motherhood

Farewell to Amsterdam

Sarah Zipp 1 Comment
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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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. 

 

Homesick

Sarah Zipp 1 Comment
American, f*** yeah!

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.