africa

i did a brave thing this week: i went to the zoo. and no, this is not an animal story. i went to the zoo with a group of very nice people whom i have been fearful, shy, excited, nervous and reluctant to meet for almost a year: the homeschoolers of zuid holland. when we first decided to keep isabelle home in january of this year, i signed up for the homeschooling mailing list, but after one greatly helpful phone conversation with the moderator, i basically stopped looking at the list and never got around to meeting any of the people. not that i didn't think about them. in fact, i thought about them most of the time, these fascinating people i had never met. they were my joker, my wild card, my 'if all else fails, i can always...'. and as the year progressed, they acquired mythical proportions. as did my fear.

then last week, i happened to look in on the list and there was this idea of going to the zoo, and before i knew it, i had written to say we would be coming too, and with a wild beating heart, and my stomach in my throat, i went (together with marc, who was kind enough to drag his flu-ridden body along to help me with this) (i have a goood husband). turns out they are normal people. lovely, friendly, extremely normal people. who just happen to have made certain choices with regard to their children which happen to be the same choices we have made.

and meeting them was amazing. because it meant putting down this big heavy back-pack i didn't even know i had been carrying. i had not realized, until tuesday, how very lonely i have been feeling. how isolated. how misunderstood. how insecure too, in this BIG thing, this NOT sending isabelle to school. not that i ever doubted the rightness of the decision itself, but it has been such a heavy, serious thing.

and it has made me hold back too. when things got rough, which they do periodically, i did not dare to speak, to voice my doubts and fears, because whether you said it or not, you good people who love us, i could hear it in the back of your head ('i am worried that she is lonely' 'you should send her to school'; 'i am afraid that she is not learning anything' 'you should send her to school'; 'it sometimes drives me up the wall that she is constantly here with me' 'you should send her to school'). and the reason i could hear it is because it was in the back of my head too.

i've been thinking about this: it's as if every time i say i'm having a bad day, someone says 'you should move to africa':

- i had a bad dream last night
- you should move to africa

- i've had this pain in my chest for a few days
- you should move to africa

- i am worried about losing my job
- you should move to africa

and now, since tuesday, i know people who know what it's like to live right here. with all the doubts and worries and fears. and the joy, the fun, the freedom. the sheer exhilaration. of not moving to africa. of not even thinking of moving to africa.

perhaps for the last time this summer

not the plan

'the nursing philosopher'. i wrote it and then realized that if this was a famous painting and that its famous title, the centuries to come would probably assume the philosopher was antoine, as opposed to yours truly. gender issues can still make me go 'ggggrrr!'. anyway, i meant me.

we were supposed to be in france this week. but the children got sick, and marc got sick, and then i got sick (don't want to be the only not-sick person around here, since that means pretty much the same as 'workhorse') and so we decided to just stay put. and take walks. and throw sticks in the water and watch them appear on the other side of the bridge. and enjoy the indian summer.

poem

hallo hallo hallo

regen regen rikketik

we wilden net een pick-nick

love letter in bullet-point format

• blueberry monster
• climbs out of baby chair
• constantly moving when not asleep
• loves: dancing, music, clapping in his hands after a show, rolling balls on the floor and following them, crawling around bare-bottomed, climbing over and into everything, cars, kisses, hugs
• light switches
• waves at Oma
• eats by himself
• light switches
• brushing his own teeth
• brushing other people's teeth
• opening doors - closing doors
• drawing
• when happy, says 'ugh!', 'kkkrr!' or 'uh!'
• when unhappy, cries 'ama!'
• hugging the cat
• smelling lavander
• eating chalk
• the crown of his head, perfect spiral
• sucking on wooden clothes pegs
• his smile
• sleeping in the sling
• his eyes
• light switches

Antoine is 1!

His favourite thing is turning on and off the light. He pushes the switch, points to the light and sings a little delight song. A while ago, we gave him Isabelle's yellow sunglasses. He sang the delight song and pointed to all the lights. He thinks wearing the sunglasses turns on all the lights.

As my dear grand-father put it "When Newton discovered the law of gravity, he could not have been more pleased!"

meet the moulinex tiger

dresses

i dream of little girl's dresses. this one from Sugar City Journal. oh, and this one too. the operative word here being 'dream', my sewing-machine collecting dust, so thick you can cut it, while i try and collect the bits of my life (crazy-quilting, that's what they call it). anyway, seems you don't have to make dream dresses. you can also win them. see here: Garden Party Frock GIVEAWAY.

hope springs eternal.

18:48

... two minutes to meltdown point. i bet you can't tell, looking at these gorgeous babes singing, that i would be screaming off my head in just another 120 seconds. the scary thing is, i couldn't tell either. it didn't feel like a hurricane. yes, i was a tad tired (antoine hasn't let me sleep for more than three hours at a stretch a single time in the last 9 months). it's true that dinner wasn't anywhere near being ready, and i was rather ravenously hungry (what with the six nursing breaks a day a boy needs to recover from his adventures, and the four afore-mentioned night nursings, this here mama can get quite hungry). yes, the floor of the living-room was literally littered with various miscellania (sunglasses, bits of food, clothes, dolls, saliva, paper, crayons, trains, necklaces, cushions, bicycles, books, blankets, tufts of cat hair, newspaper clippings, bread crumbs, dirty diapers and torn plant leaves), some of which had recently caused me pain in some way or another. it's true that antoine at this point wouldn't settle for anything less than his three favourite activities, i.e. climbing the stairs (not allowed because of neck breaking), eating cat food (not allowed because of being vegetarian baby) or playing with the gas buttons of the cooker (not allowed because although quite desperate not yet ready to commit family mass suicide and also because food simply will not cook unless heat is applied to it by means of gas, and no food means more HUNGER, see above). it's true that isabelle wanted a snack RIGHT NOW, and no she couldn't wait for dinner (maybe because she knew that without gas she'd be waiting a long time) and could i read a book to her, and could i play the evil step-mother in cinderella, and could i please right now, right now...

as i was shutting my camera, and to my great surprise, my mouth opened, and a roar rose from my toes. it filled the space with sound. no words, just this wall of sound, for protection. i saw their eyes shut down, the lights going out. shock absorption. i felt myself disappear, further and further away.

and then for once, just for this once, i managed to stop right there. it wasn't hard, really, i simply turned off the sound tap. and felt, gropingly, for the furry thing underneath the sound. the tight tight chest, the turning churning stomach. the ache in the belly. the stone in the throat.

i sat down on the floor and cried. until they crawled off their perch and came to comfort me.

i know what i need. i need a nap-sitter. i need someone to come in, maybe for just one hour every day, after lunch, so that i can sleep. and then i promise, i solemnly swear, i will be human again.

tattoo

marc took this picture last week. she was running around naked with her little boy friend, 'wij zijn echte piraten, mama!'. the little boy is leaving for Senegal in two weeks time. most of the time, she doesn't know what that means, but then suddenly it hits her, and she bursts into tears. she will be missing him. he is her special friend. such a big girl. rings under her eyes, going to bed too late, waking up too early. and things on her mind. things she doesn't always share anymore. her hair so wild. a soft nest for invisible birds. 'mama, mijn haar is echt een jungle... kijk daar komt de tijger, grwraaaah!'. when she can't sleep in the evenings, she sits with us on the little balcony up front, watching the night blanket cover the town, sipping fresh mint tea with honey. telling stories. the other night, right in front of us, the big dipper. 'mama', she said, 'het is de eerst keer dat ik echte sterren zie... mama, zijn de sterren ver?'. and she has a tatoo. my girl.

rainy day

wet washing

on the balcony

getting wetter

variation on cobra pose

lie flat on your belly
with a cat sprawled on your buttocks
inhale and raise yourself on your hands
shoulders low, neck long
exhale all the air in your lungs
keep the position and squeeze the root lock

have an 11-month old stand by your head
grab you by the ears
kiss you on the mouth
jump up and down using your (low) shoulders for support
smile at you

when you cannot hold on anymore
exhale
and
release the position

continue for three minutes

mama...

... there is a fly in my soup...

quant a moi...

"Dim wings will close over our conniving brains no matter what and so we lose ourselves most happily in tasks that partake of the eternal. And once we realize that nothing really does, anything can -- pulling weeds, picking apples, putting children to bed."

Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay's Dance

... i have found, for a moment, a long, warm, sunny, lazy, fruity, summery moment, peace and joy in this truth.

midsummer

the time when seeds planted in the early spring come to fruition:

marc got himself a fancy new job
isabelle got herself some snazy new shoes (only to be worn at special moments on special days...)
we signed the contract for the farm
and antoine stood up

light

this is an ode to my babyphone. or rather to one particular ex-piece (ex because deceased) of my ex-babyphone (ex because not been used as such for years due to a) the waves not being good for babies and b) being able (unsurprisingly) to hear the babies just fine without any electronic equipment).

the night-light though... that little piece of magic. it has been with me since the very first days of isabelle's life, when i discovered that although it did not provide enough light to change a nappy in the dead of night (especially if the hands doing the changing were inexperienced, the temperature in the bedroom sub-polar and the brain commanding the hands dead), it did give off just the right amount of light for reading in bed without waking up the baby.

i am one of those people who cannot go to sleep without having read something. whether it's the user manual of my toilet brush or a treatise on ancient greek metre, it matters not at all. as long as i read something. so the night-light has been a saviour, and i have dragged it with me to every single overnight address we have been to in the last four and a half years.

when antoine came along, and isabelle began her slow migration to the other room, as one baby body replaced another, my faithful night-light remained. until the fateful day .... when antoine learnt to turn over, and discovered my secret.

that boy knows treasure when he sees it. for a brief but passionate moment, he adored the night-light...

...and drooled over it. to death. i know one is not allowed to cry over a piece of electronic equipment, and yet that is just what i did. so much more than a few wires, this little white box had been my main-stay, my muse, my pacifier, my sanity.

now it was gone. and i disconsolate. then, a while ago, staying with a friend at the beach-house, i heard her say she might take a candle to bed... to read.

oh, i know how dangerous it is. especially with the mosquito-net hanging over us. but i am ever so careful. and aware. and in love. with the soft candle-light drawing gentle shadow plays on my son's sleeping face. with the flame in the glass, dancing to the rhythms of the night-time breeze. with the sun-like rays of light on the wooden boards of our bedroom; with the scent of beeswax mixed with that of sun-bleached sheets and mama-milk. and blowing out the candle, every night, the smell of smoke my last memory.

Marseillan

...and what have they been up to?

hanging up the wash...

teaching herself to write and read...

... and shining on us.

from the berm

i used to live here. thought i'd pay a visit. maybe stay for a while.

they say it takes a year for the world to return to normal after a baby, but really, it never does, does it, the returning world is a different world altogether. i needed these days away from the computer. to re-evaluate. thought of changing this blog to a different format: more art, less self-absorption. but that sounded (and was) prissy. thought of quitting altogether. because living the moment seemed more important than recording it.

and life was there, a difficult phase, much insecurity, on many personal fronts.

feeling a bit hoarse now, but also aware that i've been missing this space. and aware of the value of rowing with the oars you have. these here are my oars.

so what have i been up to? mostly, stealing wild flowers from the many berms along dutch roads.

cat tails

I.
our cats are having a fight. it happens at least once a year and the scenario is always the same: the black cat (known for her adventurous spirit and generally grumpy disposition) comes home smelling funny. the tortoise cat (known for her extreme stupidity, lovely disposition and utter unwillingness to venture outside) does not recognize the smell and assumes this is some foreign cat trying to invade the kingdom. Big fight (with blood-chilling screaming chases through the house in the dead of night) as the tortoise attempts to remove the intruder.

a few days go by. the black cat's smell returns to normal. the tortoise, delighted to see (or rather sniff) her long-lost friend, makes overtures. to no avail. 'yeah right!' seems to say the black, 'like i'm likely to trust YOU again...'.

why does this remind me of people's fights?

II.
Isabelle wanted to know why the cats were having a fight. i explained.

- ... but Likkepot (tortoise) can see it's Minou (black), can't she?
- yes, but Minou smells different. with people, the eyes are more important than the nose, so if a man comes in who smells like Papa but doesn't look like Papa, you will think it's not Papa, and if a man comes in who looks like Papa but smells different, you will think it is Papa, right?
- yes...
- well, with cats, it's the other way around, the nose is more important than the eyes, so if it doesn't smell like someone you know, it's not someone you know...
- ... oh, so she doesn't know it's Minou?
- no.

... and that got me thinking, about this 'knowing' business. why do i so easily assume that the cats are wrong and i am right? why would my reality be more real than theirs? when i was pregnant with Isabelle, i thought Marc smelled funny. i didn't want to lie down next to him, and generally avoided being within smelling distance (not easy if you share a bed, a 40 square metres house and an unborn child). i assumed it was still Marc though. but what if it wasn't, not really. what if changes in smell indicated changes in other things, things that influence how someone behaves or responds, and who they are?

(and what if it was time to quit these philosophical feline musings and get my sorry ass into bed????)