Good? Enough?

So out of the blue someone asks “How much time did you spend on the computer today?”

And I reply, “I don’t know.”

End of conversation.

But the real question hangs in the air—“What did you do all day?”

And a stony-faced nun rises from my childhood memory and raps me on the knuckles with her great Measuring Stick of Worth, seeking to awaken my Shame. Was I "productive"?

Ever notice that no one asks people with paychecks what they do all day or whether they accomplished anything sitting at a desk or in a meeting. No one is logging the time they spend on the computer, how many minutes were spent pouring coffee and chatting with office mates, talking on the phone, or composing memos and e-mails and Very Important Correspondence.

No one questions the value of the people in offices. Of course what they do matters or they wouldn’t be paid for it, right?

But I’m a woman without a paycheck and with school age children, so my life is up for grabs and open for judgment. Everyone feels they’re entitled to a big piece of it since apparently I’m not using it—or at least not using it properly (meaning not using it for their benefit). Since enquiring minds want to know, here’s what Tuesday looked like:

I got up at 6:30 a.m. and fed the cat and threw in a load of laundry and fixed breakfast for myself and the children and took my heart meds.

I rustled up lunch money for the oldest, packed snacks, reminded the youngest about an afterschool activity, wrote two notes of appreciation to their teachers on handmade cards, sent the kids upstairs to brush their teeth, ignored the oldest one’s messy hair, declined to argue about the necessity of wearing a jacket, and walked them to the bus stop.

Then I walked for exercise for an hour, past people on bikes and mothers pushing strollers and men and women waiting for the bus and cars pulling out of driveways and whizzing past me on their way to Something More Important (than walking).

When I came home I peeled off my sweatshirt, made a cup of tea, and checked e-mail and read blogs and left comments. I listened to a podcast on the life of a monk, and because I felt stiff after my walk, I practiced yoga for a while. I prayed for friends in tough spots.

I pulled a Bible off the shelf, read the readings that had been assigned last Sunday, and then read the sermon Kempton sent me because I’d missed church. Thought about what he’d written and what I read and sent him an e-mail in response. I suppose I could have emptied the dishwasher and cleared the breakfast dishes instead. That would have been meaningful.

My heart was out rhythm despite my meds and so I split a heart pill into four pieces and took a quarter more. I lay down, and I fell asleep and slept for I don’t know how long. I wasn’t wearing my watch yesterday, and since my life has no purpose, I don’t log my time on the computer nor my time on the sofa. I’m lazy and worthless that way. Really, I should put myself on a strict schedule and only allow myself a nap if the doctor orders it.  Never mind the side effects of medication and the crappy heart, I should just PUSH myself to do more, be more.

I woke up hungry and made a grilled cheese sandwich with pepperjack. The editor from Expatica suggested I write something about cars or driving for him this week, and I dutifully put together a tongue-in-cheek 700-word piece on driving in Belgium. If I had a work permit or my old job back, this article would have earned me about $250. But I don’t have a job. I work for free so people won’t forget what I’m capable of. The bad news is that people forget anyway or don't care in the first place. Anyone can write, right? I sent the piece off and it will be the lead feature on the home page on Thursday or Friday of this week.

In the afternoon I put away all the stamping and art supplies I’d used to make cards over the weekend. I pulled out the kids’ photo albums and looked for duplicate photos to put in them. I played with the cat. I read articles from CNN’s U.S. and European sites. I combed real estate listings in Virginia. I checked some more blogs. I set up an appointment for an eye exam in the States. Maybe I should have folded underwear and towels instead and lined the shoes up in neat rows in the foyer--but I didn't. I'm always failing to be all that I could be. I'm sure that's the fault of my kindergarten teacher. She set me on the wrong path.

I answered two e-mails from school. I read others and left them for later. Does this make me a procrastinator?

I thought about going to the bakery to buy bread, but I didn’t want to have to walk there in the rain. I don’t know why I don’t like getting out and walking in the rain. Must be because I’m lazy and don't care if my kids can't have toast after school.

I drank another cup of tea. I asked my oldest, now home from school, about his day. I didn't ask him how many minutes he logged on his Game Boy. I did congratulate him on getting a perfect score on his science project.

I made meatloaf and carrots and corn for dinner. I skimmed through the days catalogs. I wrote a letter to Sherry. After dinner, I looked at old photos with my daughter. I remembered when I was thin and she was little. That seems so long ago. Time goes fast when you're just a fat housewife. Every day is more of the same.

I got back online. I cleaned up the Favorites menu. I followed a link to a jewelry design page and looked at bracelets for a while. You know all housewives do is shop. We stay busy looking for ways to spend our husbands' money! I didn't order anything. What's wrong with me? I'm a failure in every respect.

I cleared a lot of junk off my desk and took a hot shower with the question “How much time did you spend on the computer today?” twisting in my chest until my heart ached.

I crawled into bed and beat myself with the unforgiving Measuring Stick of Self-Worth that was handed out with that question and all it implies. I tried to salvage the idea that it's not a crime that I don't have a passion for housework or women's clubs.

Surrounded by darkness, the questions whisper and disintegrate:

Do you think I am

Good enough for you?

Do you think I'm

Good enough?

For you?

Good?

Enough?

May 9, 2007

Taming the paper tiger

I'm not sure when I started hating paperwork. I think I snapped some time in my 30s after the kids arrived and life got complicated. Up until that time, I dutifully and neatly filled out every form that was sent my way and turned it in on time. I was a very Good Grrrl.

Then I became a mother and the paperwork covered my desk faster than ants on a sugar cube. Medical info remains the most in demand: health records for the school nurse, health records for the teacher, health records for the Boy Scouts, health records for the Girl Scouts, health records for gymnastics, health records for soccer, health records for softball, health records for camp, health records for daycare, and of course, health records for the doctors that insist they need to be "updated" every time you cross the threshold into the clinic.

Second to health records are permission slips. Permisson to ride the bus, to ride in the van, to stay after school, to receive a required vaccination, to go home with a friend, to participate in art club, to be in drama club, to join Odyssey of the Mind, to go on a field trip, to access the Internet, to participate in a fundraiser, to sell cookies for the Girl Scouts, to go on a Scout campout, to do the activities planned for the scout campout, to go swimming in a pool, and on and on and on.

Then there's the policy statements to be signed for Internet access, camp, school, and the bus. The forms requesting information on parents, the call for volunteer forms, the school directory forms, and the emergency contact forms.  Let's not forget the annual school registration and application form.

Of course there are forms to buy things too: sweatshirts, t-shirts, tote bags? Scholastic Books? Yearbooks? School pictures? Gift wrap? Poinsettias? Dinner? BBQ? Scout uniforms?

And then there's the tests and report cards to sign and the various other bits and pieces of paperwork that are unloaded from the kids' backpacks every day.

E, who has made a career as a civil servant, is unfazed by paperwork. He doesn't understand my eye-rolling and resentment. At this point in the school year, I've had ENOUGH, and yet I get inundated with more paperwork so the school office can get a jump on next year.

For at least 15 years we've heard about the wonders of electronic data bases and information sharing and the inevitability of a paperless office. I think those are pipe dreams, just like a colony on the moon.

What do you think?

May 9, 2007

Wishing you were here

Friday night the kids were involved in the performance of a school play. Mr. A worked backstage and E-Grrrl had two small roles. The Drama Club had been working on the production since last October so to see everything come together brought a great sense of accomplishment to the club sponsor, the kids, and their parents.

At the end of the evening, during the acknowledgements, the Drama Club director noted that many grandparents had come all the way from America to be present for the performance. She had the children in the cast come to the front of the stage, call their grandparents out of the audience, introduce them, and give them a small gift.

As child after child came forward and grandparents of various ages walked up to embrace their grandchildren, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. My kids have never had grandparents or any relative attend any of their school events or activities.

The tears caught me off guard and the regret pelting my heart came from many directions. First and foremost is that my children have had so little experience with grandparents. My parents died before my children were born, E’s dad died when the kids were very small, and his mother has been in poor health and lived hundreds of miles away from us for most of their lives. She can’t travel now but even if she was well, would she have come? I'm not sure.

I know if my parents were alive they never would have traveled to see my kids in a play, even if we were back in the U.S. All my life, they were very hands-off with school. In high school, I ran track for four years and was co-captain of the team, but my parents never saw me run a single race or collect a medal. I was in Forensics and competed in various public-speaking contests and meets, but my parents never heard me give a speech until my high school graduation. They never came to school assemblies or award programs or ballgames or any of that.

They were proud of me and quick to celebrate my accomplishments at home, but they never showed up and witnessed them firsthand. I don’t know why. Their parenting roles never extended beyond the four walls of our house. Even as I wished that my kids could have known my parents, I also know my parents would not have reached out to their grandkids the way these grandparents did, and that was such a letdown.

There was another kind of déjà vu bubbling up from my subconscious as well. Just as my children know only one of their grandparents, I knew only one of mine. My maternal grandmother was 80 when I was born. She was Italian, spoke very little English, and had the misfortune of developing diabetes and losing both her legs in her later years. Bedridden but cheerful, she lived with us in our tiny house in New York. She wasn’t a doting grandma because she couldn’t be. Her life was confined by her disability and her limited understanding of English. I never knew her when she was well.

So last Friday when the grandparents were paraded in front of the stage, I felt so many losses converge. I looked up at the suddenly solemn faces of my children and understood their sadness. I pray that some day I will have an opportunity to see their children and be the type of grandmother who shows up at school and cheers them on.

May 7, 2007

A weekend spent making cards

(If you're a stamper, info on the supplies used is in my Photo Album.)

This one is E and Mr. A's favorite

This card embodies the colors and feel of Paris for me.

This one also has French flavor.

I love the colors in this card, which are so light and airy and match the sentiment.

My favorite flowers aren't romantic ones like roses or orchids. I prefer earthy sunflowers and black-eyed susans.

May 6, 2007

Images used in cards copyrighted by the manufacturers. See photo album for more info. Card designs copyright 2007 by V-Grrrl.

Is this Belgium? Feels like San Diego

Most of the time when I write about the weather in Belgium, you read about endless gray skies, the howling wind, horizontal rain, and damp chill. Normally, a sunny day is treated like a precious jewel, an irregularity in the meteorological order.

For the last month we’ve had day after day after day of near perfect weather. Sunshine streams through the bedroom windows in the morning and the living room windows in the evening. Calm winds and mild temperatures are perfect for exploring the city, wandering in the woods, or lingering on the terrace. At night, the temps drop and pleasantly cool the house off so that the flannel sheets and light fleece blankets still feel cozy. Each morning I open up all the windows and air the house out.

Only in Belgium would a stint of perfect weather be a record-breaking anomaly. According to Expatica.com, the average temperature in April was well above normal: 14.3 C compared to 9 C (58 F compared to 48 F). The average temperature broke a record that was more than 20 years old.

The average high temperature was 20.5 C (68 F), breaking the previous record of 17.4 C (63 F) from 1946.

And all those hours of spirit-lifting sunshine are the most recorded in Belgium ever, the previous record having been set in 1893.

But perhaps the most shocking thing of all is that in April, we had no measurable precipitation. That’s right, there was no rain in April in Belgium, a country distinguished by its endless drizzle and frequent showers.

Y’all say your prayers and make up with those you've wronged. I think the world is going to end soon.

May 5, 2007

Blogger thinks I need to speak like a Belgian

Yesterday, Di over in Antwerp wrote a post in Blogger and as she typed the headline in English, foreign characters appeared instead. She's not sure, but she may have posted a headline in Arabic. We hope for her sake that she only said kind, peace-loving things and did not insult anyone. Ahem.

Her dilemma over her mysterious headline made me laugh because a little over a week ago I was over at her site, and when I went to post a comment, the page that appeared with the comment box had all its prompts written in Dutch. I thought she'd re-set her language parameters on purpose since she's a fully-integrated, card-carrying, Belgian-marrying, Dutch-studying Grrrl. The problem was that when I navigated away from her page, ALL the Blogger pages I visited for days afterwards addressed me in Dutch on the comment page.

Clearly Blogger had decided that my posting in English was an insult and that my French was pathetic. The Blogger gods decreed that since I live in Flanders, I MUST speak Flemish. No more excuses!

Y'all, there's a reason I've never learned to speak Flemish (a variation of Dutch), and I'll share it with you. It's not 'cause I'm lazy; I studied Spanish in high school and French in college. Dutch is just different.

The first time I looked at my Spanish and French textbooks, it all seemed vaguely familiar. Some of the words looked just like their English counterparts, the arrangement of vowels and consonants was all cozy and "normal" to the English eye, and the word lengths seemed just right. When you look at Spanish or French you think, "I can learn this language!"

Not so with Dutch. Y'all, Dutch is NOT normal. These folks have a THING for double vowels! All those "aa" and "ii" spellings just hurt my brain. Plus, who knew "g" was such an important letter? In Dutch, if you don't have a double vowel to confuse the English speakers, you can throw in some random "g's" for effect. And if a word doesn't have at least 10 letters, you can always add a "k" or two and fill it out. 

Case in point: Want to know how many people have visited your Blogger profile? Just check your "Gebruikersstatistieken."  Got that? Those are your stats, people!

See what I mean? Dutch is an intimidating language. When I look at Dutch words and try to process them, the image that comes to mind is someone trying to talk while choking on a piece of steak and throwing up in their mouth a little bit.

Don't believe me? Check this out:

"Nog geen opmerkingen oorspronkeliik bericht weergeven."

Do you "hear" the guttural word burp in those words? Doesn't it sound like your mouth is full and you're going to hurl?

Don't be nervous, despite the scary double vowels, that's just Blogger asking me if I want to see the original post while composing a comment.

No thanks, Blogger, I 'll just write my comment and move on to the word verification.

"Geef de tekens op die in de bovenstaande afbeelding worden weergegeven."

Didn't get that? Well hey, Silly, I have to type the characters just as they appear in the box. 

At this point I'm getting uncomfortable. Things are starting to get a little personal.

Now it's one thing for Blogger to ask for my Naam, but when they beg for "Uw webpagina," I just want to slap the monitor. I am NOT revealing my "webpagina" to strangers, Mmmm'kay? Back off!

After sending my comment, I get this: "Uw reactie is opgeslagen en wordt weergegeven wanneer de eigenaar vad de blog toestemming heeft gegeven."

This means someone is holding my "reactie" until it's approved. Hmmm!

I'm sure they want to check out my "webpagina" first before giving me a forum on their site.

Perverts!

Feel free to leave a comment here. I promise not to demand to see your "webpaginas." 

May 3, 2007

Celebrating May Day in Belgium

Tuesday was Labor Day here in Belgium but in the U.S., it’s a lesser known holiday called May Day, one that traditionally celebrates the arrival of spring and the beauty of flowers.

So while E had the day off from his labors, we decided to celebrate May Day by touring the Royal Greenhouses in Laeken. We arrived early under spotless blue skies and snagged a coveted parking place in the lot across from the entrance to the Royal Palace grounds. A queue had already formed, and we joined it as buses pulled up and sent throngs of tourists into our midst.

Being over 40, there aren’t many times in my life when I get to feel young. Garden tours are one of them. There’s nothing like being surrounded by the silver-haired, liver-spotted, orthopedic-shoe wearing masses to make me feel spry. Yes, there were some younger couples there with children but for the most part the greenhouse tourists were comprised of folks collecting retirement checks. (Don’t remind me that that will be me before I know it. Let me imagine a huge chasm separates me from the cane-carrying crowd.)

E has always been a gardener, even when he was a buff 23-year-old bachelor working his first full-time job. The sun-bleached blonde hair and deep tan might have led you to believe he hung out on the beach paddling a surfboard, but in reality he got that look weeding and hoeing in his garden. Before we were married, I was afraid he'd be lured off by some Grrrl with great bulbs, but instead he married me, the non-gardener. It's true, love is blind. My friend Mark used to say it was also deaf, dumb, and stupid, but I digress. Back to the king's green houses...

Having visited vast and showy gardens like Keukenhof in Holland, we were expecting something along the lines of wall to wall flowers. However, the beauty of the Royal Greenhouses lies as much in the architecture as anything else—the graceful curves of the metal work, the vaulted passageways, the dramatic dome in the main building, the unexpected vistas along the way.

Stepping into the orangery and smelling the impossibly sweet fragrance of orange blossoms, one is transported into a lush, tropical world. The myriad specimens and varieties of plants that follow on the tour aren’t identified with placards but are undeniably exotic.

Yes, the glass tunnels with six-foot tall geraniums climbing the walls and fuchsia blossoms dripping from the ceiling were magical and colorful, but often what impressed me as I walked through the displays was the variety of foliage, and the multitude of shapes and textures in the plants.

Some leaves were puckered like seersucker, others were curly, and some were crinkled like a receipt jammed into a pants pocket. A ground covering of short-stemmed plants was like a lime-colored frisé carpet and begged to be touched. The woody stem of a tropical tree was alarmingly hairy at its base, not unlike an orangutan’s back. It contrasted with the cool, smooth bark of another tree. There were plant leaves so enormous they could be umbrellas except that they sported natural drainage holes along their central stem. Pointed, rounded, scalloped, lacy, and ruffled—the foliage was like elaborate fashion trimmings draped by a skilled designer.

We shuffled along with the other visitors, pointing our camera this way and that until the batteries died. Of course shortly after that happened, we passed through corridors and rooms with unexpected views and lovely classical statuary. One statue of a naked cavalier wearing nothing but a feathered hat and holding a riding crop made me nudge E and knowingly arch my eyebrow.

He pretended not to notice. I suppose his mind was on the flowers. Mine was elsewhere—I  really wish I could have shown y'all that naughty cavalier.

May 1, 2007

© 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Middle School looms on the horizon

Last week I went to a meeting for parents of rising middle school students. The school counselor was there to tell us all about how our kids' lives were changing, how to choose electives, how to plan for college, and the importance of time management and organizational and study skills in the coming years.

Gulp.

I knew this was coming. I’ve been preparing my son and talking about it, but now we’re taking our first baby steps forward, and it’s sobering. Adolescence is looming. My kids are growing up. The stakes are being raised.

A college prep schedule was distributed, graduation requirements outlined, and diploma endorsements described. Other parents immediately began peppering the counselor with questions:

Can a student take Algebra I in eighth grade?

Can an eighth grader study two languages at once?

Why wasn’t band offered earlier?

Why didn’t they split third period between PE and study skills classes—alternating?

How are you going to keep smart kids challenged?

What about advanced placement tests?

My lack of questions made me feel complacent by comparison. I often feel this way as a school parent. Many of the parents I encounter are very competitive and assertive in trying to shape school offerings and policies and advance their kids. I’m not like that.

Is my satisfaction with the schools my kids have attended a sign that I’m not pushing them hard enough or paying close enough attention? Or are the schools fine and the other parents overly anxious? It seems anxiety is contagious. One person asks questions and asserts our kids aren’t going to be able to compete with kids from other schools, and then the mood shifts in the room and everyone starts to squirm and feel uneasy.

Like anyone else, I want my children to be challenged to do their best in a positive and supportive learning environment. I want them to be well educated, well rounded, and ready to succeed on their own, but while the quality of the school is a big part of that equation, I think their attitude may even be a bigger key to their eventual success.

What I want to see develop in my kids is accountability and responsibility. I want them to set their own goals and only look to me for guidance, not an agenda. I want them to recognize that barring extenuating circumstances, their success or failure in school is their own doing. They’re not poor or disadvantaged in any way. They’re both bright. They may occasionally find themselves in less than perfect circumstances in the classroom or the school, but they should make the best of it. They need to visualize the life they want as an adult and then recognize that the big and small choices they’re making right now will influence how and when (and if) they arrive at the place they want to be in life.

So as we approach the beginning of the home stretch in parenting, I remember when E and I were teaching them to ride bikes. I tell myself that our role at this point is to run behind and hold onto the seat of the bike. They have to pedal. They have to learn to steer.

Before I know it, I will have to let go and watch them glide away and disappear in the distance. I’m praying in that moment that they’ll have learned to keep their balance and move forward under their own power down whatever path they choose.

April 30, 2007

© 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Tapestry buying trip to Gent, Belgium

Today I joined a group of American women on a day trip to Gent. It's  a lovely historic city at the confluence of two rivers. It has a long history in shipping, and in the 13th century was one of Europe's major cities with a population of about 65,000. It's not a major tourist attraction in Belgium, being upstaged by Brugges, and yet it offers everything from medieval castles to classic Flemish, Roman, Gothic, and Baroque architecture. It has markets and squares, belfries and churches, watchtowers and guild houses, and lots and lots of unique and interesting shops.

One of the American women has cultivated a relationship with the owner of a tapestry shop.  Belgium is renowned for its tapestries, a reputation it developed during the middle ages. Belgian tapestries hung in castles, palaces, and chateaus across Europe and were commissioned by popes for the Vatican. Today the tapestries are no longer handwoven but are still made in Belgium. The shop in Gent featured tradtional and more modern designs on wall hangings, pillows, handbags, runners and and luggage. The owner of the shop offered our group a special discount and also arranged for a tour guide to acquaint us with the town's historic landmarks.

I'm not particularly into tapestry, but I was eager to get together with some women friends. E has been interested in acquiring a tapestry as a souvenir of Belgium and so I shook him down for euros and combed through the shop. Most of the wall tapestries feature classical images--medieval scenes, castles, ladies in gardens, flowers, maps, etc. While many of them were nice, they just weren't me. I couldn't imagine where I would hang them. I didn't want to have yet another piece of wall art languishing in a box somewhere. I am always buying art, and I don't have many places to hang wall art in our Belgian home.

I was, however, interested in the table runners. I have a few antique pieces that have cheap crocheted lace dresser scarves covering the imperfections on their tops. Over time, the lace has become stretched out and droopy and I've  been plotting to replace it but didn't know what to replace it with. Buying tapestry table runners for these chests and dressers seemed a perfect solution and a practical way to satisfy E's yen to bring a bit of Belgian tapestry into our home. 

There were loads and loads of throw pillows with all sorts of scenes, images, and patterns, ranging from the traditional, to reproductions of famous paintings, to whimsical themes. As much as I liked some of them, I kept resisting because no matter how attractive I might find decorative pillows, I hate having to find a place for them every time I want to sprawl on the sofa or clear off the bed at night.

Still there was one pillow in the shop calling my name.

Yeah, I know it's cutesy and sentimental, but I have three good reasons for buying it.

Reason number one is Petey.

Reason number two is Amy.

And this is just one of six bookcases in the house--reason number three.

Now you know why the pillow belongs in my home (notice, it also matches the sofa!).

April 27, 2007

Undermining the Constitution one step at a time

A friend sent me a link to a piece by American author Naomi Wolf. It was originally published in The Guardian in the UK. It articulates the source of the unease that many Americans feel about the direction our country is heading under the current administration.

Excerpt:

"Because Americans like me were born in freedom, we have a hard time even considering that it is possible for us to become as unfree - domestically - as many other nations. Because we no longer learn much about our rights or our system of government - the task of being aware of the constitution has been outsourced from citizens’ ownership to being the domain of professionals such as lawyers and professors - we scarcely recognize the checks and balances that the founders put in place, even as they are being systematically dismantled..."

http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2007/04/24/708/