The Way-Too-Common Cold

I woke up before the alarm went off this morning not because I was feeling fine and well rested but because my head was aching, my nose was congested, and my mouth was dry. Yes, once again Andrew, Emily, and I are all suffering with the way-too-common cold. Since I was awake early, I decided to go down and fix the kids a real breakfast: eggs, toast, grits and hot tea with chasers of Tylenol and Sudafed.

Andrew and I were both up in the night, drinking water, grabbing lip balm and dabbing vile Vapo-Rub under our noses. I can’t take decongestants at all and he can’t take them at night so we rely on the greasy, nasty smelling substance that is as revolting as it is effective.

I wanted to keep Andrew home from school, but instead I sent him because he has several tests today that I don’t want him to miss and have to make up later. Fourth grade has proved to be challenging, and his teacher holds him to a high standard. We spend a lot of time on homework, and we’re trying to do better this quarter because last quarter was lackluster. It is all too easy to get behind and harder to catch up.

Still, while my intentions are good, I feel guilty. Part of me knows that when you have a cold, you always feel the worst when you first get up and then you feel better. But I also know that sending him to school with a cold and a pocket full of Kleenex exposes other kids to the same fate. Yesterday I was at school teaching writing to second graders, and it seemed nearly every kid in the class had sniffles. It’s that time of year. I tell myself if I kept the kids home for every head cold, they would miss a lot of school. He isn’t coughing, sneezing or running a fever, I rationalize, we can deal with this. Another good sign: he eats an enormous breakfast, and I’m glad I took the time to fix it.

I make sure Andrew is dressed warmly in his softest sweats. I load his pockets with Kleenex and Chapstick. I tell him to call me if he doesn’t feel better by lunch time. I’m hoping the medication will relieve the hungover feeling you get with a cold overnight, and he’ll do OK.

Meanwhile, I’m popping some ibuprofen and drinking lots of tea, trying to relieve my aching head. Wish I could take something for my guilty heart. There is no cure for the common cold--or the difficulty and self-doubt of parenting.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 17, 2005

My Glamorous Virtual Life

I got an e-mail linking me to the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog online and with the click of a mouse, I’m one of the Beautiful People. I’m rubbing shoulders with perfectly coiffed blondes and chiseled-chin men, and we’re all at a fabulous party in a place where everything speaks of wealth and elegance.

I see myself in the 18-karat white-gold diamond circle necklace with matching earrings, the black Vera Wang dress with the hand-beaded hem, the Manolo Blahnik sandals that cost more than a month of groceries, and that Tory Burch velvet clutch bag that is a “bargain” at only $378. A bargain, that is, compared to the horrific Fendi fox-fur bag that is ugly, tacky, and a crime against nature. It costs a whopping $2,100.

This a world where the food is fine and the wine is better. The laughter bubbles merrily and everyone is smart and somewhat famous. The 3-inch heels never hurt your feet, your date never acts like a jerk, your stomach never pooches out and ruins the line of your dress. You have just the right amount of cleavage to channel sexy but tasteful. Your arms and shoulders are defined and tanned, even though it’s the dead of winter. The dark lipstick you’re wearing makes you look like a model, not a vampire. Your hair is not frizzy, your roots are not showing, and your face glows with happiness, not oily shine. It’s the first of many parties and you don’t think of the kids for a moment because they’re home with the nanny. Life is good.

Ah, there’s the good life, and then there’s the real life, where I doubt I’ll be invited to any holiday parties, let alone any that require evening attire. There is no slinky dress, sequined clutch, strappy sandals, or diamond jewelry in my short-term forecast. No sleek and sinewy body, no perfectly styled hair, no dark lipstick, no bright white teeth. No people sipping champagne and gazing into a starry night as the moon rises over the water. No enormous chandeliers, marble floors, or gilded mirrors. No endless sparkling conversation.

And that’s OK. Give me a fire and Irish coffee. The company of friends. A Christmas tree with ornaments made by the kids. A plate of dark chocolate truffles. Laughter that makes my mascara run and my stomach hurt. Big hugs at the door coming and going. And a starry, starry night to remind me of the blessings that sparkle in my corner of the world.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 16, 2005

V-Grrrl Gets Crafty

When it comes to crafts and the domestic arts, I’m a loser. I would not even earn a medal in the Special Olympics of Crafting because I don’t even make it to the starting line. I’m the type of woman they would have burned at the stake  hundreds of years ago, the towns’ people convinced I must be a witch devoted to the black arts seeing as I am clearly not devoted to domestic arts.

I’m an average cook and I’m good at laundry—the essential home processes. That’s it. I don’t sew, I don’t knit, I don’t stitch. I don’t scrapbook, I don’t paint ceramics, I can’t throw a pot. I don’t quilt, I don’t arrange flowers, I don’t make holiday decorations. I don’t garden, I don’t sketch, I don’t paint. I don’t make preserves, I don’t make Halloween costumes, and hell I don’t even bake cookies.

But I admire those who do.

I took three art classes my last year in college and was hooked. Back home in the States, I went to galleries nearly every week to see what was new in the art world. I have a weakness for watercolors, rustic pottery, and handmade jewelry. I longed to win the Lotto so I could afford some of the paintings I so admired. I loved to attend church bazaars to buy handmade hats and scarves, cross-stitched Christmas ornaments, embroidered linens, decorative wreaths, and chances to win a quilt. Yeah, I’m one of those people who fakes domestic talent with the help of my checkbook.

My sister-in-law G, however, is the real deal. She makes award-winning quilts. She can knit a traditional Icelandic sweater or a hip and cozy poncho. She can upholster a chair and make window treatments to match. She decorates cakes like a professional. She creates beautiful shadow-box collages. She gives handmade gifts, including crocheted baby blankets, American Girl doll clothes, and custom quilts. When her daughter was small, she made her a long Victorian-style coat, dark red with black satin braided trim and enough flare to make it a joy to twirl in. My daughter wears it now and loves it so much we had her professionally photographed in it. She worships her Aunt G.

You probably envision G as some quiet, meek homebody in a Super Mom sweatshirt who vacuums every day and watches Leave It to Beaver reruns on some obscure cable channel while her knitting needles click away and the meatloaf browns in the oven. You would be so wrong. G, my friends, is a prosecuting attorney for the U.S. Department of Justice. G specializes in white-collar crime and money-laundering schemes and reduces people to shadows of their former selves in the courtroom. She’s taken on high-profile cases and had FBI protection when things got hot. She has a degree in Russian and psychology and is every bit as smart as she is talented and ambitious.

I am never going to be like G. I’m just proud to be related to her.

But I’m taking baby steps toward a more crafty existence because Shirl Grrrl, my pal since middle school, has inspired me to flex my creative muscles on something other than the computer. A few years ago, Shirl Grrrl took up rubber stamping, a hobby that has burgeoned in the era of scrapbooking and paper crafts. She makes incredible cards layering paper and stamped images, using a variety of inks, coloring with pastels or watercolors, and adding other embellishments. Each one is a mini-work of art in an envelope, and Shirl holds workshops on how to make cards and do other forms of decorative stamping. She also sells all the materials. I thought this would be a hobby my artistic daughter would love. She admires Shirl’s cards as much as I do, so I requested a catalog from Shirl and soon it was tagged with Post-it notes. Wow, so many cool things—and not just for my daughter. Maybe I could do this too!

I sent Shirl a preliminary list of the stamps I liked and asked what else I would need to get started with stamping. Well, let me just say it’s not as simple a process as it looks, so my initial list (and my investment) grew. Quite a lot.

But in the coming weeks, a big brown box filled with stamping supplies and card stock and pastels and a paper cutter will arrive on my doorstep, along with instructions from Shirl on how to use all this stuff. I’m sure I’ll be getting online “tech support” as well as I venture into the world of domestic art.

I’m heady with the idea that I may be on my way to becoming a stamping artist and a craft goddess. With the help of Shirl Grrrl, Queen of the Stamping Wrrrld, I can finally BE SOMEONE and wipe the big L off my forehead. ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 15, 2005

Maternal Overload

Did you hear that? That was my sigh of relief. The kids are back in school today. Thank God!

Since the E-Man left for Australia more than a week ago, I’ve been outnumbered and outgunned. I’ve been a hostage to the demands of domestic terrorists—who are forever hungry, often bored, and slavishly devoted to littering every flat surface in the house. The word “Mama” is carved into my eardrums. I feel like the pooper scooper at the back of their parade. I could not wait to push them onto the school bus this morning. And this makes me feel guilty. Why is spending protracted periods of time alone with my own offspring such torture?

Before E left, I had a few Norman Rockwell moments imagining how the kids and I might spend their five-day break. I imagined us baking bread or making cookies, doing Christmas crafts, maybe taking the train to a new destination. Instead I woke up every morning to an enormous mess in the kitchen from their unsupervised and unapproved cooking projects. By the time I’d finish shuffling through the wreckage of their adventures, my slippers sticking to the filthy floor, they would have moved on to other pursuits, and I’d have chased any thoughts of recipes, arts and crafts, or travel from my brain. I was forever on the defensive, dedicated to damage control.

During their little vacation (aka my home confinement), the hamster’s cage broke under rather suspicious circumstances. My son declared with authority that since Lefty’s cage was now BROKEN, we HAD to buy him the new one that my son had spotted (and coveted) in the local pet shop. Being an Alpha Bitch Mother, I told darling son that I was not spending one more euro on hamster toys or accessories, and that if he wanted a new cage, every cent for it would come out of his allowance. This sent darling son into an angry sulk which drove him to tease and annoy his sister as well as nag his mother ENDLESSLY about the f-----g hamster cage. I am not fond of hamsters (a pet rodent--what was I thinking!), but I do secretly admire the hamster mothers for eating their young. They’re damn smart animals.

Foiled in his attempts to wring a new hamster habitat out of his mother, my son decided to “re-engineer” the existing cage, and he cut his arm with a pocketknife in the process. He then spilled all the band-aids and left them scattered all over the floor, along with the paper wrapper and tabs for the one he used. With his injury treated, he proceeded to continue work on the cage, spilling hamster bedding in nearly every room of the house AND the bathtub.

My beautiful, sweet-natured, girly girl who smothers me with hugs and kisses, left a wake of books, clothes, art supplies, school papers, hair accessories, pencils, papers, scissors, and clippings across all three floors of the house. She seemed incapable of even lining up her single pair of sneakers in the foyer. I labored for hours in her room, getting her permission to thin down the toys that take over. I spent a good part of two days in there and swept it clean right down to the floor. In the end, it looked like a room from a Pottery Barn catalog—all white and pastel and fresh as spring flowers. That lasted less than 10 hours. She and her brother dumped the doll bins and pulled the mattress (and the dust ruffle) off the bed and pulled up all the rugs in their quest to create a “baby hospital.” They also completely soaked several towels, a rug, and EVERY wash rag in the bathroom, which I might add, had several piles of wood shavings from the hamster cage in it plus a sink full of marbles. Yes, marbles. Why they’re in the sink—I have no idea. There were wet socks all over the floor and wet hamster bedding in the tub.

Tired of either cleaning their messes myself or nagging them into doing it, I declared we were not leaving the house for any reason until the house was clean. They responded by reading all day, talking about how tired they were, and declaring after hanging up a jacket or two that they “had already cleaned.”

I demanded they clean the kitchen floor, which had, among other things, melted butter, wheat germ, and apple sauce on it. They surprised me by cheerfully taking on this task and doing it well—but that was it. No more. Despite repeated requests, the hamster junk was not swept up, the tub not scrubbed, the beds not made, the toys not put up, and all the jetsam and flotsam of their existence not put into its proper place. So we all stayed home. Even though I didn’t have eggs, bread, or cheese left, we did not go to the grocery store. We skipped a planned trip to the library and didn’t take a ride on the Metro. They were not permitted to have friends over.

Finally, on the last day of their break, they rallied and cleaned. Not perfectly but good enough. Really, they have no idea what a slacker mom I am. Their Dad would not have let them go so far and would have disciplined them much more stringently than me.

Today I leave them to the professionals and do a happy dance. I get the house to myself until 3:30 p.m. , when I’ll begin the task of supervising homework, music practice, showers, tooth brushing and bedtime. Oh yeah, I plan to cook dinner too. Still a tough gig, but at least I have from 8 a.m. on to get ready for it.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved

November 14, 2005

Things to Do Before I Die

Bestsellers, self-help seminars, and TV shows have focused on this topic. There are people that make these sorts of lists and systematically plan how to accomplish all their goals.

This is so NOT me.

I can’t even make the list. I have no lofty goals. I never live my life on those terms.

I don’t believe there’s some list of destinations and accomplishments that will make me feel complete and at peace. I am completely and utterly into the journey. Into the day to day, only slightly curious about where life will take me, acutely aware that I can’t fast forward or turn back the clock and that ultimately that is a good thing.

The here and now. This moment. Sitting at the computer on a damp gray Saturday morning that smells like burnt butter (thanks to my son’s culinary adventures), listening to my kids clean the mess they made in the kitchen (knowing that they’re making a bigger mess in the process), realizing there are dirty bathrooms, a nasty litter box, and piles of laundry waiting for my attention. It doesn’t sound good, does it?

But I also know there are hidden joys in this day waiting to be discovered, and my goal is spot them amid the clutter and mundane tasks that face me. As Granola Grrrl has implied, there isn’t a bus or shortcut to Enlightenment (or Joy or Meaning or Peace or God or whatever it is you seek!) There’s only you and the road you’re on.

Savor the journey and in the words of every geeky modern mom on the planet, “Make good choices!” ; )

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

November 12, 2005

Overheard at My House

10-year-old son to his 8-year old sister who has just dropped a pink stuffed bunny while crossing the street:

“Quick! Pick it up before it becomes road kill!”

8-year-old daughter to her 10-year-old brother:

“Get the hamster’s cage out my room right now—it smells like, like, like BURNT BROCCOLLI!”

Oscar and Felix

E-Man , eyeing a brand new ironing board, purchased 7 months ago and still shrink-wrapped in plastic: “Um, can I move this down to the basement since it’s not used much?” (The master of understatement)

V-Grrrl : “Yeah. And take the iron too. [Still in box, never used] And cheer up, honey, I’m sure your next wife will iron and your life will finally be wrinkle-free.”

Children’s Church

Priest addressing children: “And when did God rest? When did he take a break?”

8-year-old daughter : “On the Seventh Day!”

Priest , impressed my brilliant offspring said “seventh day” rather than Sunday: “Ah, a true Sunday school scholar. And why did God rest? Did God really need to rest?”

8-year-old daughter : “He rested to get ready for MONDAY!”

10-year-son commenting on the petite stature of a school mom:

“She’s not a big honking Mama. She’s more of a toy breed.”

[Note: V-Grrrl is a Big Honking Mama]

Unseen Forces in the Universe

OK, there are all sorts of TV programs dealing with the paranormal, but one subject is never explored that affects thousands of women every day. I’m talking about the mysterious forces that tangle and mangle bracelets and necklaces while we sleep and our jewelry is supposedly secure and at rest in our jewelry boxes.

This topic is high on my list of unexplained acts of nature because today I stopped in at the spa at the Embassy to see if I could get my daughter a haircut. Our stylist was booked, but I noticed the massage therapist wasn’t busy and so on the spur of the moment, I decided to get a massage. I have never gotten a professional massage before, but since I’ve been a little depressed, the E-Man is out of town, and my chiropractor is on holiday, it seemed like a better than excellent idea. I needed it mentally and physically.

So I undress and remove my jewelry, which includes a 24-inch gold chain with a diamond heart pendant. The E-Man gave this to me in college for surviving a brutal session of summer school, and it has a lot of sentimental value. Because of this, I’m extra careful with it as I take it off and refasten the ends of the chain together before laying the necklace in the little ceramic tray in the room.

Before long I’m face down on the table, oiled like a body builder, and loving life. The massage therapist spends 45 minutes untying the knots in my muscles, loosening my joints, and revving up my circulation. When the massage is over and I’m getting back into my clothes, I lift up my diamond necklace and notice immediately it has a knot in the chain. How is it possible that while the therapist was working out my kinks the necklace was getting kinky?

I try to unravel the mess in the chain and can’t do it. I blame it on the dim lighting and my lack of glasses and just put it in my pocket to work on later. When I get home, I pick at the links only to reach a point where I’m down to the end and it looks like a Chinese puzzle—one piece apparently having slid through another but refusing to reverse itself.

How is that possible? Why does this happen? And who’s going to get to the bottom of this mystery (and untangle my chain)? Are there pissed-off pixies at work in the world? Grouchy gremlins? Evil elves? Aliens seeking accessories? Bad-ass borrowers? Mind-bending magnetic forces? Part-time poltergeists? Sinister spirits?

Enquiring minds want to know. 

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 9, 2005

Breakfast of Champions

It’s Wednesday. It’s cold. It’s gray.

The kids are off from school, but the alarm clock went off at 6:25 a.m. anyway. How did that happen? I went back to sleep and rolled out of bed at 8:40 a.m. only to discover the kids had made “cookies” using sugar, graham cracker crumbs, and peanutbutter. Apparently the floor was an integral part of the process. At least that’s how it looks.

Oh God. Slept so much and still so tired. Feel hungover. Bad, bad hair. Worse kitchen. Teacher conferences today----aargh!

I’m starting my day at the top of the food pyramid by eating Mentos for breakfast. I guess this means five servings of fruits and vegetables for lunch and eleven servings of whole grains for dinner. If I eat the peanut butter “cookies” with a glass of milk, will that count as protein?

You know, Mentos actually make a good breakfast—all minty and fresh when the rest of me is stale and rumpled. I'm counting on my shower to revive body and spirit. More later. Maybe.

It's not a small world after all....

This morning, just as it was time to head out the door, A said, “I’m out of notebook paper at school!” And so begins a frantic search for notebook paper, and then an equally frenzied search to find a folder to transport it to school so it doesn’t wind up as a crumpled mess in his backpack.

A file folder would be ideal but do I have any file folders? Nooooo! Why? Because I failed to stock up on them before I left the U.S. and now we’re completely out. Why not buy them here you ask? Because European paper is not the same size as American paper. Their paper and their file folders are too big for my file cabinet.

In my life abroad, it’s little things like this that chafe and burn. Discovering I can’t buy 8.5 x 11 inch paper here. Trying to find wide-ruled notebook paper. Not being able to get a big map of the U.S. to help Andrew with geography. Being forced to pay $100 for printer cartridges for my new Dell printer through a dealer in the Netherlands. I tried to order a stockpile of office supplies online only to discover most U.S. companies don’t ship to APO addresses and international shipping charges are monstrous. Other companies will ship to an APO, but it’s a hassle. I have to fill out paperwork, establish an account, and can’t order online. I won’t have those file folders any time soon!

At the grocery store, I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. Another time I thought I had purchased a block of cheddar cheese, but when I unwrapped it, it smelled so vile I tossed it straight into the trash. Imagine my shock when I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. So yes, the dairy section at the grocery store leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I finally found a Dutch-English dictionary to help me grocery shop. That in itself took weeks of searching.

Meanwhile, we’ve been trying to get our oil changed for months. We have a 1999 Oldsmobile and can’t get oil filters for it here. For E to change it, he needs not only the oil filters but also a special tool to reach and remove the cap to the oil pan which is nestled in a cramped space in the undercarriage. We can’t find the filters or the tool and have family trying to ship them to us. When E’s tire gauge broke, we searched high and low for a replacement without luck. When he went to put air into the tires, he realized they don’t measure tire pressure here in PSI. Thank God he’s a geeky engineer because he had to convert to metric measurements in his head on the spot.

When we can find what we need, it’s often so expensive we cringe. Yes, we needed a jump start once and the mobile auto service wanted to charge us in excess of $300 for that. Oil changes that cost $32 at a Jiffy Lube in the U.S. cost more than $200 here. Ditto car tires—if you can find the right size locally, they are expensive. Ordering from the U.S., we run into complications or excessive expenses shipping.

We received our Belgian car tax bill recently. It was more than $1,400. Yes, that’s a rather large tax bill for a 1999 Oldsmobile. Unlike in the U.S., the tax isn’t based on the value of the vehicle; it’s based on the size of the engine. (Damn, we should NOT have had a v8.) Thank God we get a stipend to off set the cost of gas here—close to $8 a gallon. Because owning one car is painful enough, our plans to buy a second car have been dropped.

Before we moved, we read at least a dozen guides to living abroad, living in Belgium, and the issues of expatriate life. What to bring, what to do, what to expect—the books and Web sites were packed with information, most of it helpful. But many things fall between the cracks, and day in and day out, our lives are peppered with small frustrations. Some days we roll with it, other days we gripe and grimace. It’s hard to really settle in a place when you know you’re not going to stay. If the move here was for 10 years rather than three, it would be worthwhile to just convert over to all things European—computer equipment, DVD players, TVs, radios, CD players, kitchen appliances, lamps, hairdryers etc. We could be all 220V, European digital format, and metric. We could invest the time in learning Dutch and French and be able to read our mail, food labels, menus, and signs.

We’d buy a house, and I’d get to take hot baths and have closets. I would not be playing musical outlets. I would not be puzzling over how the heating system works, worrying about throwing a circuit breaker when I vacuum, or trying to figure out why sewer gas keeps entering the house. (There are drains in the basement that need to be filled with water weekly to block it. Who knew?)

For now we live with one foot in America and one in Belgium. On some level, we’re always in transit emotionally. We’re here and yet not here. Sometimes as I ride the bus and train, it’s like an out of body experience. I watch life happen around me. I am permanently an observer taking mental notes, trying to decipher the mystery of life abroad, seldom understanding what people around me are saying, trying to keep my American identity hidden, and navigating the physical and mental turf of a foreign country.

I can begin to understand why the immigrants rioting in Paris feel so disenfranchised. Even with the luxury of a nice home, car, and steady income, our outsider status simmers below the surface and nags our sense of well being. How much worse would it be to have suffered such feelings for a lifetime, to be recognized as an outsider by the color of your skin, to be committed to assimilating in a country and not be able to join, to suffer all those feelings while struggling to meet your most basic needs?

Hope, not police, will quell the unrest in France. It is hope that keeps us moving forward and pulls us out of the depths.

On her Web site, Granola-Grrrl quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson: “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” Today, tonight, thousands of miles away from home, I’ll be stargazing. I'll be looking for those twinkling dots of light, searching for the constellations that shine here and connect me to home.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 7, 2005

Black Taxi on a Dark Night

The taxi was late. Only seven minutes but enough to give the E-Man the heebie jeebies. He’s been preparing for this trip to Australia for months. It’s been the source of more than one sleepless night. He’s been operating at top speed for the last week. Everything can’t be undone with a late taxi and a missed flight.

He calls the taxi company. They assure him the taxi is on its way. He hugs us goodbye, asks for prayers, and tells the children to be good. Emily starts to cry as he heads out the door. She hangs out the living room window and weeps as she waves.

This is a tough trip in every sense. The E-Man has been asked to do two presentations on topics he’s less than expert on as well as a two-day training seminar on software he’d never used and was unfamiliar with until a few weeks ago. This is like the recurring dream I have where I discover I was enrolled in a class I didn’t know about and now have to take the final exam to avoid failing. Only for the E-Man, it’s not a dream, it’s real life, and he’s been alternately resigned and anxiety-ridden over this trip. We can’t wait for this to be over.

He’ll be traveling for almost 24 hours. There’s a 10-hour time difference and the jet lag will be monstrous. It’s fall here and spring there. Everything feels so unsettled. And he’ll be gone for more than two weeks.

The November nights are so long. I send Em and Andrew upstairs with popcorn to watch the Lizzie McGuire movie I bought earlier today at a consignment shop. They have a three-day weekend this weekend and a FIVE-day weekend next. That’s a lot of time to fill, a lot of free moments to miss their dad. I spent more than a $100 on books so the days won’t be so long. I’m planning some holiday art projects. Maybe we’ll do some baking. Maybe ride our bikes into town. Maybe we’ll ride the Metro and get off somewhere we’ve never been before. Maybe we’ll take the train to Gent.

For now I’m facing the first dark night of many. A good time to light a candle. A good time to whisper a prayer. A good time to dream with my back to the empty space on the other side of the bed.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault

November 3, 2005