Sunday Mornings in Belgium

Americans have reputation for being on the go 24/7—and they’ve earned it. We’re the country that has stores and restaurants that never close, highways that hum with traffic round the clock, and people who rarely slow down. The only time Americans come close to truly relaxing is on Sunday mornings. In America, this is the day most people sleep late, savor an extra cup of coffee, read the newspaper, and linger in their pajamas. No one is eager to get out of the house.

Not so here in Belgium. I am continually amazed at how the world wakes up and gets moving early on Sunday mornings. People queue up at the bread store and the line snakes out the door and onto the sidewalks. The spirited shouts of soccer players drift off the fields as teams play matches early in the day. Even with most shops closed, the village centers pulse with activity. Couples, families, dog walkers—they’re all out, chatting and strolling along the sidewalks.

But the real action is in the streets. Yes, Sunday mornings belong to cyclists in Belgium. Clad in aerodynamic outfits on sleek touring bikes, cycling club members dominate the roads, moving in colorful packs through neighborhood streets and along major byways.

They seem to be whizzing by if you’re standing on the sidewalk as they pass, but if you’re driving a car, and encounter large groups of cyclists, it seems they’re crawling along, legs pumping furiously while their bicycles move in slow motion. This is a scenario we’re all too familiar with because we attend church services in Waterloo on Sundays and meet many cyclists on our way.

There are days when this puts us in a less-than-Christian state of mind. One morning when we were grumpy and running late, we found ourselves in the middle of a cycling event in our commune and completely engulfed by bicycles at a traffic light. They were inches away from the front and rear bumpers as well as the sides of the car. I was terrified E-Man would hit one of them and told him to watch his driving; the group included not just typical cycling team members but families with children.

Since we were already in bad moods, the comment led to a nasty exchange as he assured me yes, he could see ALL the cyclists, he noticed the children, and he KNEW how to drive, thank you very much! I countered that it wasn’t about HIM and his driving skills but about bicycles and stopping distances and the laws of physics and human mortality. He rolled his eyes and asked me if I was wearing my glasses. Oh, the nerve! I resisted the impulse to remind him he is BLIND in one eye. Ah yes, quite a row. Not our proudest moment—and all on the way to church. How lovely!

Last Sunday could have gone the same way. Streets were closed throughout Tervuren due to a world championship cycling event at the park. We’d left the house early because E-Grrrl was going to be participating in the church service that day and was very excited about it.

When we realized one of the roads we normally take was closed, we didn’t’ panic, but took another, only to discover farther down the way that the adjoining street we needed was also unavailable. We stopped to ask a police officer who was directing traffic how to get where we needed to be going. He advised us to turn around and follow the “deviation” signs and they would eventually send us in the direction of the Ring.

And so we did. The signs took us all the way back the way we’d already come, wandered through Everberg, and then disappeared, leaving us in a residential neighborhood in the middle of nowhere. All was not lost, however.

E-Man, also known as Mappy, has an awesome sense of direction and, I’m convinced, a GPS system hard-wired into his brain. He often tells the natives the best way to get around their own towns. Somehow he managed to get us back on track and on our way to church, but when all was said and done, we probably drove a good 10-15 miles out of our way.

Despite all this, we arrived at church only six minutes after the service had commenced—but too late for E-Grrrl to do the reading she’d been assigned. We spent more time in the car getting to church than we did in church.

But I’m happy to report that this time we took our cycling adventure in stride. E-Grrrl, while disappointed, understood we had done our best to be there on time and accepted that with grace beyond her years. E-Man,  whose unofficial hobby is finding the shortest path between two geographic points, didn’t get horribly frustrated by our meandering tour of the back roads of Belgium. And me, I managed not to gasp or clutch my heart as we rocketed around the Ring that morning, even though I’m normally a skittish passenger who often has to close her eyes and consciously slow her breathing while riding in cars in Belgium.

So even though my darling daughter didn’t get to read in church, the day was memorable nonetheless. Maybe we’re finally applying all those wonderful truths dispensed in church to our Sunday morning drives to church.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 12, 2006

Reflections on The Pursuit of Dust vs. The Pursuit of Happiness

The good news is that the sun shone in Belgium this past week, an occasion for celebration. As I pulled back the curtains in every room to let the light stream in, I confronted an ugly reality—dust everywhere.

It was dense on the windowsills, a gray scum on our dressers, camouflaged on the bookcases, forming clumps on cobwebs in dark corners, sullying the china cabinets, dimming the glass mirrors, and whitening the black electronics.

The benefit of gray days, failing vision, and a poorly lit house is that I’ve been spared the sight of the dust and grime building on so many surfaces. The top of the toaster and kettle, the inside of the microwave, the hood over the stove, the curves of the lamp base. In the dim light of an average Belgian day, I am blissfully ignorant of the dust invasion, the subtle shift from clean to dirty. Each day my eyes are glued to the words on my computer monitor or the intricacies unfolding in the world outside my window.  Dust is just dust in the background of my life. I'll address it when I address it.

My mother would be appalled. Even with six kids and her invalid mother under the roof, she kept a spotless house. She was always in motion and always tired. She weighed only 120 pounds but her feet slapped the floor with purpose. When she walked through the house, she sounded like a burly soldier marching off to war. Yes, she took a certain pleasure in her well-scrubbed home, but it was clear it was also a burden to her. As I moved through my teens, I sensed she was on auto pilot, doing her duty, waiting for her life to change, biding her time. As the years went by, the joy imperceptibly drained from her in a slow leak of disappointments.

This may explain why my own house is not like the house I grew up in, and why I find housework less and less satisfying the older I get. There was a time when my whole house got thoroughly cleaned every week and underwent “spring cleaning” twice a year. Now I do what’s necessary and leave the rest until the spirit moves me or company comes (I have my pride). The E-Man, who really likes a clean house, tolerates my approach and cleans the things he can’t live with.

Which brings me to this poem by Erica Jong:

Woman Enough

Because my grandmother's hours
were apple cakes baking,
& dust motes gathering,
& linens yellowing
& seams and hems
inevitably unraveling
I almost never keep house
though really I like houses
& wish I had a clean one.
Because my mother's minutes
were sucked into the roar
of the vacuum cleaner,
because she waltzed with the washer-dryer
& tore her hair waiting for repairmen
I send out my laundry,
& live in a dusty house,
though really I like clean houses
as well as anyone.
I am woman enough
to love the kneading of bread
as much as the feel
of typewriter keys
under my fingers
springy, springy.
& the smell of clean laundry
& simmering soup
are almost as dear to me
as the smell of paper and ink.
I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.
I sit at my typewriter
remembering my grandmother
& all my mothers,
& the minutes they lost
loving houses better than themselves
& the man I love cleans up the kitchen
grumbling only a little
because he knows
that after all these centuries
it is easier for him
than for me.

Poem copyrighted by Erica Jong. See www.ericajong.com for more on the author.

Text copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 11, 2006

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

The Christmas tree had not even been taken down when the first spring/summer catalogs appeared in my mailbox last week. With temps in the 30s, the work day starting and ending in the dark, and snow drifting in and out of the weekly forecasts, the last thing I wanted to see was gauzy skirts and camisoles and t-shirts with palm trees on them. They made me shiver and shrink in my skin. And after weeks of overeating and under-exercising, I sure didn’t appreciate the allure of bathing suits.

I’m sure some marketing genius believes that in the coldest days of winter, I’ll want to escape to the sunny pages of their catalog and be seduced by their bright colors and carefree vibe. They are SO wrong. Forget hot, sexy, and tan. My mind and my reality are a thousand miles away from that. I don’t’ want to buy shorts and tank tops--I want to bury my dietary and fitness indiscretions in my winter clothes, which are so tactile and so forgiving.

I love winter clothes and hate to give them up in the spring. I can’t resist the instant warmth of fleece, the coziness of a wool cardigan, the buttery nap of corduroy pants, the luxury of a camel hair coat, the sophisticated style of a tweed hat, and the down home comfort of an oversized sweatshirt.

Of course, my issues with summer clothes go beyond comfort and are compounded by my age. Sad to say, I am no longer a sweet young thing basking in all a sultry Southern summer has to offer. Gone are the good old days of bikinis and miniskirts, sundresses and tan lines.

Now I’m over 40 and a skin cancer “survivor” who avoids the harsh light of day like a vampire and ends up dressing like an orthodox nun, trying to keep everything under wrap. Freckles aren’t cute on me anymore, I live in terror of liver spots (!), and no one is going to see the spider veins on my legs.

Last August when many people were complaining about how the whole summer had been unseasonably cool and rainy, I was secretly happy. I got to wear my jeans, fleece, and jackets all summer long—it was perfect weather for V-Grrrl in the Middle of midlife.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 10, 2006

January

I roll out of bed each morning feeling as stiff-limbed as the trees outside my window. Each time we leave the house, gloves and hats are pulled on, scarves tied, jackets zipped to the collar, boots considered.

Walking the children to the school bus stop in the glow of streetlamps, the world is robed in frost. The fallen leaves glitter in jeweled sweaters, the evergreens wear veils of white, our breath rises in puffs of chiffon. The Christmas trees wait at the curb for redemption. The holiday decorations and cheer have been reluctantly packed away. The landscape is dimmed, frozen and still.

The damp cold slithers between all our layers and squeezes our muscles into knots. A touch of rain, a bit of wind, chills us to the bones. When the day brings sunshine, it’s as thin and comfortless as watered-down soup, but the sky’s stunning blue keeps us looking up.

These days, the kettle hums all day, serving cup after cup of tea. We pass the hand cream and the lip balm and linger longer than necessary in hot steamy showers. At the end of the day, we retreat into books or curl up under blankets and watch movies, tucked snug under the eaves of the attic. The fireplace is a magnet that draws us all together on the big red sofa.

In the kitchen, holiday goodies have been replaced by fruits, nuts, and fresh vegetables. We are all out of excuses. We steel ourselves to brave the elements and resolve to walk, bike, and hike in the brisk air. We purge our cabinets, closets, and hearts of the useless, outgrown, and unhealthy. We box and bag the clutter of our lives and send it out the door. We breathe a little easier. We try to be kinder to ourselves and others and understand there is some junk we can’t let go of—yet.

Renewal lies unseen behind the cold and colorless veneer of January. The calendar promises longer days but the days seem shrunken and old. Inside their dried and withered exteriors are the seeds of new beginnings. Each tiny step in the right direction reminds us that the sun is getting closer, the days are getting longer. If we bide our time and keep seeking the light, we will grow, we will bloom, we’ll be a bright spot in the garden of our lives.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 9, 2006

Give a Grrrl a Hand

It's time for the annual Weblog awards, also known as the Bloggies, which honor top bloggers in a variety of categories.  And while winning a Bloggie is a a long shot, a Grrrl in the Middle has to chase her dreams if she ever hopes to be a Grrrl on Top. 

So if you want to give a Grrrl a hand, visit www.2006.bloggies.com and nominate V-Grrrl in the Middle in any category you think it belongs in.  Also,  this a chance to nominate other award-worthy blogs (see my list at right under Born to Blog).

Be sure to read the contest rules before submitting a nomination. Deadline is January 10!  It just takes a few minutes to fill in the fields at the site. Go for it!

Thanks!

There's got to be an explanation

The darling little E-Grrrl had art club yesterday, and when her dad picked her up after school, she excitedly announced that the Three Kings were coming! She learned this in the class she has on Belgium culture each Thursday.

Yes, here in Belgium, according to her native teacher, the Three Kings deliver gifts on the eve of the Feast of Epiphany (known as Three Kings Day here.) E-Grrrl is so excited! More gifts! More mystery! More excitement! And it’s all happening tonight! Wow! It was quite a surprise to her parents too.

She and her dad had to stop at the best bakery in town to buy a Three Kings cake. Baked into the cake is a trinket of some sort (or a dry bean) and whoever gets the special item in their slice of cake gets to wear a crown and be treated as royalty on Three Kings Day. (You may also get a broken tooth or a first-hand experience with the Heimlech maneuver—it all depends on how lucky you are.)

Last night I discovered a tiny ceramic tile painted with the image of a crown in my piece of cake, and so I am wearing the gold crown provided by the bakery and only answering those who address me as “Your Highness.” Curtsying and bowing are much appreciated, and I’m carrying the little tile in my pocket in case anyone challenges me on my status as Queen.

But enough about me--back to E-Grrrl. After the cake ceremony, she and her brother rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out carrots to leave for the three kings’camels as their teacher had instructed. Then they went to bed in a tizzy, E-Grrrl buzzing with anticipation, her brother nervous and creeped out at the thought of three kings entering the house after he fell asleep. (His mother’s son! I always thought Santa Claus was a bit like a stalker.)

E-Man and I, well we were tired. Very tired. We just didn’t have the energy or resources to tap to celebrate another gift-giving occasion. A month ago, St. Nicholas came and left candy and trinkets in the children’s shoes, just like the Belgian teacher said he would!!! Then of course, Santa Claus had come on Christmas Eve and brought them presents, just like he does in America!!! And now, here it was Three King’s Eve and the kids were ready for more, more, more!!! Mom and Dad crawled into bed on schedule, being sure to say a prayer that God would bless the Belgian culture teacher for sharing these wonderful stories with the kids and asking that in the future, she also share them with the parents so we all can enjoy these Belgian holidays by planning for them.

E-Grrrl woke this morning and greeted her mother in the bathroom with a long face. “They didn’t come! I can’t believe they didn’t come!” She checks for gifts under her bed, in her shoes, in the attic, downstairs, on the window sills—but there are no gifts to be found. She’s crushed. Upset. She’s sure she heard her teacher right. Maybe she left her carrots in the wrong place? Maybe they were coming tonight instead? She’s positive she heard footsteps on the steps last night. Positive!!!

Being a seasoned expat, I can see where things may have gone wrong:

• The Three Kings passports were not in order.
• They didn’t make it through the metal detectors at the check point with all that gold.
• They didn’t have a work permit and visa allowing them to deliver gifts in our neighborhood.
• They failed to register with the appropriate embassies and our commune.
• They didn’t have their Belgian identification cards and were detained by police.
• They got lost—we know how hard it is to navigate in Belgium.
• The camels went on strike demanding fresher carrots, more hay, reduced hours, and early retirement.
• The countries the kings represent are not members of the EU and did not have a trade agreement in place.
• The kings, unfamiliar with Belgian “priority right,” were involved in an unfortunate accident with a Mercedes.
• The kings had issues with NATO policies and boycotted the Brussels area as a result.
• Their royal accountants decided the tax structure in Belgium made it a poor choice for those with extensive assets.
• The camels did not have international health records and were not microchipped so they could not enter the country.

As all of us living in Belgium know, anything is possible. These issues crop up regularly for expats . I’m sure by next year, the three kings will have all their problems resolved and will visit E-Grrrl and her brother as expected.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 6, 2006

The Blank Calendar

One of the most unsettling and yet liberating aspects of being an expatriate is abandoning all the familiarity and comfort of your former life and completely starting over. In our home countries, we build our lives bit by bit, framed by our families, our jobs, our communities, hobbies, volunteer work, and friends. Life takes on a life of its own as our schedules predictably fill with the same activities week after week, month after month, year after year.

And then one day one decides (or is required) to move overseas. Before the move, the calendar becomes crammed with doctor appointments, home maintenance tasks, visits with loved ones, last minute shopping, deadlines for filing paperwork, insurance and banking issues, an international hunt for housing, dates for shipping the car, packing up, and moving out.

In my case, life became a blur, emotions ran high, anxiety and excitement simmered beneath the surface, and the overwhelming desire to “just get it over with” kicked in. Getting on the plane was a relief. Finally, no more preparing for a new life, now it was time to begin living it. In a sense, I thought the most difficult part of moving was behind me.

But shortly after arriving in March and handling a number of administrative tasks on this end, life fell into a pattern for my husband and children. He had a job to report to, my children had school, they all had a schedule and a built-in network of friends and associates. I had a BLANK calendar.

I didn’t know whether to be exhilarated or terrified. No job, no appointments, no volunteer commitments, no social gatherings, no church to attend, no vacations planned, no visits expected, no school sports or extracurricular activities to manage, and oh God, the worst of all—months without Internet access at home to connect me to the world outside. Suddenly I had time on my hands. Lots of time.

That spring, my days stretched before me with equal doses of loneliness and possibility. There were places to see and explore--everything was fresh and every experience a bit of an adventure. But the flip side of that was that nothing was uncomplicated, and sometimes I longed to be able to carry out the simple transactions of life without laboriously researching, planning and second-guessing my every move. Life was full of surprises, but not all of them were good.

I loved reading, people-watching, walking in the city, visiting restaurants, studying life around me. However, there were moments when I tired of being an observer but was uncertain how to be a participant. Just as I’d jettisoned loads of extraneous belongings and considered what to take with me to Belgium, I also had vowed to pack away some of the activities, expectations, and habits I’d been living with in the U.S. and make way for something new. But what?

There were women’s clubs and school associations eager for me to join. There were calls to volunteer in a number of positions and organizations. There were job possibilities, exercise classes, church groups, and classes all demanding my consideration. Despite episodes of loneliness or boredom, I refused to jump blindly into activity for activity’s sake. I kept asking myself, “What do I really want to do?” This seemed like a simple question, which may explain why not being able to answer it immediately left me feeling uncomfortable.

The children’s summer holiday was upon me before I had to time to reach any conclusions, and my days were overtaken with caring for and entertaining them. There was little time for exploring on my own or making friends. Time stood still. I felt stuck.

As August wore on and the children’s summer holiday seemed about three weeks too long, I found my mind returning over and over again to pursuing my life long passion for writing. I had written professionally for years—for newspapers, magazines, and corporations. My professional strengths were rooted in my ability to discern and distill a client’s ideas as well as my ability to deliver a polished draft. Always I wrote on topics that reflected someone else’s interests, in the style they requested. I ghost wrote countless magazine columns and articles, my work appearing under my clients’ bylines. The idea of finally writing for myself appealed to me: picking my own topics, selecting my own style, experimenting a bit, and operating outside the usual boundaries. I wasn’t sure exactly where my writing would take me, but I was committed to following my creative voice wherever it went.

Thus, the moment the children went back to school, I launched my blog, V-Grrrl in the Middle. I set up my own Web site, considered ways to draw readers, and updated it five days a week, writing nearly every morning. With V-Grrrl anchoring my morning, I volunteered to help teach writing to young students at my children’s school one afternoon a week. Soon I began pitching in on other projects there from time to time, getting to know other parents and making friends.

Nine months after arriving in Belgium, I’m happy to say my calendar isn’t full nor is it blank. Like a well designed page, it’s a pleasing mix of content and white space, the practical and the colorful. I’ve rewritten my life one page at a time, uncertain where my story is heading but confident I have the words and the will to deal with whatever unfolds in 2006.

©2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 5, 2006

An Uggly Winter

I’m a late adaptor when it comes to technology and even fashion. About the time everyone else has moved on to the next Big Thing, I’m just getting around to giving the last Big Thing a try. I still don’t have an iPod, I was slow to move to flare jeans, and I didn’t get a laptop or digital camera until fairly recently.

So it’s no surprise that a year or more after the Hollywood Ugg craze peaked, I got my first pair. For those of you who are even more out of touch than I am, Uggs are the bulky, fleecy shearling boots made famous by celebrities like Britney Spears (pre-Kevin), Kate Hudson, Courtney Cox, Sienna Miller, and others who sported them with everything from jeans (thumbs up) to shorts and miniskirts (puh-leese!). Uggs are an Australian classic that became a California fashion statement among the young and hip about two years ago.

Now that they’re off Hollywood’s radar, people like me, the old and not so hip, can wear them without seeming like a Wannabe. While boots spearheaded Uggs expansion into U.S. markets, I started my Ugg collection with a pair of black suede clogs embroidered with a starburst pattern and lined with fluffy sheeps’ wool. They looked comfortable and cozy in the catalog online, so I pointed and clicked and had them delivered to my door in October. While I loved them, they weren’t conducive to quick sprints or long walks to catch the bus or Metro, so I didn’t wear them as often as I’d planned.

While the clogs were a successful purchase, it was the E-Man who sent me into full blown Ugg-stasy. While in Australia in November, he bought me a pair of Ugg slippers, not because he was familiar with the Ugg brand but simply because he thought they looked like something I’d like. OMG—from the moment I slid my feet into the dense plush interior, I was a goner. I looked up at E and said, “I never ever want to leave the house again if it means I have to take off these slippers.”

I’m wearing them as I write this. Can you feel my deep contentment and hear my happy sighs echoing over the Internet? It’s less than 30 degree outside, the sun is faint, the ground covered with a heavy frost, and the ceramic tile floors in my house are delivering a big chill—to everyone but me. Ah! Ah! And “Ah!” again.

To pry me out of my slippers and get me out of the house, Santa delivered Ugg boots on Christmas. Not just any Ugg boots, no a special limited-edition design called the Rock Star. Sounds so me, doesn’t it? (In my wildest dreams!) These brown suede beauties are lined from top to bottom in the same plush fleece sheepskin that made Uggs famous, and the shaft is decorated with bronze studs (or as my son says, “Your boots have a thumb tack tattoo.”).

How could something so warm be so cool?

I never dreamed I’d love being an Uggly Grrrl.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 4, 2006

Nude pictures of Jessica Alba with Tai Shan

By Mike on the Bottom

WASHINGTON --Tai Shan has had all he's going to take and he's not going to take it anymore.

The Giant Panda cub pulled out a revolver and began shooting at photographers when the National Zoo's most famous resident went on public display Tuesday and no one came to see him due to a shift in media attention to a younger, cuter panda cub at the San Diego Zoo.

Two zoo photographers from the Washington Post suffered superficial buttock wounds, and three policemen were treated and released at Howard University Hospital after slipping on donuts.

After a 90-minute standoff with a S.W.A.T. team from the Washington police department, Tai Shan took his own life.

Zoo officials said they had not seen evidence that the panda cub was depressed. "But he did seem more irritable than usual," said a National Zoo spokeswoman.

I made this up, of course. If Tai Shan had a gun, his behavior might warrant the media attention that's drawn reporters from around the world to the National Zoo. Why are reporters losing sleep and expending energy over this? Is this really the most important thing going on in Washington ?

That may be the real story. Read on:

Panda reporters lose sleep, get story, photos

By B. Blair Dedrick -- Scripps Howard Foundation Wire

WASHINGTON - More than 100 reporters, photographers and videographers shared the same fear: that panda cub Tai Shan would be asleep at his media debut Tuesday.

Reporter Michael Zitz Beckham and photographer Suzanne Carr were up at 3 a.m. to make it to the Smithsonian Institution's National Zoo for the 7 a.m. press conference and cub viewing. The two work for The Free Lance-Star in Fredericksburg , Va. , about an hour south of the capital.

"We said we were going to bring a BB gun and shoot him in the butt if he wasn't awake," Beckham joked. "I only got 30 minutes of sleep last night."

The press preview followed viewing days for zoo donors. The public will be allowed to view the cub next week. The 13,000 tickets for December viewings were snapped up within two hours of their release.

As mom Mei Xiang had breakfast in her outdoor enclosure, zookeeper Laurie Perry carried Tai Shan into the indoor exhibit and past the window, crowded with photographers vying for an unobstructed view.

Once he was on his own, the ominous disclaimer from the zoo flashed through everyone's mind: "This is a live animal exhibit - there is no guarantee that the cub will be awake, active or visible." Luckily for news organizations around the world, the 4 ½-month-old was awake and ready to explore, posing for pictures like a pro.

A voice from the crowd of photographers called out, "It's a lot tougher than photographing the president. He has a mind of his own."

The cub turned to face the window and climbed a rocky structure, rambling and struggling over low boulders, his impossibly short legs propelling him.

As he moved to the back of the artificial rock pile, a false step sent him tumbling to the floor, and a collective "oh!" came from his audience of journalists, who, like most people here, have been greatly anticipating seeing the newest member of the panda family.

"I've been here since the beginning," said Danielle Karson, a reporter for WAMU 88.5 FM. Karson was there when Tai Shan's parents, Tian Tian, and Mei Xiang, arrived from China .

"This is nothing," she said, telling of the hundreds of cameras and reporters on that day five years ago. "The Washington area has a love affair with the panda family. The last several years have been so unsuccessful, everyone is just tickled pink that this baby is thriving."

As the zoo's photographer for the past 26 years, Jessie Cohen has witnessed those disappointments. She photographed the first set of pandas, Ling Ling and Hsing Hsing, documenting five unsuccessful pregnancies.

"I've waited a long time to cover a successful birth," Cohen said. She and a videographer have been at eight of the cub's medical exams, working under restrictive conditions, including limited time and bad lighting. "We have to do a lot in a short amount of time and then get out of the way."

Even Channel One Russia, a Russian television station, was at the only zoo event it has attended other than the annual post-Halloween elephant pumpkin stomp, said Sarah Taylor, a zoo spokeswoman.

"Everyone likes at the end of a [news] bulletin something special," said Alexander V. Panov, the station's Washington bureau chief. "Because the panda is worldwide very popular."

Taylor said she knew the panda cub would draw a lot of media attention. "The first thing I was told was, 'You have no idea how the media gets at panda breeding season,'" she said of her first days working at the zoo. "All day Friday and Monday, I couldn't get away from my computer" because so many people were e-mailing and calling about the press preview.

--end --

Blair Dedrick of Scripps Howard was very nice to quote me along with much more important real reporters from around the world.

But my question is, why does everyone else in the mainstream media (and I'm not counting Wonkette.com, which has done some very funny stuff) take the Tai Shan story so seriously?

Mike on the Bottom, aka Michael Zitz Beckham, is a real reporter waiting for nude pictures of Jessica Alba with Tai Shan to show up on the Internet. V-Grrrl prefers photos of Colin Firth—clothed, thank you.

Pop Goes the New Year

My kids were eager to celebrate New Year’s and so we allowed them to plan a family party at home. They decided on a menu (finger sandwiches, lemonade, hot cider, and cake), and organized activities. We did art projects in front of the fire, played pin the “6” on the “2006,” worked on a giant jigsaw puzzle, danced to my daughter’s Hillary Duff CD (I know, I know—the things we do for love), and ate tiny cakes that were like miniature works of art, purchased at a local bakery.

We sent the kids to bed at 9 p.m. and shortly afterwards, settled down with a movie, which ended around 11:30 . We went downstairs, grabbed slices of cake, uncorked the champagne and waited for midnight while we debated which clock in the house was most accurate. (Our last argument of 2005—how romantic!)

At midnight the clock on the church bell tower in the village began chiming and a celebratory roar rose from crowds gathered outside the neighborhood sports club and community center and various nearby houses. Unbeknown to us, New Year’s Eve is the MAJOR fireworks event of the year in Belgium .

The air filled with the pop and hiss of countless fireworks displays and the sky shimmered with flashes and bursts of light. Amazed by the displays going on just outside our doors, we rushed to the third-floor of our house to catch the panoramic view from the attic. Our house is one of the tallest in the neighborhood and has a fabulous view of parts of the village, surrounding farmland, and the distant city.

The horizon was peppered with at least ten major fireworks displays and rockets and sparklers soared from homes and small neighborhoods in between. What we first thought was ground fog rising was actually smoke gathering from all the pyrotechnics. We sipped champagne and watched the spectacle beyond our window with an air of disbelief. Who knew staying home for New Year’s Eve would be so awesome?

We thought fondly of those we’d gathered with in years past to ring in the New Year. We remembered how we felt in 2005, anticipating a move to Belgium but not sure it would really happen. And we marveled that here we were a year later living an entirely different life. 2005 had been a year full of excitement and stress, exhilaration and low moments, and change, change and more change.

We’d had moments when we felt ill at ease or frustrated, times when we deeply missed home, and then days when we felt incredibly lucky and realized there were many aspects of European life that we preferred to life in the U.S.

2006 will be the year we decide whether to stay here for three years (our original agreement) or extend to a five year commitment. Dozens of factors need to be considered and weighed, and it will be a very tough call. But last night, with fireworks lighting the sky and happy voices filling in the air, we realized how much we like living in Belgium .

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 1, 2006