” the nurse says. “We just need to get a clearer image with the dye.” I freeze. They are ready to put me back in. I don’t take my mask off. They put the helmet on. But now I’m crying and it’s gross and hot in these layers of containers on my head. They ask me if I’m ok. “Do you need a break?” I say “no.” I get on with it. I’m good at getting on with it.

Outside, Aaron is waiting in the car near the entrance. I make the decision not to say anything about what happened. It’s raining hard and the roads are dodgy. I am afraid the uncertain, scary news will make him a less safe driver. I bite my tongue and put on some Taylor Swift. I tell him when we get home so we can freak out in safety. We decided not to look up stuff on WebMD.

January 5^th 2021

Aaron and I take the dog out for a walk in a nearby park. It’s not raining today and the sun is even shining a bit. Normally, this is cause for celebration in the dreary Scottish winter. But we are still unnerved by the events yesterday.

My phone rings and it’s the neurologist. He calls to say he wanted to reach me right away, as he knew I’d be worried. I have a mass attached to the lining of my brain. It’s called a meningioma. It’s a clear explanation of the seizures. This is good news – because often seizures are caused by complicated, difficult to resolve problems. I will be referred to a neurosurgeon to see about having it removed. It’s in a very accessible position, just over my right temporal lobe. He doesn’t use the word “tumour.”

At first, I feel relieved. He sounded very positive. I try to explain it to Aaron, but I don’t really understand it myself. My mom calls and I cheerfully tell her something about it and tell her I’ll call back later. We walk home and look up “meningioma” online. That’s when we figured it out – I have a brain tumour. Holy shit!

January 6th 2021

A violent mob attacks the US capitol building in an attempt to upend democracy as we know it. I watch in shock. My daughter calls it “the stupid Hunger Games.” I am confused about what the hell is going on inside my head and everywhere else.

Less than two months later, I’ll be in the hospital undergoing major brain surgery.

January 11th – 14th 2021

I somehow pulled myself together enough to record a series of video lectures for my online undergraduate class to students in Singapore, Managing the Business of Sport. I wouldn’t teach that class, but I didn’t want to dump it all on the colleague who would take over. I cared about the students and the colleague, but it stressed me out to do it. I was so disappointed I couldn’t go to Singapore due to Covid, two years in a row teaching it online. After I finish the videos and post them to our online course system, I go on medical leave. I was away from work for 6 months.

Watching it one year later, as I prepare to teach that class again, I can’t believe how composed I looked. Nice sweaters, hair neatly straightened and my world map backdrop. I was even passionate about diversified revenue streams and strategic management planning. I recall taking care to make it all look normal. Maybe I just needed to feel normal. I am a Very Strong Woman.

At this point, I start experiencing moments of rage. Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I catch a break? (Although I realize I am a very fortunate/blessed person overall, there have been a series of massive challenges/heartbreaks these past few years). I am due a break. A chance to rest, recover. A chance for peace and calm. But now this. I envision standing in an old, dusty kitchen. It looks like it’s from the 70s. I have a sledgehammer. I go nuts on the kitchen, busting up cabinets and countertops with all my might. I wish I had a demo project. These visions will continue post-op, for probably about another 6 months.

Early February 2021

I am assigned a neurosurgeon and we go to Edinburgh to meet him. On the way from our house, we pass by an iconic Scottish landmark, the Kelpies. The Kelpies are giant metal sculptures of two horses, just their heads. One is looking up at the sky and the other has his head down, facing the motorway that passes by. They are 100 feet tall. As we pass by, Aaron says, in a Beavis and Butthead type voice, “hey Sarah. Don’t worry, everything is gonna be ok.” Then in a slightly different, but equally as goofy voice, he says “yeah, Sarah. It’s gonna be fine.!” And from that moment onward, these stoner-dude Kelpies have always wished me well as I pass by. Aaron drives me to dozens of check-ups and check-ins to the hospital. He makes sure that the Kelpie bros always take the time to chat. It lifts my spirits, every damn, stupid time.

*The Keplies, near Falkirk (Scotland), wishing passers-by good tidings, bruh.*

There are a million zillion other ways Aaron made things just a little bit better, easier, less stressful. He took on all the housekeeping, kid-admin, cooking and became the only car driver in the family (for 14 months) And another million ways he took on the hardest tasks, without complaint, to shield me from any unecessary burdens. I knew he was struggling, that he was keeping his emotional needs in check because I was the priority. Corny as it is, I do believe we are stronger for having endured this together. I felt loved and cared for at every step of the way thanks to him.

We meet my surgeon, the guy who will crack open my skull, Mr Kaliaperumal. He’s from India. Not gonna lie, I like this fact. Seems somehow more comforting that some guy named Fergus or Angus or Steve. But I am unnerved that he is not called “Dr.” It turns out, in the UK, that specialists as high ranking as he go by Mr. He is a doctor, a very good one. He is calm and collected, comforting and funny. He shows us the scan and we get to see the tumor for the first time. He is confident I will do well, I am young and healthy. There is a chance for stroke or seizure, and he has to explain what that would look like . There are a lot of things that can go terribly wrong in brain surgery, that was no surprise. Hearing them all laid out is upsetting, to say the least. It’s all a bit hazy for me. I can feel the walls closing in and can feel my pulse quickening. My eyes get blurry and for a second I think I’m going to pass out, but it was just the tears welling up. Aaron gently massaged the small of my back. We schedule the surgery for February 19th, less than two weeks away. I start calling the tumor Clem, because he’s the size of a clementine. We hate Clem.

At this point, I’ve told my parents and siblings, but no one else. We decide to tell the kids, but keep it very very very positive. They are worried, but ok. They seem to quickly forget and move on with their own dramas. It’s lockdown Part II, so we are schooling from home again. We go out sledding with with the kids and some friends. I feel some weird light-headedness and go home. I’m not sure if the light-headedness is from the tumor or if I’m now imagining symptoms. I begin telling a few close friends what is going on. Friends from high school, college, aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends. They are all awesome and supportive, some of them started a small fundraiser to deliver food and gift cards for when I’m in the hospital. Paws up, Wildcats. And it’s a great day to be a General, Gennies. Friends send me cool Dolly Parton mugs and t-shirts, another friend sends a funky Turducken mug in honor of my crises. One of my talented nerd friends from high school made this cool image.

[Insert Anthony’s Clem Star Wars battle]

With the surgery scheduled, I start to feel the preciousness of time. Knowing I’ll be laid up after the operation, I focus on getting as many walks in as posible. I meander the hills and along the river with my dog. Aaron joins us as often as possible. February is probably the dreariest of months in Scotland. We put on boots and hats. We walk and walk and walk. Walking will be my saving grace through all of this.

*Aaron and Sadie on one of our gorgeous but dreary winter walks in the woods, (pre-op) February 2021.*

My mom is planning to come over from Austin to watch the kids while I am in the hospital and recovering at home. She is vaccinated and trying to sort through all of the paperwork to travel. It’s getting crazy, with a second wave peaking and travel rules ever-changing. Then a massive blizzard hits Texas, knocking out power for millions of people and making international headlines. This is the storm when Ted Cruz went to Cancun. Yeah, that storm.

Her flight is delayed, She can’t get new Covid tests scheduled for a new flight. She won’t be here in time for the surgery. The Scottish First Minister announces mandatory hotel quarantine for all foreign travelers. It’s all gone off the rails. In the weeks before the surgery, we are occupied with travel plans and Covid rules as much as the impending surgery. We take down my camper office and set it up for mom’s 10 day quarantine out here, parked in our side driveway.

These distractions might be a blessing in disguise, but looking back it makes me mad. That was my time for calm and comfort and attention. It was stolen, like so much else when you have an emergency in the midst of a global pandemic.

Our dear American expat friend, Wendy, steps up and takes over. She tells me not to worry about all the stuff at home – she’s got it. She will take care of the kids and pets. She gets Aaron a place to stay near the hospital in Edinburgh (with help from our fellow VCU Ram alums) and she will make sure my mom is cared for during her quarantine in our camper. Wendy gets shit done, so I know it’s true. I really don’t have to worry.

She goes shopping with another expat (Cindy) to Costco and they buy me cozy pajamas with button-down tops, so I don’t have to pull them over my cracked up head. Costco is an oasis for our unruly posse of Americans here. It’s an Embassy, but for retail. We could go there and “tailgate” with hot dogs and sodas with free refills from the cafe. I wish I could go with them. They send me silly pics of their trip and pick out 3 pajamas, one of them is leopard print. I’m gonna be best-dressed on the ward.

February 18th 2021

Aaron and I pack up to head to Edinburgh. We are staying the night in the rented house near the hospital (thanks again, Wendy). I have to check in at 7am tomorrow. Before we go, I tidy up the kitchen and scrub the toilet. I’m still mad about that last one. We say goodbye to the kids and head out. I hug them harder and longer than normal, but manage not to cry. I don’t want to freak them out. As soon as we leave, Wendy gets them junk food and they watch trash tv. Good call, Wendy.

*Portobello Beach (Edinburgh) in the winter.*

In Edinburgh, we get take-out burgers and eat them on Portobello beach. It’s cold and windy. I am waiting for this to feel like something supernatural, but it’s ordinary and frustrating. The 5 Guys burger was really good though. We head back to the house and try to decide what to do. Obviously, we were both nervous. We were also tired and longing for distraction. We never said it out loud, but I think we were both trying to avoid thinking that this might be my last night on Earth. So we got cozy and watched a movie, my pick. I laid across the couch, my head on a pillow resting on Aaron’s lap. We watched Across the Universe and he pet my head, across the right temple that was going to be split open tomorrow morning. I envisioned that his hands were pulling away the tumor from the lining of my brain, loosening it up so it would be easier for the surgeons to remove it. I tried not to think about the consequences of their pulling and tugging at the lining of my brain, close to a major artery. The music from the movie washed over us and we both tried to feel at ease and filled with love, if also fear.

February 19th 2021 – Surgery day

It was a Friday morning. Is Friday the best day for brain surgery? We are at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. I wonder if Ewan McGregor has ever been here.

*The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh – site of skull cracking fun!*

Aaron was allowed to come with me to check in. We wait in a small, plain room. I change into a gown. A male nurse, with a bald head and tatoos down his arm, comes in to take some bloods, set some IV lines, etc. The poking and prodding begins. We are nervous. Again, I keep waiting for this to feel extraordinary but it keeps failing to rise above functionality. Another nurse comes in to do more needle stuff. “Sharp scratch,” they all say as they stab me with thick needles. My friend back in the US, Jenni, was a nurse who helped with these surgeries before. She told me if I was nervous to just pretend she was there and ask the nurse if I could call her Jenni. I told this new nurse. She said, sure, call me Jenni. The bald, tattoo guy piped in, “you can call me Jenni too. Whatever you need.”

I start crying and hold on to Aaron. I’m not ready to go yet. I think about how the Dutch prefer to say “Ik hou van je” over saying “I love you.” The literal translation is “I hold on to you.” Sometimes the Dutch do get it right. We held on to each other for a long while.

Mr Kaliaperumal walks by, cool as a cucumber. “There’s no need for crying. It’s gonna be fine,” he announces. He tells me how he just did this same surgery successfully yesterday, on a 70-year old woman. She is up and walking around. His confidence is catching, I feel better by the measure of one molecule.

Aaron and I hug goodbye and I go with girl nurse “Jenni” to another room. After a last bathroom stop, I was terrified I would pee during surgery or something, I lay down on a gurney. They ask if I want the relaxing drugs that will help while they do all the rest of the probing and prodding. Jenni (the real one) had advised me to “take everything they offer. There is no trophy for bravery here.” I take everything they offer. I quickly drift off, I think mid-sentence. Lights out until after surgery. I learned later that Aaron sat in the first room for awhile, finally allowing himself to cry. He went back to the rented house and rowed on a rowing machine for the entire duration of my 3 hour surgery, crying and rowing the worry away.

In the weeks before sugery, Aaron and I had made a plan for when I woke up after the surgery. He wanted to know if I was really ok, as in, I wasn’t some new person with a different personality. Brain surgeries can wreak havoc on personalities and memory. So he could know I was ok, I was to tell the doctor to tell my husband the surgery was a “great success.” If possible, I was to say this in a Borat voice. We always say “great success” in Borat voice over stupid, minor accomplishments. (Note – I actually like impressions of Borat more than I like Borat himself. Impressions of Borat, especially by Aaron Zipp, are the BEST).

I vaguely remember waking up to a doctor I didn’t know. I recall trying to tell him to tell my husband it was a “great success.” This memory is extremely blurry. I seriously doubt I communicated my point very effectively and I don’t think he relayed that message well. But they did tell Aaron it went well, and he notified my family. It was, indeed a Great Succes. No complicaitons, e.g. no seizures, no stroke. When I was finally able to call Aaron, I managed to weakly say “great success.,” in a feeble Borat-ish voice.

February 19th – 25th – In the hospital

The day after . . .

…in progress…stay tuned!

Notes for future writing: The shared room, piercing/stabbing lights, black and blue eye, jaw doesn’t work/can’t chew, shared bathroom, old man mumbling, audiobooks are my co-pilot, why did I bring real books?, Today I am a “Small Blue Thing” by Suzanne Vega, why are all the nurses named Jemma?, why are they serving bed-bound people caffeine?, becoming a perppermint tea dealer on the ward, best dressed on the ward, nap frenzy, Star Trek forehead, catheter fears and still can’t poo, loose wheelchair wheels sliding across the shower room. Aaron can’t come in, this sucks. Aaron snuck in, but got kicked out. Wandering the ward. Restless, but not bored. Too tired. Alone alone alone. Lilies. I walked up stairs. Get discharged, to the emergency room to get my pain dismissed, someone believes me, get re-admitted to hospital, get drained, get back out.

Out of the hospital: How does one go from a life defined by being the strong one to feeling made of glass? Brains and brawn are gone? I fell over/passed out picking up the dog. More Small Blue Thing. “You’ve become too precious” -Mr K. Bandage is off, my hair looks like the guy from the Cure. Mom/Nana’s home cooking is the medicine I need. Dog is my Co-Pilot, how walking my dog became the best therapy and only thing I had to do all day. Oops, I walked to far again (w/ Colin). The kids are alright. Wendy fed them trash food and tv, she’s awesome. Intrusive thoughts or insane in the membrane? This is PTSD Back to the “crying tree.” What happens when you look normal, recovered, but feel broken? Haircuts and headbands. Something’s wrong with my eye but nobody believes me. Does this headwound make my ass look big? Return to working out, cycling. Oops I worked out to hard and now have “old lady” knee. Back to work and pushing against the tide of “normalcy.” Do I miss being helpless?

Should we move back to America? Yes, I guess so. I think it’s better here, but nobody knows what happened and how/should I tell people?

Zipps invade Scotland by sea

March 4, 2019April 27, 2021Sarah Zipp Leave a comment

Author’s note: This post was written in the summer of 2017. It’s taken me nearly three years to grow the courage to post it publicly. Time heals all wounds! I hope you enjoy.

Did you know – moving a family of four and two pets to a foreign country is hard. In fact, it’s a giant logistical nightmare. I did. I learned that lesson, I learned it so hard 3 years ago moving to the Netherlands and muddling through immigration paperwork and not having a bank account because we don’t have a BSN yet (it’s like a social security number) and we can’t paid and we can’t get a BSN….and so on and on and on. It’s a doom loop. It’s a doom loop in Dutch. But moving abroad has become like childbirth to me, after a couple of years I forget the pain and do it again. And there’s a lot of crying. And nobody sleeps.

But this time it would be in English, and therefore much easier, right? We’re only moving about an hour’s flight away, how bad can it be? Besides, we’re seasoned expats – wiser and more experienced now. Step 1: book flights. Several times a day flights buzz between Holland and Scotland. They’re cheap and plentiful. No problem! Wait, what? We can’t fly the dog on EasyJet or any of the quick jumpers into the UK. Hmmmm. Look, a fairy! I mean, look – a ferry! They have a kennel. Perfect for a multi-species move. Yes yes yes! Let’s move by ferry. How cool and adventurous. It’d be uber Zipp-like to move to a foreign country by ferry. We shall invade Scotland by sea! Neat-o.

Our previous experience with boats in Amsterdam gave us undue confidence. What could possibly go wrong?

So, we just book the tickets, 2 cabins for us + my mom (who so graciously/foolishly agreed to come visit/help us not commit acts of homicide while we pack and move). Check. Next we book the dog into the pet hotel. Check. Great. Now just notify them we are bringing Kitty as a carry-on (like we did on the plane when we moved to A’dam). Wait, huh? Why is it not allowing us to add the cat. Try it again. What if we depart from Rotterdam? Ugh. Call them. Sprek je Engels? Huh? We can’t have the cat on board without a car? But we don’t want to keep the car. We want to sell it so we can buy a UK car with a right-side-of-the-car-steering-wheel when we get there. It’s going to be difficult enough unlearning how to drive American-like in the UK. Oh, shut the front door! Are we really going to keep an ailing French mini-van with a passenger-side window that won’t roll down and a steering wheel on the wrong side of the car for a 5lb cat? Yes. Yes, that is exactly what we are going to do. Because life. Because family expatting is a series of maddening choices and ridiculous adaptations. It’s a relentless state of absurdity. Because that’s how Zipps do. No creature left behind. Check.

Ok, transport of humans and pets secured. Now what about our stuff? Step 2: pack up and go. This time around, in the most adulting moment of my life thus far, we hired actual professional movers to pack up our shit. Why not? My employer is paying relocation expenses. Well done, Dr. Fancy Pants. I thought we were well organised. We laughed at how much we’d accumulated in 3 years. Wasn’t it just yesterday we packed ALL of our belongings into 9 Army duffle bags and boarded the plane to Amsterdam? Yeah, we moved our entire family across the Atlantic packed into 9 bags. Nothing more. And one half of those bags was my Ph.D. fieldwork papers. (Fun tip – we precisely weighed each bag by using the scale at the vet’s office where we went approximately 743 times trying to get the appropriate Pet Passport for the dog). Now, the movers handed me the inventory list – 100 boxes. 100 boxes? WTH? No matter, it was all out of sight, out of mind for now. See you on the flipside, boxes of crap. We’re down to the bare minimum. T-minus 9 days to departure. Just a few more issues to tidy up, then it’s time to kick back, relax and enjoy our final week in the lovely city of Amsterdam (stay tuned for a post, eventually to be written, on my deep, warm and conflicted feelings about life in the ‘dam and saying goodbye to my favourite city in the world).

So, we calmly went about packing up our Dutch lives. Er, rather, we scrambled every last minute, failing to find more than a few fleeting moments of peace in our last days there. We sold stuff on a thousand different marketplaces. We patched holes and fretted over which dishes were ours and which came with the apartment, etc. because our skeevy landlord will try to cheat us (separating expats from their security deposits is a hobby of Dutch landlords). I remember the feeling 3 years ago, whilst scrambling to pack up our American lives. Just get to the airport. Once we get checked in at the airport, we can relax. Breath. Panic. Breath. Repeat.

Delierious with joy over our good choices, smart planning and simple lifestyle. Also pictured: cat that almost ruined everything, twice.

We tried, desperately, to capture the final bike rides and boat rides on camera. Fleeting moments of exquisite presence. We tried to celebrate, laugh, hug, cry and properly say goodbye to our family of expats. We tried to make space for our girls to spend those final, fleeting days with their buddies. Good god, we have been through some shit with these people over the past 3 years. Expat friendships, for big and little ones, are bonded in a crucible. Never forget this place. This stuff has been magical. Breath. Have presence. Enjoy? Pack, organise, DO SOMETHING. Did you cancel the internet service? Pay the parking ticket? How do we forward the mail? Notify the Belastingdienst? Sprek je Engels?

And that’s when we noticed the cat was missing. Yes, the cat. The cat that caused us to keep the car. The car that caused us to pay a shit ton more for the ferry. The ferry that will take us to Scotland. The Scotland that will distill the whisky. The whisky that will taste so good when we drink it. But I digress . . . the next few hours were a furious chaos of packing and loading and searching for the fecking cat. The children are weeping for the cat. My mom is organizing a search party while I cooly ignore this tangent of madness, because I am confident the cat is simply hiding. “The cat is missing, mom. Start acting like it!” my sweet youngest daughter screams at me and slams the door. I ignore her and discreetly throw out bags of forgotten little toy scraps that no one will remember so long as they aren’t seen during the throwing out process. Hours later, the cat is found hiding under a bed. I smugly chastise my panicked family. They fail to thank me for my calm resolve.

In spite all of our diligent #adulting, expensive movers and good intentions, here we are, literally running from the apartment with armloads of shit dumped out from random drawers whilst the landlord arrived from the other side of the building for our final check out.

It was like a scene from a Benny Hill movie, I’m sure. Cut to scene – exterior of building, black and white at 1.5 speed: Zipp parents frantically scrambling and stumbling out the front door, arms laden with useless plastic items, while the Landlord calmly strolls in the back door, clipboard and magnifying glass in hand. Cut to shot of kids, pets and granny in the car screaming, crying and flailing wildly. Cut to Aaron opening driver door, pointing forward confidently and saying: Onward march – take to the seas! (in the captions). Can you hear the music?

People overuse the term, “stuffed in like a can of sardines.” This is not one of those times. We stuffed said crap into every nook and cranny of our van. So, there we were; 4 Zipps, my mom, our old dog with bad gas and a cat. Everyone but the driver had items crammed under and around her feet as well as on her lap/between her body and the door or other passenger. I am not exaggerating. It felt difficult to breath in there. When we finally pulled up to the ferry door, I yelled at my children – “act natural, pretend like you have plenty of room! And for God’s sake, don’t mention the head lice!” I thought we might be over the weight limit or something. I knew we were technically one centimeter over the height limit, although I was sure the massive weight load was compressing us down at least that much.

We love our pets, Nana is losing her mind!

Jonah (the dog) smells funny

Pipsqueak the Mighty

Maybe if the kids just smile at the check in guy they’ll let us go without any questions. I really don’t know, the whole thing was so sketchy because we weren’t sure if our car was too tall with the roof carrier on top and we were still recovering from some confusion regarding the pets on board (Fun Fact – Our 70lb geriatric labrador was perched up on a stack of luggage in the back of the van so high he could not get out on his own accord. So while we were waiting in line for the ferry (for hours) I had to unload and load him in “gently” whilst containing the stack of threatening-to-spill-out luggage with one knee. It was a long line. He had to get checked in too. My “gentle” level decreased with each outing). For once the gods smiled upon us and no one asked questions. We rolled in and were literally the last car on our platform. After a brief game of where-the-hell-is-the-cat-that-required-us-to-bring-a-wrong-side-of-the-road-driving-car-to-the-UK?, we deboarded the van and checked into our cabins.

My mom has never in 12 years of grandmothering ever chosen to not spend more time with her grandkids. But that night, with her head bent in (what I think was a bit of shame or guilt) she asked if she could have the key to a cabin and stay alone. Without her grandbabies. Yes mom, save yourself. We broke the Na-na. My mom has never before or since rejected a moment’s time with her dear little grandchildren. I rejected the urge to jump overboard.

Ferry of Doom or Ferry of Freedom?

But we made it. We were on the ferry. Breathe. Deep sigh of relief. Enjoy the ride. It was fun and adventurous to travel by ferry. I highly recommend it. 15+ hours later, with minimal sleep and a deep sense of relief mixed with sadness, we calmly exited the ferry. Just a wee three hour drive to our new home. Left, left, left. Remember to drive on the left, honey. We inched forward in an endless procession of vehicles exiting the ferry. Last in, last out.

That’s when Aaron turned to me, panicked face – “oh shit, we’re out of gas!” In the mayhem getting to the ferry, we forgot to fill up. OMG. We cannot run out of gas on a ferry or in the border patrol line. No exaggeration at all, we were on E. It gets worse. When we finally got off the ferry, there was a line of cars snaking its way to the border gate. We would never make it. This was a trail of tears, eeking forward a car’s length every 5 minutes. It was a minimum hour wait and we had a maximum 15 minutes of fuel.

One last time, I un-gently unpacked the dog from the back of the van to walk him. A border agent passed and I tearfully pleaded our case. “Well, we don’t need a broken down vehicle holding up this line.” He was so kind, really un-Dutch in his kindness and willingness to help. Within minutes, we were ushered around the line to front. We pulled up to the border entrance window. Wait, oops. The driver is on the wrong side. Ha ha ha! I was in the passenger seat. Let me just roll down the window to hand you the passports…oh, yeah. The window-roller-downer is broken. Ha ha ha. Aaron, if you just pull up a tad, I can open the door. Oops, sorry everyone in line behind us! Here ya go, border patrol lady. I stepped out and handed the agent our clutch of passports. “Your Visas haven’t yet been processed, so you’ll need to re-enter another time.” Wait, what now? We can’t come in? We chatted. We worked it out. Kindness and understanding from her and her colleagues that I cannot understate. Sorted, as the Scottish say. She let us through, although I’m not sure we entered 100% legally.

Bumbling and fumbling, we crossed the finish line to begin again. Stay left, keep the rubber side down and journey onward. Love, trust and (Gaelic) pixiedust.

Welcome to the United Kingdom. Mixed emotions.

Farewell to Amsterdam

March 4, 2019March 19, 2019Sarah Zipp 1 Comment

Daily school run in wind and rain.

It’s been three years since we moved to Amsterdam. Three years and a lot of trial and error. In these last weeks before we move to Scotland, my heart swells and breaks over our decision to leave. Nevermind all that for now. In this moment, I am Here. I effortlessly navigate my bike through busy streets filled with hundreds of other cyclists, trams, cars, and, worst of all, tourists. Newcomers to Amsterdam nervously and recklessly wander into oncoming traffic of all sorts. Not me, I’m a pro. I’m cruising, listening to my Amsterdam playlist in my earbuds and feeling superior as I watch people huddled around phones or city maps trying to figure out where the hell they are and how to get to the Anne Frank house. “Did you get lost in Aaaaamsterdam?” Yes, I did, Guster, but now I am found.

Boat birthday party – what could possibly go wrong?

I love this city. I love this city madly. You, dearest Amsterdam, are so misunderstood. You are not who they think you are.

You are for families riding bikes through Vondelpark, not drunken spring breakers stumbling to the next coffee shop. You are AH picnics on a bench overlooking a busy gracht and lazy evenings watching the weekend bustle from our perch atop the NEMO museum. Even when you are difficult, the challenge is interesting and worthwhile. You are the relentlessly tiresome bicycle commutes through wind and rain, arriving to work with the hair of Boober from Fraggle Rock and the odor of gym sock. You are awkwardly holding up the line at the Turkish grocer, trying to order a half kilo of chicken op Nederlands. Kip kip! You are weary-legged trips home from the grocery store, skillfully balancing a heap of weekday meals AND a case of Heineken in our bakfiets (cargo bike). You are my city. The only city I’ve ever really loved.

Captain of Her Own Ship – docking up the boat one last time at our favorite spot, de Roest.

I love this city for what it is, but I also love this city for who I am in it.

In Amsterdam, I know shit. I know how to get to shit and I know how to get shit done. I know which shit to avoid and which shit to pursue. It took a good long while and a lot of embarrassing mishaps to get to get here, but I did it. Expert Amsterdamer Level Unlocked. I am a capable city girl in this town. Not bad for a country bumpkin from Kansas. Knowing Amsterdam makes me feel like I can do (nearly) anything. This is what empowerment feels like. This is agency. The ability to understand shit and handle shit.

My senses are heightened these last weeks in my city. I want to feel these feelings, harness this high and store it away for safekeeping. I know I’ll need it in the future. I’ll need this confidence, this sense of self and place and efficacy. What lies ahead? What lies ahead is more. More trying and failing and trying again. Learning and adjusting. Go back to Start, do not pass Go, do not collect $100 or €100 or £100. Ah shit, more conversions. More of the same humbling expat efforts, but completely different. I’m excited for Scotland, thrilled, really. It’s a stunning place and I’m ready to hike green hills rather than push through street crowds. But the process is daunting.

I also want to enjoy the moment, for once. This is exactly where I want to be and exactly what I want to be doing. Breath it in, hold it, relish it. Such fleeting moments of presence and contentment are so elusive to me (and everyone?), but they’ve been plentiful lately. Driving our boat is bliss. Cruising the canals on a (rare) warm and sunny summer evening, unintimidated by the pushy tourist boat bullies, cold Amstel in hand. Or, listening to my daughters and their friends squeal and giggle in Sarphatipark on one of our leisurely Friday after school outings – SarPhridays. And that (awesome, truly AWEsome) moment when my supervisor draped the doctoral hood over me after five demanding, nearly debilitating years pursuing that damn degree. You get the picture. Summer 2017 is bringing all the emotions and bringing them hard.

Those last weeks in Amsterdam brought a fleeting clarity – who I am has gotten closer and closer to who I want to be. I want to be the person who just keeps trying and figures it out. Maybe not knowing where I want to be is who I want to be. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that I have strong figuring-it-out skills. “I’m good at being uncomfortable, so I can’t stop changing all the time,” Fiona Apple in Extraordinary Machine.

And so we keep on moving on. We are Journey People.

Fijne avond, Amsterdam. Dank u wel.

Behind the scenes of House Hunters International – trying to make an authentic statement on “reality” TV

January 29, 2016April 28, 2020Sarah Zipp 3 Comments

In this household, Daddy is Parent-in-Chief and we need more role models like him on TV. This was our #heforshe moment. We had to grab it tightly, with both hands.

Get ready for your close-up, kiddos. The filming of the great Highland Games event for HHI at the Museumplein in Amsterdam. Sweet kilt, Aaron.

You all know by now that reality TV is not reality. Like a weathered brick façade on a new pre-fabricated house (which is then featured on HGTV). Also, like your Facebook page. And like my Facebook page, which is filled with self-deprecating humor about my harried life as a working/studying mom to throw you off the scent of my true life as a borderline (over the line?) OCD child masquerading as a grown woman on the verge of a complete emotional meltdown at any give moment. (Both versions include hilarious calamities and adorable children and pets, however.)

Still, when I started spilling the beans about our experience on House Hunters International (HHI), you all freaked out. You all were so distraught, so deflated by this revelation. I get it. You’ve invested your time and attention in these stories and now it all comes crumbling before you. So, close your eyes, take a breath and let’s explore these feelings you’re having.

Imagine your busy life, then add the following ingredients:

+ Moving a family of 4 to a new continent, with nothing more than 8 Army duffle bags.

+ Everything you read, hear and must sign is in a language you don’t understand. It’s a language so foreign to your vocal cords that trying to speak it makes your throat hoarse and the following day you sound like Marge Simpson’s sisters.

+ You need to navigate through that other language to manage your employment contract, Visa, Work Permit, bank accounts, phones, lease, kids’ school logistics, etc.

+ Your modes of transport are limited to bicycles, trains, or buses. All in a system you don’t understand in a city you don’t know very well. You desperately miss your mini-van.

+ You self-financed the move and you’re not getting a full paycheck for the first few months. You’re living on one income for the first time in . . . ever.

+ You’re starting a new job in a foreign country. Time to get all Sheryl Sandberg, up in here.

So, my point is – you want none of that, America. It’s exhausting and painful. It certainly doesn’t make for good TV. You should all be grateful that HHI figured this out. Honestly, it’s better this way. It’s difficult enough to film it all a year later and try to control frizz prone hair whilst biking through the pouring rain. And don’t get me started on miscalculating wardrobe changes so that the summer dress you wore on Day 1, a pleasant 80+ summer day must also be worn on Day 4, in the midst of a windy cold-front.

I could go on and on about the “fakeness” of HHI. The apartment options weren’t exactly real. We filmed our “after” scenes in our Amsterdam apartment, then had a crew move us out, and then filmed our “before” scenes all in one day. We were advised that HHI would try to create a conflict of opinion, so it was best to create our own instead. So, we planted our storyline. I wanted a rooftop terrace, he wanted more space and an easy commute to school. These preferences were authentic, as displayed in our HHI application video, but we did play them up for the cameras.

Underlying this topical theme was the deeper narrative that we are fully committed to. In this household, Daddy is Parent-in-Chief and we need more role models like him on TV. This was our #heforshe moment. We had to grab it tightly with both hands. He is a stay-at-home dad supporting the family’s domestic needs. Hence, his emphasis is on shuffling kiddos to and fro school and comfortable space within the home. But we needed to do it right.

When they asked us to film scenes of him cooking dinner for the kids while I was “out at work,” we said no (and our director at HGTV acquiesced). It doesn’t have to be that way. Yes, I’ve got a demanding career, but I’m not an absent parent and we don’t want to promote that ideal. It was quite a journey for Aaron to feel comfortable in this role. And just because someone is the stay-at-home parent doesn’t mean they should be constantly depicted as baking pies in an apron or fretting over which detergent to use on sensitive skin. So, instead, we filmed scenes of Daddy playing guitar while the kids danced and Daddy leading a fun children’s event in a famous Amsterdam park. (Scottish Highland Games for kids – it’s a rather strange and specific niche, which is explained in more detail in the application video and in my blog post, Flex with your Daughters).

Maybe none of this stuff matters. Maybe it will all just appear like another damn episode of another damn reality show that isn’t really reality. But it matters to us. We desperately hope this narrative comes through in the final version of the show (which we don’t get to view in advance). And maybe a few viewers will take note that our family doesn’t fit neatly into the boxes we are supposed to occupy. And maybe that will remind them that nobody’s family really fits neatly into boxes. We ALL have the freedom to redefine parenthood and reject tired notions of gender roles. And it can be a lot of fun doing it.

So, check it out on Thursday, February 11th at 10.30 EST and/or Friday, February 12th at 1.30am on HGTV. Tell us what you think of our episode, We Dig Amsterdam. I’m not a fan of the name – are they making an archaeology reference? I don’t know. I hope my hair looks ok!

*Update since the episode aired: The editing makes our conflict seem more intense and, of course, the 1 time out of 100 that you say something frivolous (standard HHI e.g. “I love this 19th century French villa, but the color of this wall is obnoxious) they play that 10x and fail to include dozens of thoughtful comments (e.g. If we balance the the lower cost, closeness to the kid’s school and quite neighborhood, I think it’s worth the longer commute). My hair looks way frizzy in some scenes, but overall, I think we done did ok.

Home for the Hollandaise

December 24, 2015January 29, 2016Sarah Zipp 1 Comment

It’s Christmas Eve and my feet are achy from all the walking. My body has fully assimilated to being on a bicycle for 1+ hour each day, but walking in non-sneaker shoes across all the cobblestone is a foreign affair. But we have visitors in town, my mother-in-law and her friend/partner, “Uncle Don.” Oma’s here!!! So we have been tram riding, Dam Square picture taking, lunch at Leidsepleining, Albert Cupyt markt shopping and Museumplein ice skating fools for 2 days now. (To be fair, we are often Museumplein ice skating fools. Emphasis on the fools when you see me on ice.) All by tram and foot. I actually felt the need to explain to my bike, Lucy, that this situation was only temporary and she and I would be back together as usual in due time. It’s Christmas, Lucy. And things are different at Christmas time. (Don’t judge, bikes are a lifeline here and, like house plants, they need confirmations of love. It’s true.)

Taking Oma for a ride through the Vondelpark.

Expat Christmas is a whole different ballgame from Normal Christmas. If it were Normal Christmas, we would be eating crockpot meals and sledding in 2-3 feet of snow at the park across the street. Aaron would have snow-blowed a trail through our HUGE yard so that Jonah (the dog) could run through the snow to pee and poop (a trail that would, come the springtime melt, be referred to as the Trail of Turds). We would have a big tree that we bought from the nature center and hauled back home by tying it to the roof of our SUV. I would have presents stuffed into the top shelves of closets. (Closets! Can you imagine, expats? Real closets with doors. Not Ikea wardrobes. Oh the glory of it all!) Most importantly, we would be preparing for our journey to Oma’s house for Christmas day. Oma’s, the coziest (gezzelig-est) little wooden, New England style home with a fireplace, big front porch and views of the foothills to the Adirondacks.

Oma’s house is Christmas, in many ways. For 7 years, we lived a couple of hours down the road from Oma’s. She was our major holidays destination. And our weekend getaway spot, Fourth of July camping partner and companion for all those “lesser” events too. Those 7 years were the years we got married, bought our first house and redefined the Christmas experience by having babies and wide-eyed toddlers. The precious Footie Pajamas Years. You know, those years when the magic of Christmas is rediscovered through sparkling excitement and energy of a child, faintly smelling of urine, frantically opening presents.

But here we are, living in a 2 bedroom apartment on the second floor (with no closets), with no motorized form of transport, no crockpot and I haven’t bought a pair of footie pajamas in over 2 years. There is no snow on the ground, only grey skies and the ever-present drizzle of rain. The types of days that feel like morning all day long. So no sledding. No snowboard lessons at the ski resort 5 miles up the road. No snow-mobiles lined up in the parking lots of the local dive bars in Oma’s little redneck mountain town. (BTW – a snow mobile pub crawl should be on everyone’s bucket list!) Our lovely little collection of Christmas ornaments is somewhere in a box in the basement of my brother’s house (Baby’s First Christmas, the hand-blown glass ones we bought in Ithaca and the paper cut-out with picture types made at nursery school, etc.). That box is probably next to our old crockpot.

In Expat Christmas-land, those “heirlooms” and traditions go right out the window. They are not realistic. Remember, we moved here with 8 Army duffle bags and nothing more. Expat Christmas is leaner in that sense, trimmed of the fat of Christmas past. (Maybe it’s all the biking…) There are few traditions and almost no obligations in Expat Christmas. There is no need to bring out the fine China (yes, it’s in storage) and digging up Great Aunt Cecilia’s apple pie recipe (too much converting of measuring units to bother with). Want to go to Spain for Expat Christmas? Sure, pack your bags and enjoy the tapas. Want to house and dog sit for your friends who are going to Spain for Christmas? Why not? You’ll need that extra bedroom and toilet for guests and they already decorated the place! Want to spend Christmas Eve on a boat? That’s how the Dutch roll (or paddle, or however one is propelled through water…what is that word?)

It’s easy to sink into a longing, aching nostalgia for the familiar people, places and things of Normal Christmas. But being away from all the usual trappings of the holidays is freeing too.

It is a strange thing to love and cherish something, while at the same time to feel unburdened by its absence.

Last year, we learned to (mostly) be at peace with those missing pieces and embrace the new, strange world we live in. We recognized this new Normal as just another phase of life, not unlike any other fleeting stage. We bought a tree, but carried it home by bike. (Technically, Aaron carried it home, but we were there.) Then we all went out for bitterballen and warme chocomel. New tradition birthed. We found a second hand shop in our neighborhood and let the girls pick out ornaments. Some old and antique-ey looking, others gaudy and cheap. But who cares – they had fun and our tree looked, well, nevermind that, but it was fun. New tradition birthed. And this year, we will tram our way across town with Oma and Uncle Don to have Christmas dinner with other expats that we have only known for a few months. Yes, in Expat Christmas-land you can get invited to Christmas dinner by friends you didn’t even know on Labor Day. New tradition birthed? It probably depends on how the dogs behave.

So here I sit, drinking coffee with Oma while the girls draw pictures of Rudolph with crayons. We might as well be sitting around her dining room table surrounded by snow drifts and loving cousins. But we’re not. We’re at someone else’s house (apartment, really), house/dog sitting with the pictures of un-related children on the walls and my kids are singing Dutch Sinterklaas songs that I don’t understand. It’s a strange new world. But it’s a lovely one. Warm and gezzelig as ever. Even without the footie pajamas.

A Letter to Slate Double XX Podcast – Feminism begins at home, not on Twitter #heforshe

December 20, 2014December 21, 2014Sarah Zipp 1 Comment

Grocery shopping by bike with Dad in Amsterdam.

https://soundcloud.com/slateradio/collection-of-body-parts-edition

Me on #heforshe and the role of men in feminism:

. . . the problem is people pronouncing themselves as feminists and not understanding the hard work that it takes to uphold that ideal. Tweet all you want, that doesn’t make you a feminist that has made a damn bit of difference until you’ve stood up for a woman who needs a place to use her breast pump in private, or a man who wants to take time off to care for a sick child . . .

Suggested Tweets for Dads: #iknowwheremykidsvaccinationrecordsare #dadsweektoshopplanandcookdinner

Dear Amanda, Noreen, Hanna and June

I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. I started mainlining your podcast about 6 months ago. Then I got lured over to the Alison and Dan at Mom and Dad are Fighting. But I kept you gals in my playlist and stayed tuned. A lot of your discussions were unrelatable for me. I don’t know much about Taylor Swift and have never watched the Kardashians. No, I’m not a Quaker or anything, I’m just busy and sporty and for whatever reason not in tune with these elements of pop culture. Oh, and I have 2 small kids + demanding job + studying for another degree + just uprooted my family and moved to Europe (Amsterdam). It’s been a bit chaotic lately.

About the time you covered the domestic violence cases in the NFL I realized something was terribly wrong. I don’t know why it was mentioned that Roger Goodall seemed ok in handling the situation. He was widely panned for his crappy, disingenuous response. But you guys sort of gleamed over that. And, honestly, the Eastern/urban elitist perspective on football was shocking. Maybe I’m naive. I am a midwesterner (a Jayhawk) and football was the backbone of our sports. I’ve lived on the East Coast since high school and never felt that football was a lower class sport. Sure, lacrosse is upper crust. Golf is too. But football was never something lower than soccer or basketball or baseball on the socio-economic sport food chain. But I never really lived in a city (unitl now). And I suppose that’s where your views come from.

Thanks, Noreen, for standing up for football a bit. But my concern is not football, my concern is that your podcast and articles seem to only make sense for urbanite Americans. Ok, so that’s probably most of us and I’m not making a claim for some right-wing “real America” is in the small towns crap. But I’m beginning to think there is a great divide between those living in cities and everyone in small towns. And that includes small towners who read the Huff Post and Slate, like me. I know those articles aren’t really written for people like me. They appeal to my politics and I could spend an entire day (and have) cheering on everyone at MSNBC until I can settle into an evening with Jon and Colbert. But very little that is discussed really reflects the daily circumstances of my life.

But I digress . . . What I really want to talk about is the Collection of Body Parts Edition of your podcast. And Amanda’s article on He for She (and the Gist interview that followed). It was at this point I wanted to express my anger. I wanted to slam a door on you, but all I had was the power to click “unsubscribe.” Not so satisfying compared to a good, old fashioned, angry door slam. Your suggestion for male feminists: Tweet about it. Are you kidding me??? Ok, I’ll try to remain calm. Yes, Twitter is clearly a powerful tool when executed wisely. Yes, raising awareness is important. But, really, please can’t you understand? Can’t you understand that people are out there facing real problems every day. And families are hurting. And you want us to Tweet? Maybe the fundamental problem isn’t where we live. Maybe my point is being derailed by the football discussion. Maybe the real difference is that most people can’t spend their days reading and writing and Tweeting about these issues. Maybe journalists, including my all my faves, are out of touch because it’s their jobs to see writing and Tweeting as an “action item.” But for the rest of us, writing and Tweeting are just another goddamn thing to do. Just another thing to eat away at the day, already overwhelmed by work and did we run out of paper towels again? and when is gymnastics class? and how is your mother-in-law handling the diagnosis? Twitter is a luxury. A luxury of time we don’t have And, really, what’s the ROI on Twitter? Because in our household my time, focus and energy is a highly-demanded commodity in low supply. And so is my husband’s. Don’t get me wrong. We’re very, very fortunate people. We’ve got work that pays (most of) the bills. Our two daughters are healthy and happy. The future looks bright. But let me get to my meandering point.

My husband is the ultimate feminst. He is the icon of He for She (amongst child-bearing, heterosexuals. That’s really the only group I can adequately speak for). But nobody outside of our circle of friends and family knows because he’s too busy, we’re too busy, living out these feminist concepts rather than writing or Tweeting about them. He runs our house. He readies the kids for school, packs lunches, drops off and picks up (by bicycle, See This Dutch Life for details), teaches piano lessons with them after school until Mommy comes home from work. He handles the bills and does the grocery shopping. He taught preschool and now volunteers in our daughters’ classrooms. And he fixes all broken things in the house, including plumbing and (yikes) electrical. He lifts weights, a lot of weights. Prompting his little preschool students to say things like “Mr. Zipp has muscles like tanks!” He meditates with the kids. Yeah, he’s pretty fucking awesome. Me, I’m the breadwinner. I do my best to do the Mommy things we want in our lives. But my role is mostly in the professional world. At least right now it is. It’s not entirely by choice, but these are the choices we have. And we’re certainly not the only ones.

It hasn’t always been this way. I spent 5 straight years pregnant and breastfeeding. He travelled abroad for work and I stayed home (whilst working) with babies. But that is the nature of life that is so often overlooked in these discussions. Things change. And biology plays a role. I’ve read a few articles recently (on Slate?) about how marriage should be viewed as a dynamic process. So too, are the roles we play in this thing called feminism. Sometimes Dad’s role is breadwinner, sometimes he must be domestic Prince. It changes. Why doesn’t anyone on your show discuss the difference between how feminism and gender roles evolve? Parenting nursing babies and fidgetty toddlers is an entirely different world than parenting school-aged kiddos. This seems like a universal phenomena, yet we tend to read about parenting as if the roles were fixed. And no where in any stage of parenting does Twitter seem to play a significant part.

On to another point, the definition of feminism. Even if we accept the fundamental definition – equality of genders. What does it mean? What does equality mean? Is equity something different? Better? How do we perform equality? How do we account for biological differences and demands? The problem is not the definition, the problem is people pronouncing themselves as feminists and not understanding the hard work that it takes to uphold that ideal. Tweet all you want, that doesn’t make you a feminist that has made a damn bit of difference until you’ve stood up for a woman who needs a place to use her breast pump in private, or a man who wants to take time off to care for a sick child (or, if you are a super-advanced feminist guy, to take time off to care for an elderly parent/grandparent) or fought for work-place policies that promote the well-being of employees over the bottom line. Because those are the action items of feminism. Those are the feminists we need, male or female. Fellas – put down your god dammed iPhones and pick up the slack at home. Because as long as women bear the overwhelming burden of running a household more than men, there will be no equality. Remember the definition of feminism? Equality. What is equality at home? Sure, we can’t get everything to 50/50, but how do the efforts put into the domestic sphere balance out with those put forth in the professional sphere? And if Tweet you must, then let it be about the feminist actions you take, not the feministy thoughts in your head. #foughtforonsitechildcareatwork, #nomorelatenightboardmeetings, #iknowwheremykidsvaccinationrecordsare, #dadsweektoshopplanandcookdinner. If I ever do get back on Twitter, I’d like to see those trending.

Sincerely,

Sarah

Homesick

August 17, 2014August 17, 2014Sarah Zipp 1 Comment

America, f*** yeah!

I can feel it settling into my bones. I’ve gone down this path enough to see it coming from a mile away (or 1.67 kilometers.) It comes in many shapes. It can be a gray cloud or a wave of heat running up your spine. Mostly, for me, it’s a blanket. A big, soft, heavy down comforter with a worn cotton duvet. Once I see it coming, I wrap myself up in it’s warmth and weight. I sink into it. It’s a thick, blue sadness and I indulge. Some may call this grieving. That’s probably right. And I accept, really embrace, that grieving is a part of this process.

Usually, it’s grieving those I’ve left behind. By that I mean, my man and my girls. 3 weeks this spring 4 weeks last fall, 6 weeks last summer and 6 weeks the fall before. When I see it like that it seems unreal. Of course, there’s always the guilt. What kind of mother leave their babies like that? And the bigger guilt (because that mother leaving babies thing is half-assed and I don’t buy it. It’s only about 15% of the guilt). The real guilt is how-could-I-do-this-to-my-husband-guilt. You know, leave him for weeks on end with two kids to care for. Yeah, that one’s a bitch. But on top of that, I get really really homesick for my family. And then there’s the feeling-guilty-for-feeling-homesick-because-that-is-nothing-compared-to-the-shit-I’m-putting-husband-through-guilt. But, as usual, I digress.

I recognize the triggers too. A long Skype call with loved ones. Because saying goodbye again and again can be too much. Seeing their living rooms and thinking about relaxing Sunday afternoons or that one Thanksgiving you spent there making bacon-wrapped turkey (that was awesome…oh, there’s no Thanksgiving here. Crap.)

But the worst is probably visitors. It’s the worst, because during their visit it’s the best. They bring with them easy laughs and and easy comfort. It’s easy to be with them. The key word here is EASY. They are reminders of that other life. You know, in the place where you could drive to the grocery store blind-folded. In the place where you didn’t need an app to determine if you were about to buy some kind of weird yogurt dressing or something that might pass for Ranch (BTW – the “Ranch” flavored Doritos here are called “Cool American.” Bless this country and it’s awkward charm!) So, when they depart, we mourn again. But this time, I’m not mourning for my family. I’m not taking deep breathes and counting days until my return flight to bring me back from the homesickness brink. There is no return flight. My family is right here, hollering for a cup of water at 9:30pm. I’m not missing them.

I’m missing the ease of movement, the knowing, the KNOWING of home. I knew where to go. I knew what I wanted to buy. The routine, that beautiful rut of the same goddamn dinners again and again because our brains are too fried to be creative in the kitchen and it’s not worth it anyway because these kids just want peanut butter sandwiches. Flipping channels and knowing where Comedy Central and HGTV are without effort. I have to strain just to find something in English here. (Thank God for National Geographic and Netflix. Really, life-savers). Oh, and when I wanted to go to that grocery store to buy something I knew I wanted, I just hopped into my minivan and propelled myself there with the ease of burning fossil fuels. I am definitely mourning that minivan.

I am homesick for the easy win. I NEED a layup. Everything here is a contested jumpshot. (For the less basketball literate, that just means that everything is challenged or has some kind of obstacle.) I don’t know how else to explain to you people that every single move is just so damned difficult. It’s taxing to just BE here. We don’t even have to DO anything and we are exhausted. It’s like walking with weights on your ankles through quicksand. No, that’s not really it. It’s like being…on a different planet. But not quite that. It’s like trying to solve a riddle, all day every day. In a foreign language. With a 4 year old pulling on your pant leg and asking for something annoying. But that doesn’t really explain the emotion of it. I don’t know how to explain it.

We are displaced. We are round pegs in a big, square hole. And the hole isn’t changing, we’re the ones that need to adjust. Displaced is a word I hear a lot on NPR (Listening to Morning Edition while making coffee/breakfast is my Happy Place. Even though it’s the podcast from the day before.) I know it’s supposed to be used in reference to Kurds in Iraq and such, but I feel displaced. I really don’t know how else to describe it. There’s an expat forum called IAmExpat (From this whole tourism campaign here – IAmsterdam. It’s cute.) They have an Expat fair this fall called “I am not a tourist.” We’ll probably go. I was looking at the invite and I kept thinking – if I’m not a tourist and I’m not Dutch, what am I? I’m an Expat. But what is that? Are there Regularpats? Does that mean I can’t cheer for New England now?

I don’t know. But thinking about it makes me want to curl up in my homesickness blanket. And watch (American) football. And eat hot wings. But I can’t. Because we don’t get such football here. And I do NOT accept subpar hot wings on my plate. I’ll have to settle for a Heineken and the latest episode of Dirty Jobs. At least I have my blanket.

Flex with your daughters

QuoteAugust 2, 2014April 28, 2020Sarah Zipp 2 Comments

Showing off our cannons to the people of the Netherlands.

I’m going to digress from my Dutch life posts and discuss something that has been rattling around in my brain for a long time now. I’ve gone over this again and again and really want to talk about it. As a mother and a researcher. I keep coming across articles and Facebook posts about how to talk to girls about their body and appearance. Some advise never to tell them they are beautiful. I think that’s crap. I will tell my girls they are beautiful every damn time I feel like it. Because it’s true. Because it makes them feel good. And life is too goddamn difficult and complicated to pass up easy wins. Especially as a parent. Nearly every parenting move I’ve made, from breastfeeding to time-outs to screen time, takes thought, reflection and probably some research.

But some things must just come naturally, right? I think if there’s anything I really know about parenting and about being a part of a family it’s that if you feel something in your heart of hearts, know something deep in your soul and believe something in every fiber of your being – you say it. You fucking say it loud and and clear and often. You don’t hold that shit back. Everything else I ‘know’ about parenting is just an educated guess. You tell the ones you love everything you love about them. Everything. And I love that my babies are beautiful. They will spend their whole lives bombarded with messages about how how flawed they are. But aren’t we supposed to ‘feed the meter?’ Aren’t we supposed to be the ones building them up? I have a million different ways to compliment them and it will never be enough for all the world has in store to tear them down. I’m not giving up this powerful weapon in my repertoire. Yes, I’ll them them they are kind and loving and funny and talented (but we’re not supposed to say ‘smart,’ right? Or did that change?) And all of that is true. And I’ll mean all of that too.

But I digress, again. What I really meant to say here is this – flex with your daughters. Or don’t. But that’s what we do. And we do it because we are strong. I come from a long line of Schmidt (and Karst/Jacobs) gals with strong bones and thick muscles. By the looks of things, our girls will be of the same ilk. They are densely built tiny humans. I know this because when I pick up other people’s kids I nearly toss them into the sky because they are so light compared to my girls. They were big babies (8.8 lbs. and 9.2 lbs. Ouch) and they are big, tall kiddos. And I love it. And I want them to love it. So we are trying to teach them to love their bodies.

We are not running away from body talk, we are running toward it (with proper form). And doing pushups. And T-25. And pilates. Which all generally turn into a mosh pit of snuggling or me hollering at them to get out of the way while Mommy is doing switch kicks in the air.

I don’t know if any of this ‘works’ or even matters. But they are talking about being strong and healthy. They are talking about how important it is to feed their bodies good food and exercise. They are proud of their muscles and we stand in the mirror and flex. And in the park or on the street. We flex everywhere. Maybe we flex too much. I don’t know. But they like it. We point out our favorite muscles (I have kick ass triceps) and watch our calves bulge when we stand on tippy toes. It’s fun and we laugh and we are being positive about our bodies. That has to be a good thing.

I told you my triceps are awesome. That’s me throwing at a Scottish Highland Games competition.

None of us will ever have lanky super-model legs or flawless skin. But we can have super-powered hamstrings. We can have amazing boulder shoulders that carry heavy loads. And that’s pretty useful. But that’s not the message we usually get. I know. I started lifting weights when I was 12. It was the last of that blissful time before I ever really cared about clothes or appearances or boys. I went to the weight room because it’s what my big brothers did. I did everything they did. I even drank protein shakes with them. (Fun Fact: we grew up drinking raw milk in glass gallon jars from the family dairy farm. We stirred in the cream that floated to the to top for extra weight gaining power). I wanted to be strong like them. My arms and legs were simply my tools for running, jumping, and (most importantly) playing basketball. (I know how idyllic this sounds, but I really was a late bloomer and totally oblivious until my mid-teens).

Within a couple of years, the terror of the teens arrived and I hated my sturdy legs, felt self-conscious about my lack of fashion sense and was mortified by my increasingly present acne. It took me until about midway through college to overcome this crushing self-doubt, when I learned more about nutrition and found the confidence that comes from being with an amazing group of friends (my basketball teammates). It helped a lot to be surrounded by other girls/women who worked out like me and had a relationship with their bodies that was generally focused on kinetics rather than aesthetics. (I could go into some pretty lofty theoretical analysis on body image and gender, but I’m pretty sure if you’re reading this you know me and are likely to just take my word for it.)

Still, it’s one of those haunting weaknesses. If I could, I would trade in my well sculpted legs for a more slender set. It’s taken my husband over a decade to convince me that he actually likes my “girthy” calves. (He’s not the best Complimenter).

So, we are flexing our muscles in celebration of our own kind of beautiful. Our kind of beautiful is strong and athletic. Maybe your kind is tall or short or dark or light or graceful or dainty or whatever. Because we define and construct and recognize beauty in our own way every day.

Sure, our girls will be confronted with broader social concepts of beauty, but they will also have their own definitions. And maybe, just maybe, flexing in the mirror and smiling with Mommy and Daddy will help them form more positive perceptions of their bodies down the road. Or maybe it’s just fun. Who knows. In the meantime if you see a family of 4 posing like body builders in the park, it’s probably the Zipps.

Flexing for the people of France. You’re welcome.

Dutch life is a beach…

July 31, 2014July 31, 2014Sarah Zipp Leave a comment

The Herring Truck

Goodbye, herring!

We are settling in. Like so much sand sliding down a 4 year old’s back and directly into her buttcrack. The beach is our saving grace thus far. We’ve gone 3 of the 6 days since arriving in Holland. Why? Because bus and train fare is cheap and beach access is free. On the contrary, the zoo, aquarium, etc. are all mighty costly. Oh, and we just moved from Kansas. So, there’s not much in beach time there. Nor was there in our previous residence, near Syracuse (NY). Not to mention, the tram/bus/train riding is still a wildly exciting adventure to the kids (ok, we adults think it’s pretty cool too). In fact, I think tomorrow we should just spend the afternoon riding trams around the city. Honestly, it’s the best entertainment value for your Euro. And isn’t it just as good to ride by the Van Gogh museum as it is to stop, wait in line, pay, and drag whiney children through it? I knew you’d agree.

I’m exhausted. And my enthusiasm for blogging is fading. So I’m gonna buzzfeed this out tonight. And why are my children still awake? It’s past 10pm. And it’s still light outside. How far North are we? Are we in the Arctic Circle or something? And where is Bumbles the Pillow Pet? And who took the pillowcases off of every pillow in the house? And why does Gwen insist on using a full set of silverware at every meal when only a spoon is needed? And who left a pile of raisins, meticulously picked out of a bowl of granola, on the table? And, most importantly, where is my glass of wine?

List 1: Things we are learning about Dutch life

When crossing a street, one must cross 6 different paths – bike (x2), auto (x2) and tram (x2). We actually already knew this from many previous stays in Holland and have communicated this with the utmost seriousness to the Zipplettes. However, if they are chasing a pigeon or see an ice cream (ijs) stand across the street, they must be physically restrained. Every damn time. For every path. Every damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn time.
Dutch kids often swim naked. At the beach, at the public pool, whatevs. And not just the baby/toddler crowd, but kids up to 6ish. And they are all blond-haired, blue-eyed beauties. It’s a bit off-putting and creepy, in a vaguely horror film kind of way. Imagine a swarm of naked blond kindergarteners running toward you on a beach. It’s weird. And then you realize the ice cream truck is behind you. Now it’s slightly less weird. At one point, a 2ish year old nudey boy came wandering our way to play with some sand toys. The girls just sat their stunned, looking at his tiny dangler. (In a brilliant moment of self-contradition, I must admit he was dark skinned and had an Afro as large as any 70’s NBA star). He was young enough, and somehow it is more ok for boys to be naked in my mind. Especially with the sand. Naked girl parts and sand is just wrong.
Ever try eating herring? Ever try eating herring from a food truck on the beach? Then you must not be Dutch. Husband loves this stuff. I wish I could be so cool, but I’m repulsed. There are not enough onions in the world to make it ok to my palette. The highlight of one beach day was when the herring truck broke down. The entire beach bumming community rose up from their sandy towels to help the driver. People really do come together in times of distress. Then, the truck drove off, literally, into the sunset along the beach. Cue the orchestra.
This post has been interrupted by the cat escaping out the back door. We had to calmly herd her back toward the house and lure her in with the sound of opening a food can (husband and I, the kids are asleep now thank the good lord and the makers of Benadryl). We did not pay hundreds of $$$, take her to umpteen vet appointments to get her “pet passport” and fly her 26+ hours to have her run off 5 days later. Oh hell no. Not up in here!
Douche is the word for shower/wash. I’m certain that’s true in more languages in Dutch. It’s everywhere here and it will never cease to make me giggle. Don’t forget to douche your hands after using the “toilet” (or water closet, if you’re a British prick). Honey, don’t forget to pick up some douche at the store today. But don’t be a Dutch Douche, though. They’re everywhere too. You can spot them by their tapered, capri jeans and Air Jordans.
Speaking of douche .. . while public transport is amazeballs here (honestly, I don’t think I will ever tire from riding trams), the hygiene aspect with small children is troubling. And Addy is a thumbsucker. Is there anything more disgusting than watching your daughter pop her thumb into her mouth after riding a bus, holding the railing down the escalator at the train station and pushing the buttons on the tram door? No, there is not. And there is not enough “sandsitizer” (Gwen’s combo word for hand sanitizer) in the world to make this ok.

Our trash pickup is cooler than yours and other Dutch discoveries

July 25, 2014July 29, 2014Sarah Zipp Leave a comment

Outside of our house, which is in a relatively new development of rowhouse type structures next to a high school, occurs

Dutch trash pickup

Grocery store special!

Gwen in the wild of Vondelpark

the coolest trash pickup. There are two big metal boxes near the curb, one marked for paper recycling and the other garbage. These boxes serve the entire complex of maybe 20 houses. It seems like everyday, a big truck comes by and lifts the boxes up out of the ground, revealing that they are just the top of a large tank holding trash. And then it gets dumped into the truck. (see photo) It’s the kind of thing that gets children excited to see and I can only imagine how my 3 y/o nephew, Jasper, would freak out about these trash “up trucks.”

So, progress is happening here. In baby steps. I made another trip to the grocery store, this time decreasing the level of awkwardness. There is something about getting through the grocery store without revealing foreigness. It’s kind of a litmus test I use. Day 1 – disasterous. Day 2 – much improved. First, I went through an arduous process of getting a new loyalty card. I had to sign us up (hubs and I) through the Albert Heijn website. Alber Heijn is the signature grocery store of the Netherlands. The familiar blue “ah” bags are probably the most common site in this whole damn country. Honestly, it’s one of my great annoyances that people think about Amsterdam and immediately conjure images of wild Red Light District partying and coffee shops with pot smoke billowing heavenward. I’ve spent a lot of time in this country (probably 10 months total over the past 11 years) and this typical view of Amsterdam is like saying that New York City is completely defined by Times Square. The average Dutchie has little to do with it and the Red Light District area (along the Damrak) is so tourist-ified it’s like the Disneyafication of the Las Vegas strip. What was once so edgy with sex and drugs is now a neon playground of cheap souvenirs and overpriced Heinekens.

But I digress. So, I navigated the Dutch website (who needs Rosetta Stone when we have Google Translate?) and activated our cards. They really are important as most everything can be bought cheaper on the card. Look for the “korting” stickers, which indicate a discount or sale. I really can’t explain what makes me so anxious about the grocery store, but there are generally 2 elements. First, finding what I want. I really stink at the Dutch language. Honestly, it is a puzzle to me. Husband is convinced that the Dutch are actually telepathic and they just make up grunting sounds to feign verbal communication and plot world domination via bicycles and pannekeuken (pancakes). To date, I have found no evidence to disprove this theory. So reading labels is a big challenge. To further complicate things, I try very hard to find familiar foods for the girls to get them comfortable here. I’m not sure why because they generally reject my elaborate attempts at cooking (at home and abroad0 and just eat spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar. Nonetheless, I keep trying. You know, because feeding your offspring seems like the motherly thing to do. Anyway, all the usual bullshit is there, but with different labels and in smaller portion sizes (it’s true, Super-Sized America). So I located some eggs, milk, bread, apples, store brand Nutella, etc. BTW – eggs are marked in some kind of strange price per kg or something. It appears as though a dozen eggs are 13 euro, but really they are only 1,45 or so (yeah, they use commas). I have no idea what kind of metric and monetary conversion voodoo this shit is and I’m too tired to try and understand. Brown eggs – check. Oh, and there is something here called “filet Americain.” It’s basically a steak tartar with the option for spices and onions, etc. You can by different varieties in pre-packaged plastic containers just about everywhere. So weird, because isn’t raw burger like illegal or something at home? Anyway, the American adults in this house are big fans and we practically live off the stuff upon firs arrival (until the novelty wears off). And so forth and so on finding “normal” groceries is one of those daily challenges. Just remember, kip = chicken. Which husband thinks is onomatopoeia.

But the most distressing part of the trip is definitely the check out. It is at this point that I am most likely to be exposed. First, I pay by cash and this poses issues with finding correct change, etc. Keep in mind that coins go up to 2 euro, so that’s actually a lot of cash compared to a quarter in the U.S. We can discuss monetary issues; why American credit cards don’t have pins and how this is a disastrous problem, and the ridiculous Dutch chipknip, at another time. You might think the payment is the hardest part. But you would be wrong. The real challenge is bagging the groceries. If you’ve ever shopped at an Aldi, you may understand a bit. They don’t bag groceries for you here. It’s up to you. Also, you bring your own bags. They have this divider thing running the long way down the counter after the checkout scanner (you know, where the groceries slide down toward the bagger kid back home). This system allows a maximum of 2 grocery bagging shoppers collecting their goods before inter-grocery shopper mingling occurs. How do I explain this? So the lady in front of me is bagging her shit while my stuff is getting scanned and sliding down the counter on the other side of the divider. I fumble through payment and forget the phrase to ask for a receipt. Done. The lady ahead of me is finishing up and calmly taking her bags away to go on with her merry Dutch life without a second thought. Meanwhile, I head to my bagging station with sweaty palms and an increased heart rate. There is a 20-something guy behind me buying like 3 items. So he has paid and bagged his crap before I get much past untangling the damn fabric bags I had stuffed in my backpack (I use a backpack because I now have to haul these groceries on foot back to the house, about a 10 minute walk away. Although anyone in Holland will tell you it’s a 5 minute walk. Everything is a 5 minute walk away in this country. They are lying. Don’t believe them!). So the woman 2 shoppers behind me is now getting her stuff scanned. The checkout lady didn’t bother touching the divider because Speedy von Young Guy was in and out quicker than a Kardashian marriage. So, I’m stuffing bags. Vaguely trying not to crush the freshly baked bread and keeping in mind I bought eggs, but mostly just trying to git ‘er done before this lady pays and someone else’s groceries begin slipping down my side of the Great Divider. On my first trip to this store, I failed miserably after an epic battle with a cloth bag caught in a zipper pocket of the backpack. This time, I make it! I drop the organic stroopwafels (at delicious Dutch treat for the kiddos) in just before the next shopper’s box of hagelslag (look it up, it’s wildly popular here) comes sliding my way. I coolly walk away out into the sunny street.

It’s a pretty big victory, until about 10 seconds into my walk home when I realize I had put the heavy stuff in the fabric bag as opposed to the backpack. ‘Tis much more comfortable to bare the burden of weighty groceries on one’s back than hanging from an arm. So the journey homeward was painful, switching the bag back and forth from one sore and weak arm to another. It probably took more like 12 minutes.

So, anyway. That’s all the news I have the energy to share right now. We wore the kids out with a shopping trip, playing in water fountain/wading pool things and a nice stroll through Vondelpark (it’s like Amsterdam’s version of Central Park). Side note- Vondelpark is the only place in the world (I believe) where you can legally smoke pot and have sex. I know I’m contributing to the annoyingly badboy rep of this city, but it’s true and interesting. Personally, I love this park because it’s filled with people lounging on blankets, street vendors and musicians, and mostly young lovers or groups of friends picnicking with cheese platters and bottles of wine/Heineken. The atmosphere is part summer picnic, part college music festival campout. But I do worry about the kids getting a contact high. Alright, I have to stop. I’m becoming part of the problem of bad Amsterdam assumptions now.

Oh, and the luggage finally arrived. And the kiddos ate ice cream (ijs). And remember that news over here is much more graphic, expect images of dead bodies from Israel, etc. Better go feed those kids now. Tot Ziens.

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Sarah Zipp

Love. Trust. Pixiedust.

Author: Sarah Zipp