Dutch

Zipps invade Scotland by sea

Sarah 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.

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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. 

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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.

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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. 

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Welcome to the United Kingdom. Mixed emotions.

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

Sarah 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.

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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. 

 

Dutch life is a beach…

Sarah Zipp Leave a comment
The Herring Truck

The Herring Truck

Goodbye, herring!

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

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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!
  5. 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.
  6. 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.

 

 

 

Getting there is half the fun

Sarah Zipp Leave a comment

Would you like to hear the tale of our 26+ hour adventure through 4 aiprorts/countries with 2 kids and a cat? Well, hold on to your hats…

Here’s the recount- or, as Addy is calling her newest writing project, Pipsqueak’s Adventures in Holland (our cat). First, it was a funny scene at the airport when the lady at the counter saw us and said ‘oh. The Zipp family!’ Apparently checking 9 bags and bringing a cat is noteworthy. Then there were teary, teary goodbyes. I can’t go into the details of it now. Too soon. Wheels up, no more decisions to be made and nothing but the sound of my own sadness and pent up anxiety over this major life decision and the day’s travels. Cue eruption of tears, bordering on ugly crying. Sideways, take-off hugs from hubby and kids.

Overnight flight – kids watched movie, fell asleep like champions. They sprawled out on the entire row, leaving no room for parents. (As was our intention). No parental sleep obtained. Cat slept.

The cat and girls did AWESOME all the way to Coppenhagen (12 hours into journey). The 6 hour layover and delayed flight pushed our limits and then broke through them like a 4 year old ripping open (and spilling) the last bag of Goldfish. Luckily, husband is able to handle my occasional major bitchiness. It was pretty severe. Although, I was right. Seriously. We finally secured food, water and play space. Gwen, who was our Director of Kitten Petting Services, managed to not instigate an international incident by letting the cat loose in a Scandanavian country (but honestly Denmark, you’re not as Scandanavian as the dangling countries on the other side of the water.) Addy, our Family Historian and Regional Manager of Kitten Support Services, excelled at fending off rambunctious-looking Norwegian brothers (approximately 3 & 5) from harassing the cat in a bag. And then she supervised the Kitten Exercising Programme. Walking a cat on a leash in a Danish airport is strangely calming to 7 year olds.

‘Twas a brief moment of contentment and calm. But then we were still there. Waiting and waiting. We could feel the loose grip on sanity slipping. We were all hot, mildly sweaty and stinky, foggy from no/weird sleep. And the children’s play area was devolving from a sanctuary of free movement to a romper room of annoying, small humans speaking gutteral-sounding languages and trying to touch our cat. Suddenly we had to get out. Bear in mind that we were toting 3 roller carry-on bags, a cat carrier, 2 adult backpacks, 2 kid packpacks (long ago abandoned by the children they were designed to be carried by) and a hodgepodge of stuffies, dolls and blankies. And why, oh why, do these children insist on taking their shoes off at every place we stand still for more than 5 minutes? I have spent more time looking for stray flip-flops in foreign countries than at any major monument or important tourist destination. Anyway, the lag time between deciding we HAD to go and the actual going was significant. And what the hell kind of people make a play area on the second floor of an airport but have no elevator or escalator nearby? “Great” Danes, my ass. Luckily, Daddy has “muscles like tanks” and we only held up a half-dozen or so travelers schlopping our wares down the narrow staircase.

We made our way to the Gate with all the grace and coordination of a 6th grade orchestra. Next thing I knew the kids were sprawled out asleep and I startled myself awake with my own snoring. Attractive for sure. Boarded flight with relative ease, quick 2 hour journey, off board to final destination – Amsterdam.

At this point, I must include some broader context. Yesterday was a National Day of Mourning in the Netherlands in honor of more than 200 Dutch victims in the MH17 flight shot down over the eastern Ukraine. I’ve flown into Schipol airport probably 10 times before and it has never felt like this. We arrived shortly after a national moment of silence that occurred as the victims’ bodies arrived at another airport to the south of us. The bodies were being driven toward Amsterdam in a caravan with Dutch people lined up along the route, much like fans line the streets for the Tour de France. But this was a terribly solemn affair. There is a heavy cloud over this country and everywhere we looked reminders, from notices on the airport screens about the Day of Mourning to the live tv coverage of the caravan, of the tragedy. We feel it deeply on behalf of our new home country.

Back to a happier tale. Like how all 9 of our checked bags, plus the car seats, were lost. So, we waited and waited and filed a claim with baggage services. As you can imagine, the kids were beyond melting point. I got in an argument via Skype phone call with the taxi driver that was arranged to pick us up. We got a different taxi and arrived at the furnished house rented for us by the University. The owner greeted us and was very kind, preparing snacks for the kids and pouring us glasses of wine. He explained details about the house and gave instructions I blurrily recall. Finally, he intuited that we were burnt out and he left, promising to check back in on Monday to make sure we were ok. We have this house for 6 weeks.

Kids bathed and mommy to the grocery store for dinner (for first awkward consumer experience – pangs of panic as my grocery loyalty card, which I have so proudly kept and located, has apparently expired. Can’t I just get this win?). Then adults showered, we ate, and all fell asleep watching Free Willy. Back up clothes for kids were in carryons, but there was nothing clean left for adults. So (shhhh) we borrowed shorts from the owner’s closet. Could anything make me feel more awkward then wearing a strange man’s cargo shorts right now? We slept hard, but the kids woke up around 1:45am. I fended them off for awhile but we were eating eggs at the kitchen table by 2:30. Hubby and I are taking shifts and as I write this the girls are drifting in and out of consciousness watching The Simpsons (they reluctantly watched some Dutch cartoons I forced on them, but eventually they wore me down). I’m signing off for now. I figured out the cappuccino machine here. Time for Round II. Tot Ziens.