Edelweiss

Three days of solid hiking high up in the Alps and I still haven't managed to spot edelweiss. Nor did I bump into a saint-bernard wearing a barrel filled with brandy for that matter. But I'm not fussed about rescue dogs.

I am however pretty desperate to see edelweiss grow in the wild. Ever since I set foot in Switzerland  I have been surrounded by images of edelweiss. Every single souvenir you can buy in this country has some edelweiss painted on it, or carved in it. I know that my countrymen make a ton of money selling wooden clogs to tourists, while no one in the Netherlands actually wears these, but that can't be the same with edelweiss. I just point blank refuse to believe that the Swiss are that calculated.
So in order to give my edelweiss-finding-mission one last chance I book a room in a mountain hut close to Wengen and start planning some serious hikes. Fortunately my friend S. offers to lend me a hand and together we manage to persuade some of our children that hiking is really good fun (don't ask).
It's a good thing that we packed hats, gloves and thermal underwear, because it is snowing (!) when we arrive at the top of 'our' mountain. So we carefully layer up before we set off on our first hike. It isn't long before we bump into the first of many groups of Japanese tourists that are let loose in the Alps. Just like me, they get exited by every flower they see. But although we spot white flowers in all shapes and seizes, edelweiss eludes us.
A thick fog accompanies us on our second big hike. We decide to walk to the nearest village, a descend of a little over three thousand feet. It's an exhilarating hike, following a tiny foothpath that meanders through massive avalanche guards, which presents us with a totally new perspective on the alpine scenery. This time too my eyes are firmly cast down. Partly because I don't want to loose my footing, but also because I haven't quite given up on the idea of finding edelweiss.
My friend S. is game and is busily flower spotting as well. So much so, that both of us manage to completely miss a herd of ibex that frolicking on the mountain side above our head. Luckily my son has been paying a little more attention to his surroundings. He enthusiastically points the ibex out. Hmm, may be I should look up too every now and then. As if to remind me of my resolve, five minutes or so later the sun makes it's first appearance.
We get a first glimpse of the famous alpine trio: Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, towering magnificently above us. Eternal snow glistening on their peaks. The mountain giants - all three of them are well over thirteen thousand feet - never fail to impress me and for the rest of our hike my gaze is directed firmly upwards.
That night we celebrate the completion of a five hour hike with beer, hot chocolate, schnitzels, chips and humongous ice creams. After dinner friend S. and I feel refreshed enough to hike up to the nearest viewpoint. It doesn't matter that the fog has rolled in again and there are no views to be had. It's just a matter of pride to have stood on the top of the peak that lend our mountain hut it's name.
After two days of hiking we let the children decide what they want to do. Needless to say they don't want to hike. Instead we fly down the mountain on scooters. The obligatory trail winds it's way through flower filled meadows. My heart beats a little faster, but my speed is such that I can't really tell a daisy from an edelweiss.
As soon as I get home I wikipedia the elusive alpine flower. 'Leontopodium alpinum (aka edelweiss) prefers rocky limestone places at about six thousand to ten thousand feet altitude' it tells me. And also that 'as a scarce short-lived flower found in remote mountain areas, the plant has been used as a symbol for the rugged beauty and purity associated with the Alps'. So it might exist after all. It just doesn't want to be found. At least not by a novice alpine hiker like me. I can live with that.
But then friend S. calls me that evening. She is on her way home from the supermarket where she spotted row after row of potted edelweiss. I am appalled. Edelweiss, as it turns out, does want to be found by me. But only as long as I look for it in the supermarket.


Did you ever spot edelweiss?(If so, please don't gloat...)

Squeaky clean

This week I survived the scrupulous eye of the 'on-site inspection manager'. A heavily perfumed lady, dispatched by our relocation firm, who came to check out our appartment.

Not only did she personally inspect every nook and cranny of our living quarters, to see if there was any (hidden) damage, or - God forbid - grime, she was also sent round the representatives of two cleaning firms to give us a quote. And she demanded that I stayed home for this ordeal. I desperately tried to leave her a key somewhere, but she was having non of it.
Although I hastely removed dirty underwear, stinking bathmaths, wet towels, at least ten pairs of shoes, old newspapers and children's bicycles from our living room before the cleaning experts were to arrive, I still wasn't very confident that the appartment would pass the test.
The inspection lady, Diane, is the first to arrive. Within ten minutes she manages to show me spots, marks and dents that I have never noticed before. She strongly feels the entrance of our kitchen could do with one or two coats of paint to get rid of black fingermarks and she turns out to be very worried about a weird stain on the tiled floor, that surely wasn't there last time I checked.
Diane clearly is also very unimpressed with the way that I clean the fifty or so square meters of windows, whereas I am actually still really pleased with myself for actually having cleaned them at all, albeit only once in the two years we have been living in the appartment.
 'Children', I offer by way of and excuse for the myriad of fingermarks that cover the omnipresent glass.  'I know all about that', she replies with a halfhearted smile . But clearly she doesn't. Her children are probably extremely well behaved as all Swiss children seem to be. They tidy their rooms without being asked, never spill there food and always take of their shoes before entering the house.
Although having Diane around is akward enough,  the real embarassment doesn't start until cleaning expert number one starts having a nosey. He opens cupboards and drawers, lifts toilet seats and manages to just about catch a jumble of clothes that I had only stuffed in that very morning.
Cleaning expert number two takes the whole inspection saga a very unwelcome step further by scraping dirt from the inside of my oven with his bare hands. They come out black (now there is a surprise), so I hastily provide soap and a towel. Both of which he politely refuses, since he first needs to check my extractor fan. Again with his bare hands.
Oh dear. The good thing though is that my landlady is never going to see the greasy smears in my kitchen. Before you are even allowed to move house in Switzerland a professional cleaning company comes in to dettol the whole place. I bet those cleaning guys will provide quotes for at least a couple of thousand Swiss franks to make my house look all shiny and new.
If truth be told, I love a clean and tidy house. I positively thrive in a sparkling clean and visualy calm space. I don't even mind to thouroughly spring clean to get the house in it's desired state; it is the maintaining of the afore mentioned state that I struggle with. A cleaning lady would actually be fantastic. Except for the fact that every cleaning lady that ever worked for me, walked all over me and more or less stopped cleaning after they found out what a pushover I am. 
So after moving to the Netherlands, this is what I'll do. Instead of inviting potential cleaners to come round my messy house where I will sit looking scruffy and a bit overwhelmed, I will spring clean for three days before I even let them come near my house. 'This is how I like it', is all I am going to say, looking immaculate and I guess, a little smug. Hopefully I will find someone, preferably born and raised in squeaky clean Switzerland, to take the bait.

Dude

'Tail whip', 'bunny hop', '360' and 'tail grabber' have become high frequency words in our house these days. Thanks to a recently aquired stunt scooter and a newly opened skate park.

Since my son cunningly persuaded me into buying him an insanely expensive stunt scooter (a cleverly concocted plot involving him doing all his homework on time, not teasing his sister, or at least not as relentlessly as he normally does, and lots of helping around the house), he has been talking about little else. And whenever I don't seem to be doing something useful - from his point of view that is - he asks me to take him to the skate park.
Last Sunday I succumbed. Partly because the skate park happens to be close to my favourite Italian restaurant, so we could have pizza for lunch, and partly because I love to see my 11yo's wide-eyed exitement on entering the park.
Immediately he starts showing me his tricks, which mainly involve him jumping off a smallish ledge. He directs me to take countless photo's and films to be send out to family and friends later on. He really believes in himself, my 11yo, and strongly feels his achievements should be broadcasted. And so do most of the guys around, I notice. There aren't a lot of jumps being executed without someone filming them.
My son knew what he was doing when he took me shopping for his scooter. It's definitely a good one. So much so, that other owners of seriously cool scooters soon ride over to check my boy's out. A few words, or a quick nod with his head are soon followed by a test spin on someone elses scooter. Within minutes the11yo is part of a clan that I didn't even knew existed.
A couple of young men are busy spray painting intricate designs on the ramps. A group of Jewish boys - earlocks dangling when they take off their helmets - is queueing up to get their headgear painted. The muslim boys are on to it too and soon every boy in the skate park is having their helmet sprayed. My eyes almost well up with tears (what is wrong with me these days?) at the side of those tough looking, graffiti artists, patiently waiting for the little guys to pick their favourite coulours.
After scootering around the bit of the park geared towards youngers skaters, my son plonks himself down next to me. Silence. I know exactly what is coming. I have seen him stare longingly at the the other side of the park where grown up skaters are tackling grinders and jumping over boxes. And sure enough after ten minutes of staring into space, he takes a deep breath, picks up his scooter and starts to ride over. I follow at a distance.
He scooters up to a very deep bowl where bikers and skaters, one at a time, drop down and then cruise along the sloping sides. My son is standing at the edge, watching, biding his time while screwing up his courage. When he finally takes the plunge, he does so at the exact same time as an impressively tall and skillful skater, coming from the opposite side of the bowl. This guy is so good that he just about manages to avoid a head on collision with my son. There is no way however he can keep himself from tumbling off his skateboard, leaving the 11yo looking bewildered and ashamed.
As the guy scrambles up he looks my son straight into the eye and both my boy and I are holding our breath. But then he slowly raises his hand, indexfinger and pink stretched out, the rest of the fingers curled inwards. 'Dude', he seems to be saying. 'No worries, shit happens'.
My son is growing taller instantly. This is definitely top of the 'coolest-things-that-ever-happened-to-me-chart'. I should have taken a picture. Of course, I should have. It would have looked great in my sons trophy cabinet, positioned between his medal from when he was eight (and surprisingly managed to beat four other boys in his ski school's race) and his collection of sports day diploma's.


How cool is your son and does his 'coolness' make you smile?

The end of a school year

There are precisely 8,5 days and one weekend left till the start of the summer holiday. And instead of winding down, I am running around like a blue-arsed fly to keep up with the end of school year hysteria.

One look at my calendar for the next two weeks is enough to make my blood pressure rise to an unacceptable level. Not only do I have to cheer on two children at two seperate sports days which get canceled and rescheduled almost daily as a consequence of the bad weather we are having, I also need to buy a really good end of year present for my daughter's teacher (I stuffed up badly at Christmas and she is lovely) and bake one hundred and fifty cupcakes for various events (like the 'let's-all-bring-cupcakes-to-school-for-charity-day').
Oh and did I mention shopping for a blue dress for my daughter's summer concert in which she is going to sing two whole lines? I did not think so. I am seriously contemplating sending her to the concert in a pink pair of trousers. I think my daughter would be game.
The children also need ridiculous amounts of money. For the yearbook, a T-shirt with all the names of their classmates on it, a movie night, a bake sale, a wrist band, or a charity swim. I suspect my two of making half of the stuff up. Allways handy to have a bit of money in your pockets to spend on ice cream and kitkats.
And then there is the washing of sports clothes and swimming costumes and the inevitable, panicky scramble around the house in search of the obligatory t-shirt with the school logo on, the only pair of shorts that my son thinks are cool enough to wear to school now that he is fast approaching his twelfth birthday and any of my daughter's shoes. I found her the other morning, checking the compost bin in the garden, wearing one shoe and hoping for a miracle. I would not put it past her to have thrown her shoes in there, although she normally drops them somewhere that does not involve the extra hassle of lifting a lid.
In between all of this I am also supposed to come up with a fun treasure hunt for my daughter's leaving party this Saturday. With games and quiz questions, exiting enough to get the seal of approval from a bunch of highly critical (and articulate) ten year olds.
To tip me over the edge, a teacher was cheerfully putting up posters around the school today to announce another 'crazy hair and dress day'. Just what I need. Children who demand that I will go out and buy neigh impossible to find coloured hair sprays, or really need me to sew on seventeen buttons on a fancy dress top that popped off the last time they they wore it.
Looking at it from the sunny side though, the move back to the Netherlands this summer will feel like a breeze. I mean, honestly,  how stressful can that be, compared to getting two children through the last 8,5 days of the school year?

Raising children (and mine are not even teenagers yet)

Now that my children are getting older - they are almost twelve and ten - I have to work a lot harder to mould them into responsible, caring human beings. And just when I think I am doing something right, they throw me a curve ball.

Case study one. We are in the car, driving to school. It is Monday morning and my eldest is doing his homework. Two speed bumps and a sharp right hand turn later he is complaining (seriously, I am not making this up) about my reckless driving, because there is no way he can 'write neatly' in those circumstances. Should I A: Have forbidden him to do his homework in the car, because he clearly should have done it the night before, B: Praise him, because he is at least doing his homework,  C: Say nothing but throw in a few extra hairpin bends and speed bumps and hope he will draw his own conclusion?

Case study two. My daughter has forgotten her rain jacket on the school playing field, or at the swimming pool, or the Kung Fu gym where she spends her Wednesday afternoons. She does not know and clearly does not care either. After I give her a good talking to she reluctantly checks the above mentioned places, but does not find her jacket. It is not the first time she forgets her belongings. Should I A: Buy her a new rain jacket on the basis that it rains almost every single day, B: Withhold all her pocket money for the next two and a half years untill she will have recovered the cost of a new jacket, or C: Send her out in the rain on a daily basis without a jacket?

Case study three. I give my son and daughter both ten Swiss franks to spend on lunch and a drink during the summer fair at school. My daughter buys a coke, some sugar candy and french fries and hands me back two franks. My son, buys chocolate, a drink, an ice cream and a little more chocolate and then comes to tell me he is hungry and broke. Should I A: Give him some more money so he can buy some proper food, B: Tell him it was his choice to spend all his pennies on sweets and there is nothing I can do about that now, or C: Ask him to buy me some french fries and then let him eat most of it?

Case study four. We have this new rule in our house. The children have to make their own packed lunches in the morning. They are supposed to lay the breakfast table, making sure they have everything they need to put in their lunch boxes. When my son is in charge, the table looks immaculate and there might even be a pot of freshly brewed tea. When it is my daughter's turn however, she puts down three plates, a pot of Nutella and two slices of  bread. No knifes, tea cups, butter, milk, lunch boxes, or other such necessities. Should I A: Tell her off and wait for her to put things right, risking us all being late for school/work?,B: Lay the table myself each morning, to make sure we have everything, or C: Enjoy the days when my son takes care of it all and just step in when it is my daughter's turn?

I honestly do not have a clue. Well, that is not true, strictly speaking,  I do. In an ideal world I should probably go for answers A, B, B and A. But I do not live in an ideal world and I am only human and husband W. is never around to back me up, and, and, and.... So here is what I did in reality.
In the first situation I chose option C, having a lovely time taking the long and especially windy road to school. In the second case I send loved one W. and my daughter to the shop to buy her a new jacket. A jacket that she by the way chooses not to wear on the basis that she is sure she is going to forget it somewhere again.
At the school fair, the other day, I was having such a good time myself, that I smiled at my son and gave him some extra cash to buy some food (option C). Oh and I asked him to get me beer while he was at it.  As for the breakfast table, I have left that one be for the moment. Neither my daughter, nor I are particularly cheerful in the morning and arguing over a few plates will not help things at all. So option C, once again.

So I am , in short, totally unprepared for my children's teenage years, when they are going to spend any extra cash that I hand out for food on beers, and  - God forbid -cigarettes (or drugs?). Years too, when I will be so thrilled that they choose to do their homework in the back of the car, I will happily drive them around the country if I have to. My teenage children are also undoubtedly going to try their very best to leave unfasionable and unwanted clothes in locker rooms, cafe's and parks on the basis that their dad will take them shopping for much wanted replacements. And they obviously will never learn how to lay, let alone clear the table, do the washing up, or pick up after themselves, because they have grown completely used to the fact that I do all that. 
But still, I am fairly optimistic that I will have it all figured out by the time the children are ready to leave the nest. Otherwise, they will probably tell me in no uncertain terms, where I have gone wrong and how it is absolutely my fault that they do not have any discipline and that they are in no way to blame for things that did not go as planned. Gosh, I honestly can not wait.