Wild about Wendy's work

I don't remember precisely how I met Wendy. I think Neil at Citizen of the Month played Jewish matchmaker and introduced us to each other online. Wendy is a teacher, photographer, mother, and horsewoman in Colorado, but it is her poet's soul that binds us together.

She participates in a number of writers groups online, writing pieces in response to prompts given by the groups' leaders. I think I've been reading her blog for at least a year now, and I've watched her skill as a poet blossom. Her poems are rich in imagery, layered in meaning, and yet accessible.  Her latest poem hit me right in the chest and made me exhale a soft breath. I keep coming back to it.  I couldn't NOT share it with you.

Since I'm being bold and STEALING this poem from Wendy's site, you must promise me you'll go over and visit Quiet About a lot of Things and check out more of her work. It would also be really nice if y'all would leave lots of fabulous comments here and that way she won't be mad at me and print out my photo, add a moustache to it and then post it on her site. (Sisters do that when they're pissed off,  you know.)

Here's the prompt Wendy received and was asked to write a poem in response to:

I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.

***'Salt girls' boil seawater down for the salt.

And here is Wendy's wonderful response:

Always was

It was just yesterday,
the first time I let you.
No, that is a lie;
I WILLED you to
unbutton my blouse.

I dared you, in one look,
to slide your hand up.
Damn the torpedo's!
And the sisters. Damn
all those good girls
their brittle rules.

Break me! Like
my shell makes
no difference
at all. Open
me like an egg,
crack me, open.

It was a
thin skin
always,
this space
between
you and I.

So, it was.
All ways was,
waiting for you.
For Your Fingers to
come, your fingers.
Pick that button.

Poem by Wendy of http://quietaboutalotofthings.blogspot.com.

My get-up-and-go got up and went

All weekend I’ve slipped between episodes of normal energy and no energy at all. I’ve flopped on the sofa, in the recliners, on the floor in the sun, and in my bed. I cleaned off my desk because I could do that without moving. I tried to wash all the illness out of our sheets and pillowcases and aired out our rooms and put the comforters outside in the sun. I folded laundry. I curled up with Petey. I tried to work on art projects but couldn’t gain any momentum, so I browsed some books on painting techniques instead. I took a lot of naps.

I drank cup after cup of tea. I ate chili that I made Friday before I got sick. I didn’t have the energy or the ingredients for real chicken soup, so we had ramen noodles, the ugly stepchild of comfort foods. We ate all the Chex mix we’d set aside for A’s camping trip. The weather was absolutely flawless, and it was painful to think we were all stuck inside (except for E, who even with a fever and cough, went outside and trimmed all the hedges. The man has more stamina than most professional athletes.)

E and I watched two movies over the weekend. The Holiday, with Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz, Jude Law, and Jack Black, was predictable but a lot of fun. I think Kate Winslet steals the show as Iris, and Jack Black upstages Jude Law as a romantic lead. Cameron Diaz is a great comedic actress, and she’s so gorgeous, that even if she couldn’t act, you’d still want to watch her.

The second movie we watched was Freedom Writers starring Hillary Swank as an idealistic teacher who takes on a classroom of inner city kids in LA and inspires them to improve their lives against all odds. Once again, not an original story (“Stand and Deliver,” “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” “Music of the Heart,” “Dead Poet’s Society”) but one we never get tired of hearing or watching.

Oscar winner Hillary Swank, who was the film’s executive producer as well as its star, gives a carefully nuanced performance that shows Erin Gulwell’s transformation from idealistic but ineffective educator to a skilled and innovative teacher who seeks to reach her students where they are and cultivate their potential. It was believable and inspiring and made me think long and hard about race issues in the U.S. It is definitely worth two hours of your time and would be a wonderful movie for your favorite teens to see.

This afternoon (between naps) I unpacked winter clothes and put away the last of the summer ones. As I folded stacks of t-shirts and Capri pants into Rubbermaids, I realized that the next time I unpacked those clothes, I’d be living in Virginia. It shocked me because no matter how much I talk about the move, it still doesn’t seem real to me. I will be shaking the wrinkles out of those tops and bottoms as the azaleas and dogwoods bloom and we all adjust to a new life. Wow.

In the attic I came across a box of pants I’d set aside because my expat fat had made them impossible to wear. Since the kids went back to school, I’ve been exercising daily and watching what I eat, and I’m very proud to say that about 75 percent of the pants in that box fit me again. I’ve lost close to 15 pounds and my French black velvet, butt-flattering, leg-lengthening jeans fit me again. This is a major victory. I have a long way to go in regaining my fitness, but fitting into my best clothes has motivated me to continue moving forward to reclaim my pre-Belgium body. (My cardiologist in Richmond will be so proud of me.)

So all told, despite a sore throat, bouts of coughing, and episodes of malaise, I had a good weekend. How about you?

October 14, 2007

Say hello to Mr. Flu

Oh the viruses have come for a weekend visit to Chez V and are getting all snuggly in their human hosts, planning a long weekend of mucus and coughs and aches and pains.

It all started with E-Grrrl, who had a runny nose and sore throat on Wednesday. Seemed like a standard cold, not too severe. I kept her home Thursday, she felt better Friday, went to school and was back to normal.

Meanwhile the nasty viruses mutated and took on a new form. My son A was complaining of a sore throat and stomach ache yesterday morning, but since he tends to be a malingerer, I sent him to school and told him to call me if he really felt sick. He made it through the day OK.  This morning when he got up, he complained that his knees ached and his back hurt. We blamed that on the mile run he did yesterday and a recent fall that nearly broke his wrist. Then when he came home from school, he was all droopy and his forehead was hot. He had chills and a fever of 101 degrees.

No Boy Scout Jamboree for him this weekend. No competing in the First Aid competitions. No completing three of his scouting requirements. He was crushed, complained loudly, and then fell asleep on the sofa before dinner.

Meanwhile E and I developed sore throats and swollen sinuses, just a touch of a cough yesterday. We thought we were getting E-Grrrl's cold, but today things took a turn for the worse. As the evening has worn on we've developed chills and aches. All my joints hurt, my jaw hurts, my sinuses hurt, it hurts to type, I've still got the sore throat, and my heart has been slipping out of rhythm all day.

So it will be a pajama and hot tea weekend, pass the Tylenol and Kleenex, and hope one of us is well enough to to make chicken soup.  Sigh. I didn't expect to be courted by Mr. Flu this early.

October 12, 2007

Playing house

Next week E travels to the U.S. on business and while his trip is a short one, he’s planning on swinging out to see our new house. Lucky him.

We have an address, we have a phone number, we have an electric bill, we have an alarm system, and we have a big honking mortgage payment on the first of each month, but right now we're still thinking in terms of having a house, not having a home.

We purchased this house after much debate during our whirlwind tour of the U.S. in July. We closed on the loan at the end of August, and it just felt surreal, like we’d entered into an arranged marriage with someone we’d only met once.

We’d decided to buy a house over the summer because the market was favorable for buyers and because waiting to shop for a house in the winter would have meant we’d have to finance a second trip to the U.S., arrange care for our kids in Belgium, and face a diminished selection of homes in the dead of winter in the U.S. Beyond the practical considerations, we just wanted to finalize the decision of where we’d be living so we could move onto dealing with the other major issues needing our attention.

We all loved the house. It just felt like home to us when we went to see it, and we were entranced because it’s nestled in woods and backs up to a historic park where we can walk, run, and ride bicycles. We get all the benefit of being surrounded by a huge tract of land without the cost or responsibility.

When we purchased the house, the owners were still living there, and we enjoyed getting to know them a bit. The house was furnished with their lovely antiques and just felt so homey. I took dozens of photos of the interior, every closet, cabinet, room, corner, window, etc. I wanted to be able to explore it visually after we left and consider how we might set it up. After settlement, our agent sent us some additional photos of the empty house—and it looked so lonely.

Some days I click through all the photos and try to imagine the new life we’ll be starting soon. I make mental notes like “Get an antique mirror for over the mantel,” and “a big round oak table with leather chairs would be perfect in the sitting room.” I debate over the look of the living room because I have a cranberry red sofa and big tapestry wing chairs featuring various shades of green and khaki that I don’t think will work with the deep raspberry walls and gray wainscoting. I love those walls. I love my furniture. I’m not sure they can live together.

On a recent trip to Flanders, E bought a Belgian tapestry to hang in a specific spot in the house where the former owners also hung a Belgian tapestry. He chose the Tree of Life design by William Morris, a tribute to the trees surrounding the house. I like to imagine it on the wall above the stairwell.

The kitchen has richly colored knotty pine cabinets and custom made tiles that speak to my soul. Unfortunately, it’s pretty small as kitchens go. I count the drawers and cabinets and wonder what will fit in there. I see myself putting on the kettle and making a cup of tea and leaning into the window above the sink to watch the squirrels rob the birdfeeders.

I try to imagine how the light will move through the rooms, which ones will catch the morning sun, which will glow in the late afternoon. Which window will frame the moon for me? How will the leaves drift into piles on the deck? Where will we stand to watch the snow fall? Where will we set up the Christmas tree? Which flowers will bloom first in spring?

Taking these mental trips through the house helps ease the sadness I’m starting to feel, caught between my current life in Belgium and my future life in the States. All the changes associated with the move are daunting, and yet despite my unease, I know how lucky I am to be getting a chance to make a fresh start in our house in the woods.

October 11, 2007

Lessons learned

Recently ten-year-old E-Grrrl was given a writing assignment at school, asked to write about something precious to her. She tackled the assignment on two fronts--writing about her favorite stuffed animal and her beloved pets. Here's what she turned in, exactly as she wrote it:

The Story of Piggy

I got Piggy our first Christmas here. I asked Santa for a stuffed animal, but I did not expect a pig! I was not too interested in her at first, but during Christmas break, she became my favorite stuffed animal.

On our first day back to school, I started crying. “I don’t wanna go without Piggy!” I cryed, holding her tight. “Okay,” my mom agreed. “She can come.” And she did.

A month before our second Christmas, Pete joined the family. He was a fun, cute, wild black ball of fur. Our other cat, Amy, did not take a liking to Pete, who tried many times to be her friend.

At Christmas, Pete was always running and out of the tree. Once he even tried to climb it! The best presents Pete got that Christmas were a home and wrapping paper!

Piggy got ribbons that Christmas. She looked adorable all decked up in holiday cheer!

Shortly after Christmas, mid-January, my cat Amy was diagnosed with cancer. When I found out, all I did was cry and hug Piggy. She had cancer around her lungs, and the cancer was bleeding making her lungs shrink. She could not breathe.

The worst night of my life was when Amy died. We had taken her to an animal clinic to see if we could do anything. It was horrible!

Half way home my cat started crying, which made us cry harder. The vet said that the best thing to do would be to put her to sleep a.k.a. kill her. I cryed so hard. I thought I would die. I said goodbye a million times. Then my dad took her to the vet. I cried myself to sleep that night, hugging Piggy the whole time. In the morning, I found out that my cat had died before the shot. I barely said anything the following week. Amy lived to be 14. I still miss her a lot. As you can see, Piggy has been through a lot and I love her.

When I read her composition, I realized how much Amy's death back in January was still on her mind, so I opened up a conversation with her about it, telling her that I still missed Amy a lot too, the way she slept on my bed and how she loved to be held and handled, something our younger more energetic cat is not so fond of.

E-Grrrl responded that she wished Amy hadn't died, that horrible things like that didn't happen.

I paused trying to collect my thoughts before saying, "It is sad that terrible things happen, but good things can come from our bad experiences."

She was incredulous. "How can anything good happen from something so bad?"

I said, "I think you learned some valuable lessons from Amy's death, things that maybe you couldn't have learned any other way."

"Like what?" she said.

"You tell me. What did you learn from Amy's death?"

She jumped on the most obvious point first, "Well I learned that pets die. They don't live forever."

"True. What else?"

"Well because they don't live forever, you need to appreciate them while you have them. One day they may be gone."

"That's true too. It's important to appreciate the things and people we love, but there's another lesson you learned from losing Amy. A big one," I added.

I gave her time to think and she still was drawing a blank.

I said, "Before you lost Amy,you didn't know how hard it was to lose a pet or experience a death. You didn't know what it felt like, how much it hurt, how sad you'd feel about it even many months later, how it could be, as you said, the worst thing that had ever happened to you," I told her.

"Because you went through that experience, you now know what it's like for someone else to suffer that kind of loss. When a friend or classmate loses a pet, you can talk to them about it, or hug them, or just be with them when they feel sad.  That's called being compassionate.

"The hard experiences in our life provide an opportunity for us to learn to be compassionate, and if we all act more compassionately toward one another, the world would be a better place. Some people just let their bad experiences make them angry or bitter or sad, and it's OK to feel that way for a time, but it's important to look for ways to turn the bad things in our life into something good. It makes them easier to bear and it helps us be better people," I concluded.

I could see the gears turning in E-Grrrl's head. "That makes sense. Rachel lost her cat a few weeks before Amy died and she was my best friend in helping me after Amy died. She understood how I felt."

Bingo.

E-Grrrl and I both learned a lesson, and Piggy came along for the ride.

October 9, 2007

Barkin' up the wrong tree

A cool foggy morning in Belgium, the air tinged with a taste of drizzle, the trees' dark shadows emerging from mist. After the kids grab the bus, I head off on my morning walk, down the farm road, under the cottonwoods, and past the fields full of soybeans and beets.

It’s wet and muddy but I decide to take the wandeling through the woods, figuring the sight and scent of mossy ground and falling leaves will more than compensate for wet feet and dirty shoes. There are thickets of white birch that I love to pass through and a pond surrounded by weeping willows and towering hardwoods that I like to visit.

Every morning when I’m walking, I see people out with their dogs, and I’ve come to know many of the owners and pets in an informal way. Until recently, I’ve always owned both dogs and cats, but now I just have Petey, my slick black cat.

In the woods, I encounter a beautiful, glossy black lab with soulful eyes. He wanders over to greet me and I put a hand down to let him take a sniff. In a split second, he’s got my thigh in a passionate love clutch and is doing the Elvis on me. Damn, I am one sexy b*tch. I’m a substantial grrrl but he nearly knocks me over with the force of his love. His owner reprimands the dog in Dutch as I try to gracefully extricate myself from his muddy embrace.

The owner is mortified, but I reassure him in English that it’s OK, I love dogs (not in the sense this dog loves me, but I do love dogs.) We go our separate ways, and I start to smile remembering a big moment from my past:

E and I had been dating for a long time and we were engaged, but I had never met his parents who lived in Florida. He was stationed in Alabama, and I was in college in Virginia. We decided I’d fly down to where he was, and then we’d drive to his parents’ house and spend a few days there so I could meet his family.

It goes without saying I was nervous. E had been part of my family from Day One, and they had had plenty of time to get to know him before we became engaged. It would be a lot different waltzing into his house as fiancée and future family member. I was doing my best to be calm, cool, and collected and make a favorable impression.

Growing up in a household with an Irish father and Italian mother, I was used to bold and noisy hospitality. My mother greeted guests with loud exclamations of happiness and big hugs, and quickly got the kettle on and some sweet baked good onto the table. My dad, true to Irish tradition, always offered a drink and a story peppered with humor. Table conversations often became loud and silly with much laughing. This was my world.

When E brought me through the front door of his parents’ house in Florida, I expected a bit of the same treatment—the warm welcome, the abundant conversation. Instead his mom, who is Belgian, greeted me with a tepid handshake and said, “Hi V. We’re glad you could visit,” in a quiet voice.

My first thought: “His mother hates me! She hates me!”

I didn’t know about the legendary reticence of Belgians, their natural reserve, or my mother-in-law’s deep shyness. She was probably as nervous as I was, but at the tender age of 19, I couldn’t imagine an adult being intimidated by meeting me. 

I put my suitcase in the room where I’d be staying and went with E into the living room to visit with his family. Perched nervously on the edge of the black leather sofa, I was trying hard to relax while E’s dad, an American with a booming voice, pummeled me with questions on my achievements and career plans. He was an extremely practical man and had a hard time understanding why anyone would earn a "useless" liberal arts degree. This, by the way, would be a recurring theme in our 20-year relationship—him wondering when I was ever going to “use my gray matter” and me defending my choices.

E’s sister and one of his brothers entered the room and I felt better. We had a rapport and it was good to have some people my age to relate to. What’s strange to consider now is that when I met E’s mom, she was about the age I am now.

So as I sat on the sofa trying so hard to be acceptable to my future in-laws, the family beagle came in and introduced himself. First he stuck his blunt snout straight into my crotch, and then clearly turned on by what he found there, he mounted my shin and started vigorously showing his approval. (See y’all, I have always been a very sexy b*tch.)

I had crossed my legs after the muzzle molestation, and Barney found the angle of that top leg to be just right for maximum stimulation. I kept trying to subtly deter him from his act of passion, but the more I tried to shake him off, the harder he hung on. Clearly he liked his sex rough. Everyone in the room was stunned into silence, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening in the House of Reserve and Propriety.

The Real V would have made a joke and quickly diffused the situation, but the Trying Desperately to Impress V swallowed all her clever words and wished to disappear.

Ultimately, it was E’s brother M who saved the day with a big smile and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Well, Barney sure LIKES V---he likes her a lot! I think he likes her the same way E does.”

Oh lord. What a relief. A smartass in the family! I was able to loosen up and finally push the dog off with E’s help while M received a bit of a glare from E’s parents for his “inappropriate” remark.

It would be a long time before I freely expressed myself at Chez E, but in those early years, M and I would often share a number of loaded glances and little smirks across the room as we navigated the conservative family dynamics together. Sadly, our relationship would deteriorate over the years, but I’ll always remember that first meeting and our instant camaraderie and how he kept the day from going to the dogs.

October 3, 2007

Please don't mention Christmas

We celebrated my son A’s birthday in early September and my daughter E-Grrrl’s birthday yesterday, and today the kids started talking about Christmas. Yes, it’s only October 1.

I’m still hungover from coordinating two birthday celebrations in September, E has several major trips between now and the end of the year and is under pressure to meet deadlines in between them, we’re feeling the financial pinch of the dollar’s value dropping just as we need the income to prepare for our move, and the move itself looms on the horizon.

We wanted to make a few more trips while we’re still in Europe and have talked about going to Ireland, Bavaria, and Paris but whenever it comes time to make a decision and commit to a trip, we waffle. The kids have a number of long weekends on their schedule, but E doesn’t feel he can be out of the office. So many expenses and so little time.

So we sit feeling vaguely agitated about wasting time and missing opportunities to travel knowing that if we commit to travel we’ll be agitated about expenses and work. Our weekends are rapidly becoming booked with sports and Scouts as well.

And now the kids are talking about Christmas, and it just makes me cringe. I’m not ready to even think about preparing for Christmas or consider what follows. Christmas has become not a holiday but a benchmark in the moving process. Consider:

After Christmas, our life in Belgium rapidly shifts gears as we get our household and cars ready to ship back to the U.S. and move into an apartment after the packers come.

After Christmas, I have to be ready to occupy that uncomfortable place between being home in Belgium and going home to America.

After Christmas, we have to swim through all the details of coordinating an international move—switching insurance, gathering medical and school records, getting the cat an international health certificate, doing change of addresses, out processing through the military and Embassy channels, turning in IDs, arranging for travel etc.

After Christmas, we need to figure out where we’ll be staying in the U.S. while we wait for our household goods to arrive and how we’ll handle transportation while waiting for our second car.

After Christmas, we need to decide whether our kids will be attending public school or private school.

After Christmas, I need to have a concrete plan in place for my career.

After Christmas, life will be stressful and exciting, full of endings and beginnings, goodbyes and hellos.

And today, on October 1, I’m not ready to think about it.

October 1, 2007

Tired and happy

It's been ten years since I pushed my round-headed, broad-shouldered, silky-haired girl into the midwive's hands and let out a loud gasp of relief and joy.

My son's birth had been a bit of a drama. Without warning I'd gone into labor almost two months early and delivered a baby that immediately had to leave my arms and go to intensive care.  This made the quiet aftermath of my daughter's birth even more satisfying.

We locked eyes immediately, and she knew I belonged to her and she belonged to me. We held that gaze for the longest time. When I put her to my breast, her little rosebud mouth did a perfect latch and we were on our way to 18 months of nursing.  Unlike her brother, there was no pumping, no feeding tubes, no brain scans, no worries. Unfortunately, there were lots of stitches--it took me a really long time to recover physically from her birth.

Today she's one of the biggest kids in her fourth grade class. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, her delicate coloring denies that she has a drop of Italian blood in her. She's built exactly like her father, but oh my, when she opens her mouth and talks, she's entirely her mother's daughter. Animated, funny, and with a quick wit, she's also a thinker, planner, and academic all star with a tender heart. We look at her and think she got the best our DNA has to offer.

The last week has been a whirlwind for me, getting ready for her birthday, cleaning the house, and handling all the usual school and extracurricular activities solo. E arrived in from the States early this morning after nine days of traveling, and this afternoon I led a group of bubbly girls in a scapbooking workshop before serving up ice cream and home made cake. When the last kid was picked up and the party was officially over, I took a long walk and then flopped on the sofa.

Ten years after working hard to bring my girl into the world, I'm once again exhausted, happy, and blessed by her presence. A day to celebrate that some things about being a mother never change.  

September 30, 2007

September

September is my favorite month. I love the quality of light, the blue skies, the warm days and cool nights, the sense of promise and new beginnings. It’s a month full of good memories, and it’s the month I began dating E.

I met him on Labor Day weekend at the start of my senior year of high school. I had spent that summer getting over a breakup. Every morning I got up and ran six miles and then I spent the rest of the day writing, reading, and listening to music.

In the evenings, Low Maintenance Grrrl and I chased a posse of guys who were attending summer school at the local military college. They were bored and so were we. We snuck INTO the barracks and OUT of the barracks. We tried to learn to do the Carolina Shag with some preppy Southern boys. We sat in the local hangouts eating pretzels and drinking cokes and waiting to be noticed.

One night we had a carload of guys throw two cans of beer through the open window of our car while we were sitting at a stop light in town, and then got a little freaked out when they followed us for SEVENTEEN miles down a winding country road at night—with their headlights turned off. They pulled right into my driveway but chickened out on getting out of the car. Thank God—if my mother had looked out the window and seen them that would have been the last time I got to go cruising with LMG.

I went on a few dates that summer, including one with a guy who told me, “You remind me of Emily Dickinson.” He meant this in a BAD way, as in “you’re antisocial and spend too much time writing.” Clearly not my type. Other dates felt just as awkward. I didn’t think I was “good” at dating and it was depressing.

By the end of the summer, I’d finally accepted that my old boyfriend wasn’t coming back and that partying with the local college guys wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Sure, I could put on my “party personality” and keep everyone laughing, but I felt disconnected from the whole experience. I left too much of myself behind when I went out.

On the very last day of that bittersweet summer, I met E. (Details of that night here. ) After a summer of playing the flirt and keeping things light, I was unprepared for his openness, warmth, and candor. He wore his heart on his sleeve. On our second date he said, “I don’t know what I’ve been looking for all my life, but I know you’re the closest I’ve ever come to finding it.”

I liked him a lot but didn’t take the comment seriously. I didn't believe in love at first sight. I thought he was handing me some schmaltzy line in an attempt to accelerate the whole “getting to the next stage” process.

He wasn’t.

He meant what he said.

I loved being with him but It took me quite a while to have confidence that all the wonderful words and gestures he was lobbing my way were sincere. It took me even longer to let my guard down and trust that maybe this relationship could last, even though I was in high school and he was getting ready to graduate from college. Part of me kept waiting for him to launch his retreat, to deliver a speech on how he was ready to begin his career and I was too young.

The speech never came. Instead he kept calling and writing and giving me little gifts and taking me places and charming my mother and loving my family and hanging out with my friends. He was thoughtful and considerate not just in his dealings with me, but with the world at large. I admired his character, and I thought he was totally hot (oops, did I just ruin the tone here? )

After I graduated from high school and he graduated from college, he bought me a diamond solitaire, a gift that thrilled and terrified me in equal measure. I was only 18, heading to college on a scholarship, and not quite ready to commit to wearing a diamond ring or announcing an engagement, even if I had trouble imagining a future that didn’t have E in it.

E understood my ambivalence but insisted he just wanted me and everyone else to know that HE was willing to marry me anytime, and the ring was a symbol of that. So he gave me the solitaire and accepted that we were only “half-engaged.” In what would be a recurring theme in our relationship, he gave me space, lots of space. He trusted that I’d come to a place where the ring would sit easily on my hand and in my heart, and he was right. Before long, I quit carrying the ring in the watch pocket of my jeans and started wearing it and introducing E as my fiancé.

After buying me the ring, E went into the Army and moved a thousand miles away, but continued to write, call, and do what he could to be with me, even driving 19 hours after work on a Thursday just so he could see me at college for a weekend

I married him 18 months after he moved away, making the slightly controversial decision to take a break from school to be with him while he finished his military commitment. With a perfect GPA and a substantial scholarship, no one expected me to leave college, but my decision to get married then rather than wait until later was influenced by life-changing events in my family.

My sister had died of cancer that year and her illness and death, followed weeks later by the unexpected death of a cousin the same age, shook my belief that time was on my side. What if I were to die young like they did? What if I only had 10 years, 5 years, one year, or less left? I decided I’d rather delay my education than my life with E. 

We’ve been married 25 years now, and most of the time, it’s all good. Some of the time it’s REALLY good, but long term relationships aren’t always pretty. Sometimes he thinks I’m a snarky crabass, and I think he’s an uptight weinerhead—and we would both be right in our assessments. : )

We have the dissonance that comes when an engineer marries a creative type, when one person is more likely to accept the status quo and the other questions everything, when one has a high need for cleanliness and order and the other is rapidly losing interest in all things domestic, when one is very high energy and the other is laid back.

On good days, we complement each other; on bad days, all we can see is how we get in each other’s way. Time usually restores the balance in our relationship—we regain our perspective and focus on all that we have in common and this helps us accept our differences.

While we don’t laugh at the same jokes, read the same books, vote for the same political candidates, listen to the same music, or agree on the details of the stories we share, we agree on the big things: how to raise our kids, manage our money, handle our family life, and exercise our religious beliefs.

A few years ago I set aside my diamond wedding set and began wearing a sterling silver claddagh ring instead. The hands stand for friendship, the heart for love, and the crown for loyalty. A diamond may be forever and be shinier and more romantic, but my claddagh ring is a reminder in good times and bad of what brought us together and keeps us together, September to September.

One where I whine a lot because I'm homesick....

Lately I’ve found myself increasingly homesick, just longing to be back in America. Every frustration I have with my life in Belgium is magnified these days.

I find myself ranting over issues I’d accepted as part and parcel of my expat experience. Road construction always has the potential to create traffic nightmares, but now it's worse than ever. The main road serving my village and many neighborhoods is closed down in both directions. When you get within a mile or two of my house, you’re now forced to take a five-mile detour down narrow streets clogged with parked cars and speed bumps and wacky traffic patterns that see two-way streets brought down to one lane, with cars backed up in each direction waiting for a turn to go through.

Today the kids had a packed schedule, and I had to take this detour THREE times, sometimes spending 30 minutes to go that extra five miles. Because of the detour, I can no longer catch a bus home from the Metro station. The closest drop off to my house is almost two miles from it. This makes heading into the city an even bigger ordeal than it already is.  With the road closed and the school bus having to navigate all this, the kids are getting home from school 30 minutes later in the afternoon now, and we're told to expect this until DECEMBER.

I hate the lack of alternate routes here, how narrow the streets are and how people with perfectly good driveways park in the street and block traffic. I hate that drivers constantly pass in no passing zones and create their own lanes and engage in all sorts of annoying and dangerous road behaviors, even in residential neighborhoods where you wouldn’t expect to encounter aggressive drivers. Don’t get me started on the complicated system that governs right of way. Even after two and a half years, I’m still not used to how people drive. I feel grounded in the worst way. Driving is so frustrating, that I hate every minute I spend in the car and refuse to drive many places.

I miss being able to buy what I need, when I need it, close to home. I’m tired of stores that are closed on Sundays and that open late and lock their doors early, that don’t have parking lots, or are located in places that are so hard to get to.

I’m tired of dealing with two different currencies and multiple bank accounts. E gets paid in dollars and we’re always juggling when and how to convert dollars to euros. The exchange rate has been horrible so we have less buying power than ever, E can only do his currency exchanges on Tuesdays and Thursdays at his workplace and he has to carefully plan when to transfer funds because he’s limited on the frequency and size of his transactions. I can’t easily get cash, and I’m just sick of all the hassles associated with finances here. I want to be able to write checks again!!!

We’re fortunate to be able to use a military mail system that allows us to send and receive mail to and from America and pay normal U.S. postage rates, not international or air rates. This is an enormous advantage because I can subscribe to U.S. magazines and order goods from many American companies and not pay exorbitant shipping costs. The down side of this privilege is that all of our mail arrives at a special post office located in the compound where E works. He can pick up the mail. I can’t. When he travels a lot, as he is doing now, our mail languishes at the post office for a week or two, which is hard to take when you’re waiting for a package or a magazine to arrive.

I miss being able to go out for an American breakfast on the weekends.

I miss grabbing a bagel and a large decaf vanilla hazelnut coffee at Einstein’s.

I miss being able to attend concerts, plays, movies, lectures, and classes.

I miss hearing English everywhere.

I miss going to video stores and renting movies.

I miss Halloween.

I miss my girlfriends.

And my family.

And being in the same time zone as most of the people I love.

Tonight I’ve had enough of expat life, and I just want to go home.

September 22, 2007