Unlike my friends in the Southern U.S. , I didn’t spend my summer in an endless sauna, with clothes stuck to my back, a dashboard that could double as a griddle, and enough oil pooling on my face to make OPEC’s reserves obsolete. No, my first summer in Belgium was cool in every sense of the word.
The daylight stretched until 10:30 p.m. , the temperatures hovered in the 60s or 70s most days and in the 50s at night. There were more gray and rainy days than I’d like to remember, and even on sunny days, huge fronts of clouds would come rolling over the flat Belgian landscape and drizzle or dump on our heads. There was an upside to this. We are collectively the whitest people on the planet (or as I prefer to be known, “the fairest of them all”). Yet despite my obsession with avoiding skin cancer, we didn’t even consume one full tube of sunscreen. It will be known as the summer of no tan lines.
And nothing bugged us. Literally. There were no moths congregating around the outdoor lights like a mad crowd threatening to get in or die trying. My white legs were not decorated with pink mosquito bites, and nothing small and annoying was buzzing around my ears (unless you count the kids, but let’s be charitable here). The black flies were also few and far between. Maybe they all summer in the south of France like the rest of Europe .
We visited Paris, marveled over the castles in the Loire Valley, went to a wine tasting, stepped into Monet’s colorful gardens and house, cheered for Lance Armstrong, hiked in ancient forests, saw our first Michelangelo, toured Belgian’s oldest city by canal boat, and consumed too much of the country’s specialties: chocolate, beer, and frites (known at home as French fries—how rude, how wrong!).
But tomorrow I walk my kids to board the big blue school bus (yes, BLUE) and return to a life that does not revolve around food. All summer I feel I’ve spent inordinate amounts of time in the kitchen preparing meals and snacks, scraping food off the table and counters, sweeping crumbs off the floor, wiping spills, washing dishes, and grocery shopping. My children eat like they have tapeworms and act like they were refugees in their last life. They treat every meal or snack as if it might be their last. Conversation revolves around what they’ve eaten and when they’ll eat next, and all social events, day trips, and vacations are judged by the quality and quantity of culinary delights.
No, they’re not overweight. Yes, they’re active, and I know they’re growing. But geez, I feel like a sous chef in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe I’m just jealous because they’re growing vertically and I’m growing horizontally. Too many snacks with the kids and my stomach looks like a mound of rising bread dough. Really, I’d prefer for excess fat to be stored so that my cups would runneth over, not my waistband. Life is too cruel.
But if I can resist the temptation to crawl back into bed after the big blue bus chugs off into the distance, I can put some miles on my Nikes and some slack into my jeans. And that would make for a very cool fall.
August 28, 2005