My Love Hate Relationship with Sinterklaas

Let's get one thing straight - fourteen years ago Sinterklaas was a non-entity in my life. For a few years after that I saw him coming and going, getting on with his business but leaving me in peace.

Then one day, when my eldest son was a couple of years old, Sinterklaas and his staf suddenly invaded my home. He came in uninvited and practically put his feet up on my sofa for weeks on end. And he's done it every year since.

A first I didn't have feelings for him one way or another. Then another of my children reached "I get Sinterklaas" age in my home and my eldest was fully initiated in primary school.

What that means, for those of you whose children are not yet of school going age, is this:

• Sinterklaasjournaal every day. Every sodding day. Every day here at home and in school. The boys insisted on it - and we, as caring, loving parents, also had to know what was going on so we could throw ourselves in to the storyline (read: wind our own kids up by being in cahoots with the entire Dutch nation with one disaster or another to befall Sinterklaas, his boat, his horse or, horror of horrors, the presents).

• A house full of Sinterklaas knutsels. The first year when my son brought home a Piet muts he'd made in the peuterspeelzaal I cooed and ahhhed, like all good mothers do. Six years later and more homemade Piet and Sinterklaas hats, drawings, sacks and paper shoes than any sane person would know what to do with I'm done. Spare me. My house is one big cluttered paper mess. The drawings are beautiful, everything they have made has been lovingly put together and crafted and oh, my boys are so proud. It melts my heart. But stop already. 

• A house full of little people who are literally bouncing off and climbing up the walls in excitement. Not just for a day. Not even a week. But weeks. Plural. The moment the man in red arrives on Dutch shores the craziness begins. My house and every Dutch school classroom turns in to a sugar induced lunatic asylum with kids bouncing off each other counting down the days until they get their presents, and Sinterklaas clears off back to Spain leaving us to clear up his mess. 

• It means singing. A lot of singing. Now, I'm all for a good sing song. I'll croon away with the best of them. But Sinterklaas songs get tedious sang at the top of a child's voice for weeks on end. There are many Sinterklaas songs but there are only three that stick in any child's mind. Sinterklaas bloody kapoentje. Zwarte Piet ging uit fietsen and Sinterklaas is jarig, zet hem op de pot. The last song is sung in a fit of uncontrollable giggles. And the worst thing is that whilst I am trying to ingrain beautiful Christmas carols in to my sons once Sinterklaas has toddled back off to Spain, they are still singing Sinterklaas bloody kapoentje. It's around May when they finally stop.

So that's how the Sinterklaas celebration looks when your children start primary school. Seriously, count your blessings if your offspring is yet to turn four. 

On the other hand….. who could not be charmed by the excitement of three little boys whose whole world for a couple of weeks a year revolves around a fantasy? The enthusiasm they have for Sinterklaas and his band of helpers is like nothing else. When my four year old is telling me what happened in the latest Sinterklaasjournaal he is literally jumping up and down whilst talking. Who can't love the innocence of uncontainable excitement? When do we, as adults, ever get to experience such enthusiasm? 

The thrill of pakjesavond for children is immeasurable, waiting for a knock on the door, a gloved hand around the door throwing sweets at them and then….. the grand finale, the moment they have waited weeks for - the sack of presents left in the hall. And it's not about what is in those sacks left behind. It's the magic that those many sacks scattered across the Netherlands represent. A magic that only a child gets. Only a child can experience. That feeling of being so excited you feel like you could burst. And that's what I love about Sinterklaas. That's why I contain my feelings of resentment when he bursts in to my home in November, puts his feet up on my sofa and makes himself cosy until the 6th of December. For my children, who after all is what Sinterklaas is all about. 

So, however and wherever you are celebrating pakjesavond tomorrow enjoy your evening. Enjoy the moments of joy and excitement of your children, enjoy the family time - but know that I'll be the first in line to wave the good man off on Saturday morning……..

Mama, What's Wheelchair in Dutch?

Photo Credit: Karen

Life with bilingual children is filled with surprises and giggles, from watching with amazement as they pick up words in a new language and just run with them, to situations created outside the home when people expect a Dutch word but get an English one instead. Or vice versa. Like the time the kinderarts assistant thought my eldest son was casting doubt on Bert's (as in Sesame Street's Bert and Ernie) sexuality......

Last week Mr C, my four year old, both surprised me and made me laugh as he launched into a story in Dutch telling his dad about his day in school. His Dutch has always been much stronger than his English but I have noticed that speaking English is getting easier for him, especially after three intensive weeks in England over the summer.  In any case, he said,

"Een meisje was vandaag in een....." ("Today one of the girls was in a ....") and then he leaned over to me and whispered in my ear,

"Mama, what is a wheelchair in Dutch?"

"Rolstoel!" I whispered back.

"Oh yeah, zij was in een rolstoel," he finished.

"Waarom?" asked his dad. ("Why?")

"Geen idee," said Mr C.  ("No idea.")

Bilingual Children: How Rumours Start

When you are raising bilingual children there will undoubtedly be frustrations, but there will also be laughs.

When we are out and about people outside our home obviously expect to consistently hear Dutch from my sons once they have struck up conversation in Dutch. They are not expecting them to suddenly switch to English. But sometimes it happens.

The funniest moment so far was when a pediatric nurse cast serious aspersions on Bert’s sexuality, the grumpier of the Bert and Ernie duo.

My son, two at the time, had to go for an appointment at our local hospital. Whilst we waited for the nurse, he was busy with various toys scattered around the waiting room. He picked up an Ernie, of Sesame Street fame, and began to play.

The nurse appeared and to get him comfortable with her (some two year olds are not too happy when a stranger wants to poke and prod them) she asked about the cuddly toy he was holding,

“Nou, wie is dat?” ("So, who's that?")

“Ernie,” replied my son looking at her as if she had landed from an alien planet.

“En waar is Bert?,” she continued. ("And where is Bert?")

“Bert’s at home,” he replied, turning around to get back to the important business of playing with Ernie.

The nurse looked a little shocked and turned to us and asked,

“Wat zegt hij nou?” ("What did he just say?")

“Bert is thuis,” my husband said “maar dan in het Engels. Hij heeft een Bert knuffel thuis.” (Bert is at home, but then in English. He has a Bert toy at home.")

The nurse broke in to hysterics and the three of us looked at her as if maybe she needed an appointment in a different section of the hospital. Until she explained,

“Ik dacht dat hij zei ‘Bert is een homo’.” ("I thought he said Bert is a 'homo'.")

It wasn't the first time I had heard that rumour, but in the sterile surroundings of a hospital examination room, it certainly broke the ice.

A Foolproof Way of Measuring My Dutch

It struck me over the weekend in a moment of pure brilliance that I have managed to establish a system that can accurately assess my level of Dutch. As many of you know I am British and my mother tongue is English but I spend most of my time navigating through life in Dutch. But it is by no means perfect. Not even close. Whilst reading a story in English to my seven year old son, it suddenly, out of the blue, struck me that getting a grip on what level my Dutch is actually at was easier than I thought.

Ready?

Well, I can talk to my two year old in Dutch and he understands me perfectly. He doesn't correct me. He doesn't do what I ask either, because he is two and his way is better. So my Dutch language skills are better than that of a two year old. Actually he is nearly three. So, minor correction, my Dutch language skills are better than an almost three year old.

I can talk to my four year old in Dutch and he understands me. What I say quite often has no consequence, simply because he is four and he knows better. However, I do know he understands me and he also doesn't correct me. I do sometimes have to correct his de or het when he says something. It's not often mind because most of the time I am not actually sure if the noun should have de or het in front of it, so I let it slide. He also says "hij hebt..." a lot and I absolutely correct that because that is something I do know. And just so you know, should you ever hear him say that, he hasn't picked it up from me. In fact, we have no idea where he has picked up that from. Anyway, moving on. My Dutch language skills are definitely better than those of a four year old.

I can talk to my seven year old in Dutch and he understands me perfectly. But he does occasionally sometimes often have to correct me. (Well, actually he doesn't HAVE to correct me, but he does. Even though it agitates me. I'm his mother, for god's sake.) And sometimes I ask him for help with a word or two when I have to write something in Dutch and his father is not around, but in general my Dutch writing skills are better than his. (And I am well aware that he has only been reading and writing for a year but small victories and all that). Anyway, so my Dutch language skills differ little from those of a seven year old, but I do contend I have a superior vocabulary under my belt. But I fear time is not on my side.

And lastly, I can talk to my husband in Dutch and half way through the conversation I often feel like I have lost him, and his eyes are a little wild looking, as if he's not really hearing me. Then when I stop talking he reels out a list of words I used incorrectly, every noun that should have been de and not het and questions every word that I just actually made up on the spot which sounded a little Dutch at least to my ears.

From these conversations I deduce that my Dutch is nowhere near as good as a forty year old's command of Dutch.

So there you have it. The level of my Dutch language skills lies somewhere between that of a seven year old and that of someone who hasn't yet celebrated their fortieth birthday. A scientific approach it may not be, but my goodness it's accurate!

Based on my utterly amazing measurement system, what level is your second language currently at?

24 Things I Spend my Days Saying as the Mother of Three Boys

Nobody warned me before I became a mother about the sentences that would come out of my mouth once I had children. Nobody told me about the words I would utter being a parent to boys. Nobody thought to enlighten me about the bizarre topics of conversation that would become commonplace in a house with three boys aged seven, four and two. Nobody. So let me be the one to forewarn you – this is what mothers of young boys really spend their days saying:

1. “Have you done a poo? No? Really? Why do you smell like that then?”

2. “Which one of you has eaten the toilet roll this time? I just put a new roll in there. Like half an hour ago.”

3. “Stop running from the garden through the living room in your muddy shoes.” And then three minutes later, “For the love of God, stop running from the garden through the living….” Repeat all summer long.

4. “Put your brother down, he’s not a doll.” Then screamed loudly, “Noooo, don’t put him down like that!”

5. “Why is the garden dug up?”

6. “What are you going to do with that slug?”

7. “Take that rope from around your brother’s neck. Right now.”

8. “Dirty underwear goes in the laundry basket, not under your bed.”

9. “Seriously no. Just no. You cannot have a snack, it’s been twenty minutes since you ate breakfast*/lunch*/dinner/a snack*.”

10. “Stop calling everyone a poophole.”

11. “Put your pants back on.”

12. “What do you say when you burp*/fart*/cough*/sneeze*/spit* in your brother’s face?”

13. “Did you flush the toilet? Did you wash your hands? Really, the toilet and tap working silently now are they? Let me feel your hands. Go back and wash your hands. With soap.”

14. “Green food is not poisonous.”

15. “What’s that in your hair? Weetabix? Great, it’s turned to cement.”

16. Don’t throw snails over the neighbour’s fence. And definitely not whilst they are sitting in their garden.”

17. “Slugs don’t go over the fence either.”

18. “Get a tissue. No, not your sleeve, a tissue. Don’t you dare put that in your mouth. So gross. It’s a bit late now for a tissue isn’t it?”

19. “Get your hands out of your trousers.”

20. “Of course you can’t find your gym shoes*/wallet*/swimming stuff*/bed*, your room looks like a bombsite.”

21. “No, strawberry flavoured sweets do not count as fruit.”

22. “Get the Fat Controller out of your mouth.”

23. “Put your bum on your chair before you fall and break your neck.”

24. “Do you want to end up in hospital?” (As clarification, this is not a threat, merely a hint that what they are doing threatens their life or at least a limb.)

*delete/use interchangeably as appropriate

What have I missed? What odd things do you spend your days saying as a parent?

Translation Help From My Three Year Old

My two youngest were making Easter chicks and my three year old wanted to give the chick a nice hairdo with some pipe cleaners. We didn't have quite the colour he wanted but he made do with a brown and orange striped look.

Photo Credit: Valerie Like

I told him we needed to get some more pipe cleaners.

"What are they called again in Dutch?" I asked him.

"What are they in English?" he asked.

"Pipe cleaners." I said.

"Right. Then buis cleaners. No, no, no. Buis schoonmakers." He replied proudly. Literal, direct translation. Brilliant. I love how his mind works.

The actual word, in case you are wondering, seems to be (after much searching, grilling of Dutch husband and bizarre conversations) pijpenragers or maybe ragers voor knutselen. Anyone know better? And now the search for a shop that actually sells them is on......

UPDATE: Available from HEMA and called dikke chenille..... my public service duty for April done - you're welcome! With thanks to Irene....

Same Sex Marriage Through the Eyes of a Seven Year Old

My seven year old explained to me that he was making a flower in school, teamed up with a classmate. Another boy came over to them in the classroom and told them their flower looked more like a tree and my son told me this made him cross. After a discussion about the important thing being how he felt about his flower, he said he hoped I would like it. I assured him I would, and his classmate's mother would like his flower too.

"He's got two mothers. No father, but two mothers," he said very matter of factly. He then stated, more talking to himself than me, that he didn't know if his friend saw his father. 

"Maybe his mum didn't love his dad anymore," he said. I waited for his questions, which I could see forming in his whirring head.

"Are girls allowed to marry girls?" He asked.

I told him that it's allowed here in the Netherlands, as is two men marrying. But, I told him, in some countries it is not allowed legally. 

"Where is it not allowed?" he asked.

"Some States in America. Some African countries." I replied. 

"How did they allow it here?" he asked.

"The leaders of the country got together and made it legal." I said.

"Ah, ok. But why do people marry?" he asked. 

I gave him my best 'when people love each other' speech. And he trundled upstairs satisfied with his new knowledge on marriage around the world.

Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all saw things like same sex marriage through the eyes of a child? No judgement, no whys. Just acceptance. 

Boy Tooth Fairies Don't Mind Messy Bedrooms

"Have you tidied your bedroom? The tooth fairy is not coming in to your room when it's such a mess," I told my son who was clutching his front tooth in the palm of his hand.

"Does she need to walk in my room?" he asked in all seriousness.

"Yes," I stated stony eyed.

"But I thought she could fly," he said.

"Yes but...with such a mess she won't be able to find your tooth," I explained.

"Doesn't she know all kids put their teeth under their pillows? She doesn't need to look to find it," he retorted in a tone that suggested he thought the tooth fairy may not be the cleverest of fairies.

"But if she can't even see your bed because of all the stuff in front of it, she won't be able to find your tooth," I responded getting a little exasperated with the conversation, and a little frustrated by the lack of movement towards getting his bedroom spick and span.

"Can the tooth fairy be a boy?" was his follow up.

"Why?" I asked, knowing full well the direction my son was taking. "Because boys don't mind mess? Is that what you're thinking?"

"No, mama," he said sheepishly heading to his bedroom.

Relocation Advice from a 3 Year Old

Photo Credit: Chris Schauflinger

My three year old declared today that we need a new house. I asked him why he thought that and his response was simply,

"Sometimes our house is a mess."

Obviously that's not true. Not all the time.

Okay, admittedly sometimes our house is a mess. It's clean (thanks to weekly help) but it can be a big mess. Usually between the hours of seven in the morning and seven in the evening when there are three messy munchkins up and about.

So, anyway, to escape the mess (which I add he is at least a third responsible for if not more) his solution was to get a new house.

Then he added,

"We can take our house apart and then take it to France and put it back together again."

So, from what I gather, if we lived in France our house wouldn't be a mess, and it's not our house per se he takes offence to.

So there you have it, my three year old relocation specialist. We expats have been making things much harder for ourselves than we need to. Remember these wise words next time you have to relocate.

Mums Don't Lie About The Tooth Fairy

This is not my son by the way, but it is the same tooth that
is loose....
Photo: Olga Doroschenkova

My son has his first wobbly tooth. Aside from making my stomach turn with his constant wobbling of his bottom front tooth with his fingers and his invitations for me to "have a feel" I am also dealing with his plan to "wait until all my teeth are out and then put them all together under my pillow in one go."

I have explained to him that getting all his 'big people teeth' through can actually take years but he either has a lot of patience, a stack of money somewhere that I don't know about or he thinks his own mother is a liar. In any case I am busy trying to prepare him for the fact that teeth go under the pillow the day they fall out. Otherwise the tooth fairy won't take them. Fact. She doesn't like old fallen out teeth. Only fresh ones.

Now why would he think his own mother is a liar?

Does the tooth fairy collect teeth in the country you call home? Do you have childhood memories of wobbly teeth and the tooth fairy? 

Why We Should Tell Our Children Expat Tales

A love story with a trailer
Photo Credit:Michal Zacharzewski SXC

My eldest son is at the age where he has started asking lots of questions about my past, about how life was in England, how I met his father and how I came to the Netherlands. It's a fabulous period of curiosity but also a great reminder for me and my husband of how far we've come. The details of exactly how we met (online in a chatroom) don't really make any sense for him yet (it's something we still find hard to believe looking back so we certainly can't expect a six year old to wrap his head around it) but the story of his papa coming to England by boat with a borrowed Dutch police trailer to collect his mama and all her belongings falls on eager, listening ears time after time. And we love telling the story.

There's nothing traditional about how I came to meet a Dutchman, sell up my flat in Watford, England and move to the Netherlands to make a new life and so it makes for some awesome story telling for our curious children at the stage where they want to know everything that happened before they arrived on the scene.

Last week, a great blog post by Drie Culturen asked whether there was a difference between children and adults living abroad.  In the post, Janneke argues that there is a big difference, namely because adults living abroad have already formed their own identity but a child's identity is still evolving. Whilst she talks about children from the point of view of them growing up abroad her tips are still relevant for those of us raising children in a country where they are native but we, as a parent, are not. She talks about helping children to form their own identity by telling stories about their heritage. She says tell your children stories about their grandparents. I couldn't agree more. And I would also add tell them about your own life back in your home country, about growing up in another country. Tell them their parent's love story. Tell them their birth story. Tell them every story you can think of about their family.

Not all stories need come from books. Share your
family stories with your children
Photo Credit: Patrick Nijhuis

Not only does it help mould their identity, it turns out that story telling is good for their memory too!  An excellent article called "The Stories That Bind Us" in the New York Times about research undertaken to find out whether children that knew more about their past faced adversity better than children with less knowledge about their family's past states,

"The more children knew about their family’s history, the stronger their sense of control over their lives, the higher their self-esteem and the more successfully they believed their families functioned."

That's quite something - research showed that children who have a good knowledge of their own family and past functioned better in challenging situations. Brian Gresko followed this topic up in an article and wrote,

"Storytelling has benefits beyond entertainment, which explains why humans have been telling stories for as long as we know. It’s one of the elements that makes us human, I think.........Having a shared story, a shared collection of memories, is a powerful unifying force between people – whether those stories be ones we tell as a nation, an ethnic group, a workforce, or a family."

And as expats, we have some amazing stories to tell our children.... so what are you waiting for? Share those stories today!

What stories do you tell your children about the country you were born in? What stories do you tell about grandparents and your brothers and sisters growing up? I would love to hear your stories!

A Long Way to School

My School Bus - In the Eyes of My Son
(c) Amanda van Mulligen

My eldest son recently asked me if I had once also been five years old, like him.

"Yes, a long time ago!" I told him.

"And did you go to the same class in school that I am in?" he asked.

"No. I went to primary school in England," I said.

"Oh! That's a long way to drive," he exclaimed.

I'm not sure at what age he will actually grasp what it means that his mother isn't Dutch and has lived most of her life in England so far.....

Do Ducks Fart?

Ducklings: can they or can't they?
Photo: (c) The WritingWell

I took my sons to feed the 'local ducks' after school on Monday this week. I had some stale bread. The sun was shining so we dawdled home and took a detour after picking my eldest up from school.

As we approached the oversized pond a pair of black coots and their offspring swam nonchalantly over to us and waited for huge chunks of old bread to be lugged at their heads (my two year old has not grasped quite how small the pieces of bread should be, or that he can throw it gently near the ducks). As my two older boys were throwing slices of bread a larger white duck came waddling over to get in on the action.

My eldest turned his attention to the newcomer and proceeded to throw bread at for the white duck. When the duck had finished his meal he shook his feathers and flapped his wings (when I say he, I don't exclude she - who knows?). My eldest son started laughing,

"Volgens mij mama heeft hij net een poepie gelaten." ("I think that duck just farted.") Then he stopped giggling and looked very seriously at me to ask,

"Laten eendjes wel poepies mama?" (Do ducks fart mama?)

"I imagine so," I replied, blindsided by the unexpected question.

Before I became a mother, I had never contemplated whether a duck passes wind. It has never come up before in any conversation I have ever had. It's not a topic du jour. Now it's a question I am pondering in two languages. I told my son I imagined a duck could fart (though I didn't use that word with him - it's not a word a bilingual five year old needs to add to his vocabulary - his Dutch vocabulary is already more than sufficient on this subject....) but actually I don't know. So I googled it. I wish I hadn't.

I do now know that a Duck Fart is a cocktail (and a nice sounding one at that) but whether ducks actually fart.... none the wiser. I read on one site that they don't. They can't get rid of gases so if you give them gassy food they explode...... Another site assured me that ducks do indeed fart - why on earth else would there be bubbles in the water around ducks? *sigh*

I would like to be able to go back to my curious son and give him the correct answer. So.... question of the week:

"Laten eendjes wel poepies?"

The Naked Snail

A Naked Snail Photo: Antonio Garcia

*I was pushing my one year old in his pram whilst my four year old was jumping over puddles on the pavement next to us on our way back to infant school after lunch. The heavens had opened that morning and the rain had been continuous since I had done the first school run of the day that morning. In front of us was a mother with a four year old girl dressed from head to toe in pink in one hand and her slightly older brother in the other hand. Suddenly the trio stopped before us and the young girl let out a shriek,

"Ew. Wat is dat mama?" she asked, turning to her mother. She pointed at the ground to a slug.

"Dat is een naaktslak," said her mother laughing. The Dutch word for slug, naaktslak, litterally translates to naked snail. Both children were now laughing. The young boy said,

"Yes, he woke up this morning and forgot to put his clothes on." His little sister giggled. As did I. My four year old looked up at me,

"Nee, toch mama?" my son asked, questioning the validity of the boy's statement. The mother continued,

"Yes, he must have been very confused when he woke this morning."

It reminded me just how fabulous the Dutch language can be!

*This article first appeared on my other blog, A Letter from the Netherlands, in June 2011.