Bad Hair Day

                              




Every move sooner or later reaches the stage of me pulling my hair out. Not because I am that desperate but because I have to find a new hairdressers.

Let me start by saying that there are few things that I dislike more -  on my list a visit to the hairdresser would only be topped by going in for a cervix smear, or a root canal treatment - than having my hair cut. Just the whole back breaking exercise of having it washed is enough to put me in a bad mood. I never am comfortable, despite my politely uttered reassurance, with my neck resting on a rock solid plastic rim and water dripping in my ears. And why on earth you should shampoo and then condition your hair twice in a row is beyond me.
There was one blissful periode in England. After several visits to different hairdressers who invariably spend fifteen minutes cutting and a good hour blowdrying (styling!) your hair, we came accross a lovely lady who made house calls. She could cut, dry and style all four of us in an hour. And the best part: you could wash your own hair in your own shower. Cleaning the kitchen smothered in human hair seemed a small price to pay.
After our move to Italy it seemed neigh on impossibe to find a replacement. Luckily we found an old fashioned salon at the bottom of our street. The team of stylists consisted of mum, well into her sixties with a purple helmet of hair, her daughter, son in law and a ferocious, but impeccably groomed, orange poodle. The elderly head of the family made a mean espresso, so in Italy was deemed a valuable asset to the business. And so he was.
No premium espresso's were being served in Switzerland, where I decided to grow out my hair. Not so much as a fashion statement, but more so because for a long time I couldn't face the discussion about layers, fringes and blow drying techniques in yet another language. In the end I found the one place in Switzerland where you didn't need to book an appointment, so I could just walk in on days when I felt particularly courageous.
With hair almost as long as my 10yo daughter's, I felt that I couldn't postpone a trip to the hairdressers any longer. Since a friend (with lucious chestnut coloured wavy locks completely unlike my own limp blond excuse of a hairdo) recommended her hairdresser, I decided yesterday to take the plunge.
I really tried to ignore the water dripping in my ears and although I vowed that looking at my not so young face upclose in a mirror with my hair piled up high in unfashionable pink hair pins for a least an hour wasn't going to get me down, it did in the end.
I also discovered that language, contrary to my beliefs, doesn't play a part in my disliking of going to the hairdresser. Yesterday, I found that whilst being able to discuss my hair in my mothertongue I still didn't have anything to say about it.
To cowardly to admit that I more often than not leave the house in the morning with wet hair and that styling it is something that I have carefully avoided for years, I tell lies. Something that I manage to do so convincingly that I invariably come home with some useless and very expensive styling mousse or hair serum that I feigned to be interested in.
On the upside though I had enough of my wits about me yesterday to make the girl seriously trim my hair. It's much shorter than I have had it in years. So short in fact that I don't need another haircut for at least a year. Or two. In this timespan I might even manage to use the volume enhancing product that I bought. Or else it might look lovely next to the unused jar of boob dust in it's secret hiding place.

Defrosting

                       

Pippi Longstocking would absolutely adore my kitchen at the moment. With the help of two brushes tied to her size 10 feet and a little detergent she could skate to her heart's content. All because as a spur-of-the-moment thing I decided to defrost my fridge/freezer.

It seemed like such a good idea this morning.  The fridge could defrost while I was doing the weekly shop. Upon coming home I was going to deep clean the beast, before packing it to the brim again. All would have been fine, if only I had turned the heating off, before I left the house. Remembering to take the drawers out of the freezer, would also have made a difference.
On a(nother) whim I decide to check out a different supermarket as it seems such a waste to drive to the nearest supermarket as it is only 300 yards from my house. I justify taking the car by driving fifteen minutes to another supermarket where I am going to do a really big shop. A hundredandsixty euro's and three bags filled to the brim later, I feel like I have really accomplished something. It is not until I arrive back home that I realise there is absolutely nowhere to unpack the mountain of perishable goods.  Allthough it is strangely balmy outside, considering we are nearing the end of october, I decide to leave everything in the boot of the car.
I let myself in, carefully avoiding the kitchen, because first I need to go and see my physiotherapist. It takes him a bit longer than anticipated to abuse my lower back, so instead of going home, I need to rush over to my daughter's school to pick her up. Thank God she decides to go over to a friend's house for a play date, because when I finally make it back into my kitchen disaster has struck.
Not only have the overflowing freezer drawers flooded my kitchen; the milk, butter and cheese left outside the fridge has completely melted and is leaving gooey blobs all over the units. Packets of ham have turned greyish and defrosted pakets of peas and puff pastry have mingled into a sorry mess.
Luckily I discover real mushrooms in the fridge as well as white mouldy bits and non identifiable black, crumbly smears, completely justifying the chaotic defrosting operation.
My 12yo and his classmate look at me curiously when they find me smothered in food scraps and kneeling in a large puddle trying to clean the fridge. The last time I did this - in a different house in a different country - I could easily lift the shelves out, but never managed to make them slide back in again, so this time I am desperately trying to clean the shelves while leaving them in the fridge.
You have to be quite flexible to get rid of all the new growth, let me tell you that.
While I scrub, mob and wipe I have loads of time to ponder our recent new beginnings in the Netherlands. something that I have carefully avoided for the past two months. It is not all bad, I decide. Wanting to clean the fridge in my new home, surely is a sign of nesting, is it not? and mY heart is definitely defrosting, albeit slowly, as I am trying to fall in love all over again with my motherland.
Hours later, I contently look at my new sparkly clean and well stocked fridge. I have send Mr. S. to the nearest chippy for a couple of beers and some well deserved greasy treats. No one is allowed to touch the sanitized appliance again. Or at least not today. The cleanliness of the fridge is as fragile and easily disrupted, I fear, as are my baby steps on the road to accepting that life has changed once again.

Glamming up

                                       

Fast approaching her eleventh birthday my daughter has suddenly developped an interest in shopping. Whereas before she would only reluctantly agree to come with me to get her some new shoes/trousers/tops, nowadays I am the one who hesitates when she asks to be accompanied into town.

The fact is that she would rather go by herself - it has allready been two, or even three years since my daughter decided she was old enough to do most things on her own - and thus every shopping expedition starts with an argument. She demands an exact date, albeit months (years?) from now, on which she can set out on her own. I know if I let myself being tempted into picking a date it will be set in stone.
The minute I promiss to take her to a cafe and treat her to a hot chocolate however, she will grudgingly put up with me tagging along. As long as she is allowed to turn left on entering a shop while I take a right, that is. Which is easier said than done, because I have to make myself scarce without loosing sight of her. If she doesn't spot me the second she decides she has had enough solitude, she panicks. Big time.
Nevertheless I adore our girly outings together. It is lovely to see how she is changing from a little girl into a teenager. That she doesn't like a single piece of clothing that I like is only natural and to see her emerging from a changing room in leather trousers and a leather jacket (embellished with a chunky gold asymmetrical zip) is priceless.
My daughter is developping a rather unique style as she likes to combine zip off outdoor trousers and hiking boots with very glitzy leave one shoulder bare tops. We don't buy the leather jacket outfit as it is way too expensive, but instead we manage to find her a pair of black leather boots adorned with metal studs and a very garish orange top with loads of sequins and a rather busy print.
Over coffee and chocolate in a lovely little cafe, my olive skinned daughter confides in me, that she
really wants blusher, because she would like to be 'very brown in the winter too'. She is determined to spend her pocket money on it and since she can do whatever she likes with her own pennies, I let her.
Ages we spend surveying the different 'revolutionary' skintone alterating products. Finally my daughter picks a powder blusher that is the shade of an old fashioned clay tennis court. It will defenitely do the trick. She also finds a nice looking bottle of Vampy Kiss, which wouldn't go amiss if someone threw up in the car, but is just a tat overpowering in all other circumstances.
Hours later, glow in the dark orange and smelling divine, I find her on the sofa reading a girl's magazine.  She has a brilliant idea, she tells me. Next time we go shopping together she is going to pick out stuff for me to try on. 'It is going to be great', she says, smiling seductively. 'I will find you a really good pair of leather trousers and a very sparkly top'. Great idea! I am only hoping however that she will have forgotten all about the necessity of blusher by then.

Star

My children have learned how to conjugate verbs in four, or in my sons case, five different languages. But do they use any of that knowledge to communicate with me? Nope. One word suffices to get their message across.

Depending  on intonation, rhythm, volume and breaking up of the word in two, or sometimes even three nonexisting syllables, a single 'mum' cuts straight to the chase. 'Mum' sounding loudly and yet strangely muffled at the same time, means that one of my kids can't find his or her P.E. kit, homework, guitar, or favourite jumper. It might by the way also mean that they can't find the butter, chocolate sprinkles, bread rolls, or - my favourite - have run out of loo paper whilst sitting on the toilet.
With their head stuck in a kitchen cabinet, sock drawer, or laundry basket they expect me to magically pull whatever it is that they want (need!!!) out of a top hat. I can not seem to make them understand that stuff could also be at the bottom of a pile, behind something else on a shelf, or still in one of the zillions of bags shattered around our house.
 'Mum' uttered in a kind of whiney tone of voice however conveys a different set of messages in our family. 'I told you I have a tummy ache and you're not responding to it the way that I want you to', certainly is one of them. As are: 'I left my rain jacket in some changing room somewhere and now I am cold and wet and it is all your fault', 'I failed my geography test and it is so unfair, because I did study for it and by the way, it is all your fault', or 'I left my lunchbox at home and you did not want to bring it and now I am soooo hungry and it is definitely your fault and did you know that you are the worst mum in the world'.
 'Muhum', or 'muhuhum' repeated over and over, combined with a rolling of the eyes is my children's way of telling me that I have never been more wrong in my life than when I suggested they bring waterproof trousers on a day trip to the zoo in November. Or when I tell them I don't want to watch Harry Potter at two in the afternoon on a gloriously sunny day, nor want to teach them how to bake at nine 'o clock at night (but you always say we are going to .., but when I ask you, you never feel like it').
 My children 'mum' from dawn to dusk, preferably simultaneously, never doubting my superwomanpowers to listen to my daughter playing guitar in her bedroom upstairs, while at the same time searching for my son's maths book in the kitchen downstairs. They also seriously expect me to not bat an eyelid when they need me to handwash their team sports socks that they forgot to put in the laundry bin a week ago. And didn't I know they need those socks tonight? And all that while I am busy cooking dinner.
When I finally sit down for a spot of apathetic gazing at the telly, I hear a softly whispered 'mum' coming from upstairs. It is my 10yo daughter who should have been asleep by now. She needs to know whether we have any cardboard. 'It is for a present for you', she hastily adds when she sees my
face. I leave without getting too cross with her, but ten minutes or so later she lures me into her
bedroom again. Covered in glue, paper, ribbon and beaming radiantly she hands me a giant card. 'To mum, you are a' it reads, followed by a massive and very sparkely star. And you know what? I think she has a point.

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.