Coffee morning

It's official. I am a repat. An ex expat. Back 'home'. And I am not sure that I like it much. At least not yet.

It's not my new surroundings that I mind, I mean, yes of course looking at snow capped mountains on a daily basis had a certain charm, but no, it's myself that I seem to like less in the new place. It feels like a bit of a failure that whilst being surrounded by people that I can understand perfectly, I don't seem to get them at all. Nor they me.
Scene 1. My daughter and I decide to take a trip by  train. (She wants to see the Hague, because she 'needs to know where our government is based'). Eight years ago, you would buy a ticket and that was that. These days you need a special public transport card. We manage to get two of said cards out of a machine, but don't have a clue as to what you do with them next.
I ask a friendly student who points to a machine on the platform. I need it to 'beep' my card, he tells me, all the while struggling not to laugh in my face. As it turns out, the public transport cards were introduced a good five years ago.
On our return journey my daughter and I completely forget the business with the cards until we have made ourselves comfortable on the train. There is nothing for it but to leave my daughter with all our bags and coats on the train for a desperate sprint trying to locate one of the very unobtrusive beeping devices. I make it back on board with just seconds to spare.
Whereas it is kind of fun to figure things out when living abroad - in fact I got a real buzz  the first time I managed  to buy tickets from an Italian speaking machine - back home it is just annoying. You are supposed to be intimately aquainted with things you have never even heard about.
Scene 2. For the umptieth day in a row my daughter hasn't managed to get herself a play date. To fully understand my feelings you need to know that Dutch primary school children go over to a friend's house - or invite a child back to their's - most afternoons. My daughter, used to playing in the school playground after school, finds it really difficult to initiate a play date. But when she is asked by one of her lovely new class mates, she tells them she can't make it that afternoon as she is afraid we have something else on.
Scene 3. Whilst living abroad I felt an enormous freedom to shape my life exactly as I pleased. And although no one says so out loud, the message I nonetheless pick up is that I need to go back to work. To conform to the juggling act of a parttime career and being a mum. Being different anyway whilst living abroad meant that conforming was utterly pointless and I really liked that.
Struggling with this - and my endless to do list - I all of a sudden get an invite for a coffee morning. A group of twenty or so repats, all living locally, meet up once a month for a good old natter about
their expat adventures and life in general. Although I hesitate at first, not being the coffee morning type, I let curiosity get the better of me.
And what a good decision that proofs to be. I genuinely like meeting a bunch of women that are (or were) in exactly the same boat. I quicky gravitate towards three women that look as bewildered as me. As it turns out neither of us has been back for more than six weeks.
Finally I manage to have a laugh about some of the things that I am doing at the  moment. Trying to buy a car while still owning a Swiss driver's license? Check (it can't be done), getting medication from the nearest pharmacist without registering at said pharmacist which you
can only do if you bring a passport? check. Calling the health authorities trying to explain that children get jabs in other countries too and my 12yo therefor doesn't need the four injections they have lined up for him? Check.

Women that have succesfully reintegrated two, three or sometimes more years ago are at hand to sprinkle little pearls of wisdom. Which really helps. /span>
I also discover a woman, back from I can't remember where, who lives just round the corner from me. She listens patiently while I lament the fact that my son, now that we're in the Netherlands really enjoys his bit of freedom and doesn't seem to need me anymore, except for studying Dutch, something we both dread. She tells me to brace myself, because playing catch up with my children's 'mothertongue' is not necessarily going to be a quick process. And also to knock on her door when I am at my wits end. > The meeting cheers me up no end. I get to talk to loads of interesting women and no one (no one!) asks me what I do with myself all day, or when (not if) I plan to go back to work. It is utter bliss. Hours later on the school's playground, waiting for my daughter, I am still smiling. Life isn't so bad after all. At least not today. Not even my tired, grumpy daughter who tells me she wants to go back to Switzerland, because she really, really misses her friends, can dampen my spirits. It's going to take us a while to adjust. And that's ok.

Settling in

Moving to a smaller house, I thought, would mean that we should be able to comfortably settle in without buying any new furniture. That was before I got rid of a lot of our stuff in a recent decluttering frenzy though.  

So now I am - once again - the proud owner of a Grundtal loo roll holder, a Mysa Rosenglimm (warmth rating 5 on a scale from 1 to 6) duvet to keep me warm at night, some nifty Skubbb drawer dividers, an Enudden towel rack, a little plastic stool named Frosta and some things that I so don't need that I don't even want to list them here (why is it that I can never leave a certain Swedish furniture superstore without buying paper napkins and plastic food containers?).
For the past eight years, going to Ikea always marked the transition from one country to another. In England we arrived without children's beds, as we decided - just before we left - that both our children had miraculously outgrown their cots. The nearest Ikea to our new home in Timperley was the one in Warrington, which was kind of tricky to get to as it involved various busy motorways on which left hand driving was required. I nonetheless managed to get beds, curtains, a two seater sofa
and some garden chairs home.
When we visited Bologna last spring, the first thing both children instantly recognised was 'the way to Ikea'. It must be said that during our years in Italy we single handedly kept the local Ikea afloat. Our beautiful appartment was, as is quite normal in Italy, completely devoid of fixed ceiling lights. As a consequence we still own about twelve identical Hemma floor lamps (go on look them up, I know you want to). The cheap fabric lamp shades are all a bit wonky, but since we have them, we might as well use them for the next twentyfive years or so.
In Switzerland we came precariously close to buying a whole series of Billy bookcases. Thank God we managed to stop ourselves just in time. We didn't show such restraint when it came to various chests of drawers and desks. And I really wish I had kept myself from buying a zillion plastic boxes to keep on top of the rigid Swiss recycling, but hey-ho you can't have it all.
The thing with the Swedish furniture that we have purchased all over Europe is that we always thought that we would get rid of it, the minute we would return to the Netherlands. For the 'real'  house that we were one day going to buy, we would purchase only stylish, well made pieces that
would really stand out. The truth of course is that by the time we will have replaced all of the Ikea things, we are never will be able to afford to actually buy a place that we like. In effect we are doomed to live in an Ikea showroom for the rest of our lives. I suppose there are worse things.
There clearly must be, because I manage to spend a hundred and fifty euro's in Ikea today. As I am loading various bits and pieces into the car, it hits me. Going to Ikea is a very important part of the transition process. It goes something like this:  1. I can manage to find the local supermarket and I have unpacked just enough pots to cook and feed the family; slowly changing into 2. Two months of living surrounded by boxes is enough, so time for some more unpacking; quickly followed by 3. There is nowhere to put loose screws, pencils, paper clips, lip balm, underwear, nail fungus cream,  fondue sets and children's paint; seamlessly leading to 4. Find the nearest Ikea  NOW!
I take the familiar route starting from 'living room' (at the top of the escalator), to 'work', 'kitchen', 'dining', finally reaching the restaurant via 'bedrooms', 'bathrooms' and 'children's rooms'. After the ubiquitous meat balls I move on to 'home organisation', my favourite Ikea section by far.
After all these years of living with myself I still believe that the only thing that stands between me and an organised house is a lack of 'clever storage solutions'. So I keep buying plastic, fabric and cardboard boxes that all promiss to keep chaos at bay. And I completely fall for drawer dividers, toothbrush holders, towel racks and see-through shoeboxes.
The truth is however, that I am not a tidy person. In fact I am very lazy when it comes to tidying. So much so, that I quite often find myself filling lunch boxes in the morning, whilst being surrounded by the dirty pots - foodscraps still in - that I used to cook last night's dinner in. What I do like is to spring clean and organise my house once a year. I also like to dream about a household run with military precision. I even like - once in a blue moon - to throw out things I don't longer want or need. But most of all I like to fool myself when shopping at Ikea.

Back To School

The umbilical cord between my eldest son and me has finally been severed. It wasn't a gradual process. Oh no. All it took was one blow. Days later I am still recovering.

After nine weeks of summer holidays the first day at my son's new school finally dawned. It wasn't a full day. In fact,  he only needed to be at school from one till three to meet his form tutor and all 31 of his new Dutch classmates. As some sort of  rite of passage he wanted to cycle to school all by himself.
From a Dutch perspective, this is a very common request. Children in the Netherlands start to cycle to school on their own when they are eight, or nine years old. Maybe  their mums and dads still help their children to cross a busy road, but the kids will at least cycle part of the way by themselves.
Not my 12yo. Till he broke up last June, I had always driven him to school. In Italy only lunatics try to ride a bicycle and in Switzerland we had to climb several hundred meters to get to school. Although it is much healthier to travel by bike and it will probably do wonders for their independency, as a mum and designated driver, I have to say, it was quite nice to monitor their school life from up close.
Anyway, in the Netherlands you cannot be seen cycling to secondary school with your mum. That would the end of your budding social life. So, my son and I did a few trial runs and I bought him a way too expensive phone to make sure, if need be, we could at least communicate.
My 12yo - who is going to a new school for the fifth (!) time - isn't the least bit nervous. This comes as a bit of a surprise to both him and me. I can still picture him looking pale and worried on first days in England, Italy and Switzerland. Having had an easy start and two great years in Switzerland, surely must have helped.
As my son has been asked to bring a significant object into school to help him introduce himself, he put a Swiss flag into his backpack before he sets off to school. I know I am nagging, but I nonetheless tell him about ten times to text me when (if?!) he gets there. He has obviously decided to humour me, because ten minutes later the words 'made it' appear on the screen of my phone. Marvellous.
It is a long afternoon. Till around half three I am pretending to be busy, walking up and down stairs, sort of unpacking boxes, creating more and more chaos as I go along. By four 'o clock he is officially late. I manage to wait another five minutes before I call him. Of course he doesn't pick up his phone. It's at least another ten minutes before he finally turns up.
,,I fell off my bike", he explains. ,,I was holding the Swiss flag in my hand, because it doesn't really fit in my backpack. When I suddenly swerved to avoid bumping into this guy on a bike in front of me, the flag got stuck in between the spokes and I was catapulted off."
Oh my God. Luckily he got away with just a few bruises and thank God it happened in a quiet little street. I need a drink. And my son deserves a coke. I am really proud of myself that I manage to get the drinks on the table, without giving my 12yo a lecture on responsible cycling. I really keep my cool. He doesn't seem too shaken up by this accident and I am intent to keep it that way.
'OK', is all he is willing to share about meeting his classmates and form tutor. When pressed he reluctantly adds 'fine' to his description of the afternoon, before he - the can of coke in his hands -heads upstairs to his room. Half a hour later he is back, ready to go to field hockey practise. A quick wave and he is off again. On his bicycle. My lovely, independent 12yo boy.