15 Years in the Netherlands: England is Like A House I Once Lived In

I piled everything I owned into the back of a borrowed Dutch police trailer and moved across the North Sea to live in a country I knew little about. I left England, my birth country, and started life as an expat. Fifteen years later England is no longer home; it feels like a house I used to live in.  

In the streets outside this house I once lived in I see images from my childhood, of tennis matches played on the road and I hear the laughter that only children caught up in a fantasy world of play can make. I walk in the front door to be flooded with memories.

There's a hallway where we hung our coats and kicked off our shoes, but now I see only unfamiliar footwear and coats that I would never wear.

The kitchen is in the same place it always was but it has been revamped and smells of food I never ate.

The living room, albeit with a different shade on the walls and a new carpet, bears a resemblance to the room we occupied as a young family, gathered around the TV or chatting about our day.

And yes, the bathroom is almost the same, looking just a little grubbier and more worn than it once did, and there are toiletries littered on the shelves that I do not use.

The garden brings back fond memories of English summers, BBQ’s with friends and lazy afternoons on the lawn. However, my parents never planted that row of conifers, and roses blossom where we used to keep patio chairs. The shed we kept our bikes in has gone completely.

I know it is a house I have lived in, it breeds familiarity, but someone came in and redecorated. Somebody rearranged the furniture, planted new shrubs and flowers and erased the little touches that made it my place. I know my way around but it is clear I don’t live there anymore. It's not my home. It's been a long time since it has been my home. 

When we drive through the rolling English countryside I realise I miss hills and a landscape that provides variety. When I am pushing my trolley around the one-stop supermarket, it reinforces my yearning to shop every week surrounded by such choice and variety, surrounded by foodstuffs I grew up with.  When we pass a traditional English pub, tucked back on a country road tempting the passer-by with Sunday roast dinners, I cannot deny happy memories flood back, and the desire to have such a stop-off on my doorstep again is overwhelming.

Yet the overwhelming truth is this, when I am back in England I feel like a visitor. It is no longer my home. People I love live there but I no longer have a base there. When we get into our car and make our way back to Dover to catch the Eurotunnel back over to mainland Europe, or head to Harwich to get the ferry back to Hoek van Holland I know I am heading home.

Food is Not Just Food When You're an Expat

As a child there was nothing more magical for me than the sound of the ice cream man playing in the distance, the gentle jingle getting louder as he approached my street. My brother and I would run inside to ransack purses and beg and plead to scrape together enough change to buy a '99' each and we'd run back outside clutching the coins in our clammy hands and join the excited queue of neighbourhood children. The anticipation of getting that cone in our hands, of hungrily licking the soft ice cream and biting into that chocolate flake. The summers of my childhood.

That was the image invoked when I opened the package sent to me by the British Corner Shop (BCS) and I pulled out a pack of Cadbury's Flakes. (*I received a free hamper of British goodies from the British Corner Shop in exchange for writing a blog post. All product links are links to BCS*).

When you are an expat food takes on an unusual ability to evoke a sense of home, to stir up memories long forgotten, to instil a feeling of familiarity and comfort. Food from your 'home' country becomes more than just food; it prompts emotions.

Take the Pot Noodle Chicken and Mushroom nestled in the hamper sent to me by the British Corner Shop. Personally I don't eat Pot Noodles, I'm not sure I ever have but the picture of a kettle on the pot (the one meaning you just need to add boiling water to the pot) made me giggle. Why on earth is that I hear you ask.... well it evokes a memory stored deep in my data banks, one from the time I attended university.

I have a friend, who will remain nameless (but you know who you are) who fancied a spot of Ambrosia rice pudding whilst in his halls of residence room. He wanted hot Ambrosia rice pudding. So he heated it up in his kettle. Needless to say he needed to invest in a new kettle and he never got to enjoy that particular tin of rice pudding. Three words: rice pudding explosion. It's hard looking at a tin of rice pudding, or the picture of a kettle on a Pot Noodle, even twenty years on without thinking of him.

And talking of Pot Noodles, as I was, the Pot Noodle in the hamper did not go to waste. My Dutch husband took it to work for his lunch. His verdict? "Best wel lekker!" A Pot Noodle convert.

The box also contained goodies that took me back to my early expat days - the days when the only flavour crisps you could get here in the Netherlands comprised paprika and ready salted. Crisps were a standard part of my shopping list when I went back to England: notably prawn cocktail and salt and vinegar flavours for my Dutch husband who had quickly picked up a British crisp taste too.

Oxo Beef Stock Cubes were also a standard part of my expat shopping list - there was something about the way they crumble, which Dutch stock 'rectangles' don't do. And of course the nostalgia of Lynda Bellingham as the Oxo mum during the 1980s. There's that too.

Food when you are an expat takes on a whole new meaning. It's not just a stock cube, a bag of crisps or a stick of chocolate - it's a short trip down memory lane, a few fleeting seconds back in your childhood, a comforting reminder of a country you no longer live in.

All readers of Expat Life with a Double Buggy can claim £15 off their first order with the British Corner Shop on orders over £75 up until the 28th February 2016 using the discount code:

 BUGGYBCS15 

Play in a Speelpolder

If you want to truly live like a Dutchie then you make sure your children play. Childhood is about playing, and preferably outside. Bikes and footballs are the most obvious tools but some children are lucky enough to live next to speelpolders - natural areas where children can roam about and play. They are designed with (natural) materials to provide children with a host of things to do outside. They can build little bridges to get over token bodies of water or block them up with those infamous Dutch dams, build dens, crawl in tunnels, explore, hunt for bugs and run around.

What's so great about a speelpolder is that they are always open, cost nothing and get your children exploring. For more information about speelpolders visit http://www.speelpolders.nl.

So, tip number 3 for #LiveLikeaDutchie is play in a speelpolder - a childhood is about playing!

Do speelpolders exist where you live? 

This post is part of the #LiveLikeaDutchie series which is running on this blog for the whole of March 2015. Have you entered the prize giveaway yet? There's still time!

Our British Dutch Christmas

This time of year is oozing with nostalgia, with childhood memories and traditions. However, I am an expat and recreating my childhood Christmases is easier said than done when you no longer live in the same country as the one you grew up in. Passing on the traditions that made up my festive days as a small girl to my three little Dutch boys needs a little more thought than it would if we were all living in England.

Take nativity plays for example. The annual battle over who would get to play Mary and Joseph. The work behind the scenes to create the perfect outfit to be one of the many angels or shepherds on stage. All engraved in my memory. There are lovely little photos of my brother and me in our nativity plays. But there are no nativity plays here in the Netherlands. At least not at any of the schools I know about. On the one hand, thank goodness - I cannot even begin to imagine getting three costumes sorted in a period that is already the very definition of madness, however, how sweet it would be to see my three sons on stage being a part of a nativity play.

Aside from nativity plays, Christmas carol concerts are also missing from our Dutch Christmases. As a child the whole school headed over to the church to sing Christmas carols. Some parents attended and it was the sign that Christmas was nearly here. Don't get me wrong, there are carol concerts (certainly not extremely common) but they are not related to my children's school.

Instead my two eldest boys have a Christmas dinner in school. They put on a shirt and tie and do their hair (Dutch style with gel....). Their classrooms are turned into magical twinkling spaces with candles and Christmas lights and desks become tables decked with colour and self made placemats. We parents provide a menu of hapjes that has been put together by the children themselves. At the end of their meal they sing a song for us. They have a lovely evening, and it has become a custom of their Christmas. My youngest has a Christmas breakfast at the peuterspeelzaal - his first one this year.

However, the food, putting a stocking out on Christmas Eve for Father Christmas to fill, the delivery of presents under the tree to be found on Christmas morning - that's all the traditions of my childhood, being passed on to my children.

Over the years I have been in the Netherlands, putting together a traditional British Christmas dinner has got easier. In years gone by the only way to recreate the Christmas meals of my youth was by visiting expat shops. These days Albert Heijn sells large turkeys, special to order at this time of year, parsnips have become more readily available and even cranberries are an accepted part of the festive period. However, I still need my beloved expat shop for Christmas pudding, brandy butter, mincemeat to make mince pies and proper, full size Christmas crackers, crap joke, paper hat and all.

There are compromises, and adaptations when it comes to Christmas and our mixed culture home. Our Christmas Day looks different to what is going on behind closed doors in the Dutch streets around us. And that is exactly what makes our Christmas so special - we have taken what is important to us and made it our own. It's our very own British Dutch Christmas.

Do you try to recreate the Christmases from your childhood? Are you passing on Christmas traditions to your children? Or does your Christmas look completely different these days because of where you are living?

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……..

6 Reasons I'm Happy I'm Raising Children in the Netherlands

I live in a country where children generally fare well in happiness surveys and Dutch children always rate much higher in the happiness stakes than British children ever do.

It's no coincidence that the Dutch shine through in reports such as the UN's World Happiness Report. From what I see around me, the Dutch work consciously to raise happy, healthy, independent children* and I consider myself lucky to be raising three children here.

So, for the record, here are my six reasons why I'm happy I'm raising my children in the Netherlands.

1. School Allows Children to be Children

Dutch children are allowed to concentrate on what they do best: they are given plenty of time for the important job of play. Even though the majority of Dutch children start school at the age of 4 (though not mandatory until age 5) the theme running through their days remains 'play'. They learn through play (spelenderwijs leren) and only when they start in group 3 (when they are 6 or 7) is there any pressure on them to formally start reading and writing. The foundation is laid in the earlier school years whilst there are no expectations of them. By the time they reach group 3 most children have learnt the basics of reading and writing in a playful, 'no pressure' manner.

My experience is that the focus in groups 1 and 2 of our little Dutch school is to help children work self sufficiently, to raise their social awareness, learn how to co-operate in a group, to look after and out for each other. These are the years that my children learn that there are rules and boundaries outside of their home too, in a classroom. But they learn this in a safe, respectful, playful way. 

My four year old has day and week tasks that consist of things like finger painting an autumn tree and building a hut with blocks. He proudly tells me how hard he has worked, how he has completed his week tasks and yet, in reality, he has spent the week creating and playing. Oh, and learning. 

Their future is not mapped out by the age of four.

My children will only start getting homework when they move to group 6. Yes, my eldest is asked to practice his times tables at home, and in group 1 and 2 he took bear home and (mama) had to write about what bear had done over the weekend, but hours of maths and language homework after school? No, not until he is nine or ten, and even then it is given in moderation. 

This gives my children time to do what they do best; they come home from school and play. Which brings me nicely to my second reason. 

2. An Outdoor Culture

The Dutch are outdoor people. And so are their children. If they are not cycling they are on steps, skateboards or roller skates. In winter they are on sledges or ice skates.

Children are encouraged to play on the streets in residential areas (where traffic signs indicate children are at play and the speed limit is severely reduced).

My children love being outdoors, love being active in all sorts of weather. It reminds me of my own childhood in Britain in the 1980s, when we entertained ourselves out on the street with nothing but our imaginations, or perhaps a ball and our bikes.

3. Child Friendly Society

We don't have to walk far in our neighborhood to stumble over yet another children's playground or park. They are all small scale but varied and numerous. If we really wanted to, we could visit a different playground on foot each day of the week. Neighbourhoods are designed with children in mind.

Similarly, many restaurants are child friendly and the amount of amusement parks, animal parks and children's attractions across the Netherlands is just staggering for such a small country. There's more than enough to entertain children of all ages.

4. A Sense of Community

Like many playgrounds, Dutch primary schools are also small scale, but numerous, and children usually attend a school close to home. School catchment areas are generally quite small (but not fixed - if you want to send your child to a school further away you may).

This means that school runs are generally done on foot or by bike, and when primary school children are older it gives them a sense of independence that children don't feel being ferried to school in big cars, the type you see clogging up the roads around the schools in England.

I like that the Dutch tend to keep things local. My children go to school with children they live near. After school children play together in the local playgrounds with their classmates. It gives a sense of community. Work together, play together.

5. Dutch State

The importance of family filters down from the politicians. There are various state benefits for families with children: subsidies for child care as well as child benefit payments. State education is free. The Dutch youth care system is wide and varying - and in most cases the services are free.

It starts from birth with help from kraamzorg and continues with visits to the consultatiebureau, which, love it or hate it, is undeniably a unique service for parents. The system may not be perfect, but whenever I have needed a helping hand as a parent I've had welcome support. Even though I am an expat with a small family support network, I feel like I have people to lean on if I need it, because of the Dutch youth system.

This could easily be the motto of the Dutch when it comes to raising children

6. Work Life Balance

Last but absolutely not least, the focus on striking a balance between working and family life is extensive. Putting the emphasis on family life is ingrained in Dutch society.

More than a fair share of the working population works part-time, predominantly women, all with the aim of being around for their children and working around school hours. Again, love it or loathe it it is how it is. I happen to love it.

Parents, whatever their situation, need to find a work and family balance that works for them and the Dutch attitude and family culture means that parents have options.

Children have parents that, in general, have the opportunities and time to be present and involved.

It's Not Hagelslag, It's Attitude

So, my belief is that the happiness of Dutch children has nothing to do with hagelslag (sprinkles) on bread for breakfast as others have lightheartedly suggested, rather it stems from an attitude, a deep ingrained culture that focuses on children and allows them to make the most of childhood.

Dutch parents around me don't put pressure on their children to grow up fast. Instead, they give them permission to be children for as long as possible and not worry about their future at a young age. I recently read a few articles about American parents pressuring their children to excel in many fields from a young age, both in and out of school, children that have an after school activity schedule that would make most Dutch children's eyes water.

It's true that the Dutch have a reputation for being liberal, a bit too liberal on some matters in some culture's eyes, but what I see is an openness and a manner of carefully considered parenting that seems to work, which seems to foster independent children that feel listened to, that feel valued. Ones that are keen to tell researchers who care to ask that they are happy with their lot.

So, I for one intend to keep watching the parenting examples around me, and dish out good doses of Dutch parenting to my three sons. Hopefully, one day, when a UN researcher asks them questions for her World Happiness Report they'll be as positive in their answers as the children that have gone before them.

What do you think makes Dutch children fare so well in happiness studies?Does the parenting culture in your host country differ widely to that in your birth country? Is the local parenting culture where you live something you aspire to?

*It goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, that Dutch society has it's share of problems, and that includes the lives of some children too. Some Dutch children live in poverty, some Dutch children live with absent parents, some Dutch children are deeply unhappy. I am in no way suggesting with this post that all Dutch children are ecstatically happy. However, there is a general culture related to parenting that I see every day around me. And that is the essence of this post.*

Dear Teacher, Sometimes You Need to Believe Without Seeing

“What if I come and have lunch with you at home one day? Then I can see the meltdown for myself,” suggested my son’s teacher at the height of the school troubles.

The thing is she just didn’t get it. I couldn’t make her understand. My highly sensitive child won’t perform for just anyone. He needs to feel safe. He only lets his emotions go in a trusted environment, with people who love him unconditionally. His lunchtime meltdowns are reserved for me. Not for his teacher, not in her classroom, nor in our home.

Three hours at a time with thirty other children has its toll on my highly sensitive son. Let’s be honest, for many people some kind of minor breakdown would be on the cards after a day with thirty children. For a child with heightened senses a busy classroom is a minefield.

We use the metaphor of a bucket; every direct interaction my son has, every indirect interaction he witnesses, goes into his bucket. Every sight, sound, smell and action gets thrown in there unfiltered. With a classroom teeming with small children his bucket fills quickly. In no time it overflows.

Photo Credit: KD Kelly

But my son doesn’t want to be the centre of attention. Anything but. He lets that bucket flow over without a word, a sensory overload seeping over the sides of his bucket, forming puddles around his feet. He walks around silently in emotionally sodden shoes until he leaves the classroom, until his teacher leads him out onto the playground, until his eyes meet mine over a sea of children and parents. I can read in those eyes, in a split second, that his bucket is too heavy for him to carry. In the split second it takes to meet my eyes he knows it is safe to let go and his face contorts with anger and confusion, his eyes darken and a thundercloud appears over his head. But his teacher’s attention is long gone as he runs to me.

I put my arms around him and I feel the energy raging within his little body, stress with nowhere to go. Words stumble over each other to get out of his mouth, trying to sum up the whirlwind that has been his morning, trying to empty his overladen bucket.

We walk home. Either there are tears as we walk, or the beginnings of a meltdown. Or silence. But no matter how the short walk home has been I know that when I open the front door to our home, once he crosses that threshold to safety, he will fling the bucket he has spent the morning filling across our hallway.

He will scream, cry, lash out, fight my every move; nothing will be right. His jacket refuses to hang on his hook. He can’t get his shoelaces undone. His sandwich filling is wrong. The bread is cut wrong. His brother is making too much noise. His plate is the wrong colour.

For eighteen long, emotional, stressful months we search for solutions. We talk to his teachers. I share that he is highly sensitive. I share that he needs time out, he needs quiet time, a place to reset, to empty his bucket out before it fills to the top. But I face a brick wall.

His teachers say he doesn’t want quiet moments, doesn’t need time alone. They tell me he’s a good learner, that he’s their idea of a perfect child in the classroom: he listens; he follows instructions; he doesn’t make a fuss. They tell me he’s enjoying himself. They tell me he’s never had a tantrum in school, never kicked a chair in his classroom, never shouted at them or a classmate. They tell me they see no problem in school, it has nothing to do with them; it’s a problem our family needs to solve at home. We need to leave the scientifically unproven idea of highly sensitive children at home, and let him get on with it at school, where he’s the perfect student.

They refuse to scratch beyond the surface, to see beyond the façade. They don’t see me dragging a screaming, crying little boy over the threshold of safety back into the world every day after lunch. They don’t see me coaxing a five-year-old boy out of the house for an afternoon at school. They don’t see the bruises on my shins from the kicks I get as I try to get shoes back on my distraught child to leave the house. They don’t see my tears, the conflict raging inside me. I want to keep him home but I can’t, not every day. They refuse to see the conflict raging inside my son.

By the time the battle is over and he’s back in school both our tears have faded, his anger has subsided.

I tell his teacher it has been a struggle to get him back there. I can see her rolling her eyes. Not literally of course, but I know she’d like to. And I walk back home, knowing I’ll do it all again in two hours because his bucket will fill unhindered during the afternoon.

He will come home overwhelmed because the new girl has been crying on her first day, because his friend fell over and hurt his arm, because the last piece of the puzzle he was doing did an impromptu vanishing trick, because the noise levels in class reached a new high, because he couldn’t get the teacher’s attention for help, because he hated the drawing he made.

He’ll come home overwhelmed because he’s highly sensitive and he doesn’t yet have the tools to filter out the things he doesn’t need to keep in his bucket. He needs help with it all. He needs support. He needs a reminder to seek out a quiet space. But for some reason I can’t get that for him in his classroom, where he spends most of his day.

Instead I get the offer of a lunch date at our house. Failing that maybe I could videotape one of his meltdowns for them. Because seeing is believing, right? Perhaps it would be better to accept the word of a mother, a mother at her wit’s end trying to help her son, a mother whose heart breaks every time she picks her son up from school because she sees his soul being destroyed little by little in a classroom that is a long way from being suitable for a highly sensitive child.

He’s in a different school now, one that understands that all children are individuals. That the boy at home and the boy in school is part of the same whole. His teacher understands that he needs time, space and quiet to empty his bucket. She believes without seeing. She supports him, without needing to see him at his worst. Sometimes seeing is believing, but other times it needs to be a matter of trust.

Photo Credit: Karolina Michalak

*Please note that as of 1 November 2014 I have launched a new blog called Happy Sensitive Kids,  for parents of highly sensitive children, or for those parenting children as highly sensitive people. Please visit Happy Sensitive Kids for more information sources and the blog - http://happysensitivekids.wordpress.com. You can also keep up to date on the accompanying Facebook page of the same name.*

The Cornish Coast Through the Eyes of a Child

During one of our summer holidays to Cornwall, England my Dutch husband was astounded by the English coastline. The Cornish coastline may have been Mars as far as this Dutch man was concerned. The cliffs and rock pools were nothing but an alien landscape to him.

As we stood atop the cliffs at Land's End, the sun beating down on us and a strong coastal breeze whipping the sea up against the rocks, he marvelled at the beauty of the seascape in front of him. The jagged rocks and the sea battled, the salty water forced upwards by the unforgiving hurdles in their path, an impressive sea spray spattering into the air. 

I know that Cornwall's coast is beautiful, don't get me wrong, but I was a little taken aback by the level of my husband's amazement. 

I knew what to expect; I spent many a childhood holiday in south west England. My husband on the other hand had no idea what awaited him at Land's End. He was awestruck by what he saw, mesmerised by nature's offerings at the very tip of England. Watching him was like watching a child in a sweet shop for the first time - bright eyes, excitement, open mouth, noises of delight.

Initially confused by his reaction to Land's End, in my eyes a fairly normal English coastal scene, I asked him what his issue was he found so novel about the cliffs and rocks.

"We don't have cliffs and rocks like this in the Netherlands," he responded matter of factly "we have flat sandy beaches. Think about it, we have to make dunes to protect the country from flooding."

And then the penny dropped. I realised I hadn't seen a cliff or a cluster of rocks for some years myself. Rock pools and cliffs are not a part of Scheveningen or Noordwijk beach.

My childhood holidays along the Cornish and Devonshire coast had blinded me to the astounding magic of the English coastline. I took it all for granted and hadn't stopped to breathe in its beauty: the majestic cliffs, the small and picturesque sandy coves and bays that litter the south of England, the numerous caves to explore and the abundance of wildlife taking shelter on the coast, and of course the magic of rock pools, especially when you are a child.

"This is so cool," said my husband armed with a net and bucket, scurrying across the rocks with two excited boys, "I've never seen a rock pool before!" 

My children echoed his excitement, carrying their own brightly coloured nets and buckets, as they watched a tiny crab scurry from its hiding place under a rock to find cover under slimy, green seaweed. My sons jumped from one rock to the next looking for little pools of water hidden between them. Their delight took me back to my own childhood holidays on Cornish beaches, hours spent combing rock pools with my brother. I understood then my husband's reaction to Land's End. 

How lucky he was to see the Cornish coastline for the first time as if through child's eyes.  

The Tales That Bind A Family

I was at the funeral of my great aunt and, like most farewells of this form I guess, there was a melancholy air about us. As a contrast to that feeling it was heartwarming to hear the many stories about my great aunt from my dad and his brothers and sisters.

Over breakfast on the morning of the funeral my stepmother threw out the question,

"What is your earliest memory of your aunt?"

Photo Credit: Krzysztof (Kriss) Szkurlatowski

Mine was of her wedding day. I was a young child. I remembered a far happier day than the one we were gathering for that day. My dad's earliest memory was sitting with his aunt and some of his brothers in front of the 'wireless', an old radio. He recalled that she was their regular babysitter. A wonderful storytelling babysitter, enchanting and reeling them in with fantasy tales, captivating her nephews with stories of rich relatives in far off lands.

During the funeral service the priest shared his recollections of his first meeting with my great aunt, and how she ensured he was whipped into shape for his role as her parish priest. She played a huge role in the parish, despite being less than healthy for as long as I can remember.

After the service, in a local hotel, there was a board full of photos. Photos taken of her happy life. A life I realised I knew very little about. Smiling faces, people wrapped in loving arms in various locations, undertaking various activities. Happy days, happy years filled with family, fun and adventures.

In a few short hours I learned more about my great aunt than I'd heard in the forty years before. Funerals do that to people - bring back memories of happier times gone by, memories of the essence of a person. I also got to hear the story of how my grandparents met. A wonderful, simple meeting that was to lead to a marriage that has lasted 63 years and which is still going strong.

These stories, none of them earth moving or spectacular in the face of mankind's achievements, not world changing by any means except to those playing the starring roles, made me smile. I'm going to write them down and share them in years to come with my sons, so they know where they have come from. These beautiful little tales are the stories of how we came to be; how one generation turned into another. These stories give us our roots, give us a sense of our family history. They pass our culture and traditions on from generation to generation. They need to be cherished, to be shared with the next generation, to be remembered.

Our memories, the memories of our parents and our grandparents, are tied together. Bound together they make up a picture for our children of the family they belong to.  And I feel that having children born in a country different to the one I was born in, living away from their extended family, makes these stories all the more important. These stories connect our cultures. They connect family history to our family now.

These stories connect us, even when we live our life away from the rest of our family, even when we are expats.

So ask to hear these wonderful tales now; don't wait to hear them in a somber moment when everyone is reflecting on what was. Ask to hear those stories in happy times, direct from the horse's mouth. And capture them for your children, and the generations beyond.

Happy 4th Birthday - A Letter to Mr C

Dear Mr C,

Today you turn four but it's a mere formality - it feels like you've been four for a few weeks. You are so ready for the next stage, to leave the peuterspeelzaal behind and start at primary school. You are trying to write your name, chalking numbers on the blackboard in your playhouse in the garden and you are drawing beautiful little creations for us all. You're ready for school. You're ready to move on, far more ready than I am to see you leave every day for school.

We're going to start with just mornings but I have the feeling it won't be long before you are begging to do full days. So far you've been three afternoons and a morning to your new school and you've loved it. You've enjoyed a Koningspelen breakfast and sang and danced "Doe de Kanga" on the school playground with the rest of the school, including your big brother.

Your name is already being called across the school playground when we go to pick up big brother, Mr S. You'll be running off to playmate's houses for lunch before I can catch my breath I'm sure - in fact you and your friend from peuterspeelzaal, who is going to the same primary school, have already set up a lunch date for after the May break. Nothing like being organised!

You're quiet and serious in school. You once played the little clown at home, entertaining us all with madness and fun but you have passed that particular baton to your little brother Mr O and now you are tackling the serious business of becoming a 'grote jongen'.

In your new school the teachers have already indicated that you are quiet, don't say much yet but that you are an easy child - you are joining in, know what you are doing and you just get on with it. But you need time to warm up. And warm up I know you will - you'll be in your element with new activities to try and so much to learn. Get used to your new environment in your own time, and in your own way. When your older brother started school we were newbies and we let the teachers corner us as he got used to going to school - we won't fall into the same trap - we'll do things your way, at your pace.

You have now had your last day in the peuterspeelzaal, the last day in the same class as your little brother, who you've cherished and looked after in school. You've put your arms round him on more than one occasion to protect him when he's unsure in school. You've also both made the teacher mad hitting each other, striking out for attention.

As the middle child your role has always been a little confusing - should you aspire to do the things your big brother does or follow your little brother's lead? Your older brother has had so much attention recently, and you've just gone with the flow. For a few months you and Mr O have been in each other's shadow in the classroom, your little brother being the one needing the help and guidance and you being the class pro. Now you'll be back on your own in a classroom. No brother in tow. Now it's your time to shine, to step into the sunlight and let people see just what you can do - independently. And we know that that is a lot.

You're quick to pick things up. You love to be challenged, to do what seems unlikely. Your imagination is a beautiful, precious thing. Your conversation is entertaining and enchanting and sometimes just downright baffling. You make us laugh with your observations.  You're as happy clambering around a playground as you are watching Misty Island for the 457th time. You're loving your swimming classes and enjoying gym on a Saturday. And I know primary school will join that list.

I will miss having you home every day. So during this May break I will cherish every day off we have, knowing that when school begins again you'll be joining the ranks of school goers. Yesterday we had your party. Grandad and Nana have come over from England to spend the weekend with you, to mark your birthday with you. Today all seven of us will celebrate your actual birth day by taking you out for the day, putting you in the spotlight, where you belong. Making it your day.

Mr C, I hope you have a wonderful 4th birthday and a great break before you start school in a couple of weeks.

We love you kanjer,
 lots of hugs,

Mama & Papa
xx

New Article: Forget Labels, Think Instruction Manuals

My latest article for Amsterdam Mamas is on the topic of labelling our children. I wrote it after a conversation I had with a mother of a highly sensitive child who was reluctant to discuss her child's character traits with her new school. It got me thinking about our own journey with my son and his schooling and I realised the effects of sticking a 'highly sensitive child' label on his head and how differently we approached it when we changed schools. It proved to be a successful formula.

"A mother of a highly sensitive child (HSC) who had just started primary school told of how her child was struggling in the classroom, resulting in tantrums and tears at home. The teacher was being less than understanding about her daughter’s need for quiet time to recharge, and failed to grasp just how overwhelming the school environment is for her daughter." 

You can read more over on Amsterdam Mamas. I would love to hear your thoughts over on Amsterdam Mamas.

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.

Learning to Write Dutch Style

Photo Credit: Krzysztof Szkurlatowski

My son moved to group 3 last September of primary school. It's a tough year for the little ones as it's the year they learn to read and write and actually start having to do some work, instead of just playing.

So we dutifully trotted off to the information evening in school and the teacher went through the material and methods they use to teach the six and seven year old how to read and write. I discovered that my son is learning to write deftig style.

"What's that?" I whispered behind my hand to my husband.

"Erm.. it means posh," he answered.

"So he's learning to write posh?"

"Yes."

So there you have it. My eldest son is learning to write posh.

5 Reasons I'm Glad my Children Are Dutch & British

Welcome to the second post in this month's Celebrating Expat Life Blog Link up series. The idea is to share the many positive things about living overseas, the great things about bringing your children up in a multicultural and multilingual environment and focus on the things that make your expat life great. You can grab the link button at the bottom of this post, as well as link your own post using the InLinkz link. If you tweet about this link up please use #ELWADBlinkup. 

Meanwhile, here are 5 things I love about the fact that my three sons are both Dutch and British nationals.

1. Bilingualism: All three sons speak Dutch and English. Giving a child that kind of head start in a country where English is the second language anyway is fabulous. My seven year old is in quite the unique position in his school class as he already speaks a second language well. I love the fact that my sons automatically rolls their 'r's when speaking Dutch and can actually pronounce English words that most Dutch people struggle with (like the word iron which is always pronounced wrong here). Bilingualism is one of the greatest advantages of being raised with two national identities or cultures. 

2. Their World is Bigger: When two nationalities, cultures or languages are familiar then the world opens up a little further to you. My sons will have more choices in front of them, ranging from study options to country of residence. Right now, whilst they are young they have more options than their peers when it comes to the little things. They already have the choice between a bedtime story in English or in Dutch. They can watch a movie in English or Dutch. They eat food their friends don't. They regularly visit England. They celebrate British holidays. They learn about how things are in England, yet the Netherlands is their home. When they are older they can play football for the Dutch elftal or the English national team - the choice is theirs. They can represent the Netherlands at the Olympics or join the British team. Two cultures, two languages, two nationalities - their world is automatically bigger.

3. Strong Roots: I love the fact that I can share British things with my children and show them how it is a part of who they are. I tell them about their British heritage and not only is it interesting to them, it is also good for them. Research has shown that, 

"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."

4. They Stand Out in A Dutch Crowd: Sometimes children don't want to stick out, but being part British in the Netherlands gives them a subtle way of standing out. Nothing outrageous, just a little trait that I think is a great talking point.

Hagelslag - that's chocolate sprinkles to you and me
Photo Credit: Ekki

5. Mixing it Up: The fact that I want to share British things with my children means we get to mix up two cultures in our house and thus we enjoy a hybrid culture. My sons will happily eat baked beans on toast but I wouldn't dream of trying that delicacy out on any of their friends because I am pretty sure it would be discarded at one glance. It's something that other Dutch children would not be eating at home. The same goes for boiled eggs and soldiers - a unique British breakfast that means nothing to Dutch children. At the same time my boys are also delighted to tuck into bread covered in hagelslag for breakfast. They are ecstatic at the idea of Sinterklaas coming to town, but they also get to enjoy a visit from Father Christmas - something that their Dutch friends don't experience. There are times when my three children are very typical little Dutch boys, there are times when at least my oldest could be British and there are days when they are a perfect mix of Dutch and British.

Choosing to live away from family throws up many challenges - from the moment you know you are pregnant abroad, to birth and far, far beyond - for more stories about parenting abroad check out our Kickstarter page for Knocked Up Abroad Again.

Today's the Day for My Annual British Pancake

Today is pancake day, or Shrove Tuesday if you want to get technical. Growing up in Britain this was the only day of the year we really ate pancakes. And then as pudding, not as our main meal. It was a festive affair, and something to get excited about.

Every year, on this Tuesday we would sit in the kitchen watching my mum mix up a large batch of pancake batter and then ladle it into the hot pan. She'd quickly swirl the pan around so the batter entirely covered the bottom of the pan, and we'd watch the pancakes take form.

When one side was done, she'd toss them into the air. Occasionally they landed on the floor, but most of the time the pancakes ended safely back in the pan. As we got older we were allowed to try our hand at tossing pancakes, invariable ending in disaster. Then we'd be waiting on the sidelines ready for our mum to slide a pancake out of the pan onto the plates in our outstretched hands.

On the dining table there'd be white sugar and Jif lemon waiting for us. The pancake was only ready to eat once we'd sprinkled sugar over it, lashed it with drops of lemon juice and then rolled it up.

The origins of pancake day lie in getting rid of foodstuff to prepare for Lent. It's Fat Tuesday, mardi gras or carnival time, depending on where you live. For us as young children pancake day was the day before we gave something up for Lent. As we got older this stopped, and it just became a wonderful family tradition.

Essential ingredient for my annual British pancake
Photo Credit: Adam Eret

When I moved to the Netherlands I discovered that the Dutch are pancake crazy, but the pancakes here are not the same as my annual pancakes growing up. Dutch pancakes are much thicker, and the Dutch have dreamt up just about every feasible and unlikely topping you could imagine for a pancake. Delicious but nothing nostalgic about them. 

Pancakes are no longer a once-a-year affair for this expat Brit and pancake day will certainly not hold the same lure for my children as it did for my brother and me - I guess when you live in a country where it's acceptable to have pancake day any old day of the week an annual pancake feast will never have quite the same appeal.

In any case Happy Pancake Day - and if you fancy doing it British style today head over to Smitten by Britain for a pancake recipe. 

The Memories in a Clothes Peg

I was just hanging up the washing on the drying rack that hangs over the bannister in our attic when I dropped a clothes peg. I was struck by a wave of nostalgia as I watched the brown, wooden peg tumble down the stairs. Yes, a clothes peg. An innocent everyday household item but it momentarily stopped me in my tracks. I paused what I was doing whilst my thoughts involuntarily floated back to a different time. One not so long ago in reality but one that feels so long ago.

Once upon a time I needed a LOT of pegs to hang the washing up on the clothes dryers. The clothes were so small, the line was full of tiny socks, little sleeveless rompers, all in one baby suits, pyjamas, cloths. I could get five or six items on one line of the clothes airer, sometimes even more. By the time I'd finished hanging up the load from the washing machine my peg bag would be empty.

In fact, my clothes peg collection just kept growing to keep up with my growing family. Layer upon layer of tiny clothes hanging to dry. A reminder of the babies in the house. Babies that went through a few outfits a day, creating endless lines of washing. Tiny, tiny clothes making up stacks and stacks of washing.

And now, this morning, in the emotional aftermath of celebrating my eldest's seventh birthday, it suddenly struck me that the peg bag is never empty. There are never more than two clothes items hanging side by side to dry on the line.

The trousers are suddenly bigger, the T-shirts are wider and longer, some of the children's socks are hard to distinguish from my own. The endless lines of muslins are long gone, now used as cleaning rags or disposed of after years of mopping up after the beautiful babies that have filled our home.

There are a few rompers left, but they are no longer those of a baby, but of an active toddler who will soon have no need of nappies nor the rompers that encase them.

There are shirts and pyjamas that hang to dry that have been with us from the time my eldest was a toddler, now on their third and last adventure. Soon they too will be too small for my little family and they will head to a local woman's shelter, to join the baby clothes we sent there, donations to help other families who are in need, other babies that are less fortunate than mine. Those little garments hang now on the clothes line of another home. A far different home than the ones they started off in.

I hope when a mother dresses her baby there in the shelter, in a second hand romper and a pair of soft blue velvety trousers, despite the difficulty she finds herself in, she sees the miracle before her, holds her bundle and is filled with love. And the clothes we donated have new life breathed into them.

So, I guess, one of theses days, I'll be able to get rid of lots of clothes pegs. But for now, I count my blessings - all because I dropped a clothes peg this morning.

Happy Birthday - A Letter to Mr S

Dear Mr S,

Happy Birthday little man!! Today you turn seven. How those seven years have flown! It's a cliche, but some days it feels like you're growing up in the blink of an eye. Despite you flying through the stages of childhood, each stage gets better and better and the stage you're in now is a wonderful one, full of discovery, exploration and learning.

And, as a bonus, you're big enough to help around the house more. Once you've trained up your brothers your mama is planning on retiring from household duties - nearly time for you take the household jobs reins right?

Anyway, seven years. And how you've grown. You are racing through clothes sizes. It feels like we buy you new shirts and trousers one minute, and the next minute we put them away in a plastic rollbox under our bed, waiting in storage for your brothers to grow.

It doesn't matter that you no longer fit in the crook of my arm. Truth be told you haven't for years. In fact, sometimes it's a a struggle to lift you at all now. You've gotten big. And heavy. But thankfully I don't have to carry you often, only when you're ill, when a virus floors you. And you become small and helpless again.

But it's not just physically you are growing, it's in so many ways. You've started asking lots of questions, you want to know why and how things happen. You've started to look deeper into the world around you, questions ranging from how a plane stays in the sky to where exactly babies come out of a mama.

You're reading in two languages, and amaze us with how much you can read in your second language when we've not pushed you to read English, letting you concentrate on Dutch and what you are doing in school. We wanted to let you go at your own pace, but still you pick up English early readers and read us stories at bedtime. You're writing - deftig writing. A new word learnt in school every week: starting with ik, maan, roos, vis and currently uil. You're stuck between being proud of being able to write and being bored with it because you need to concentrate so hard - after all you've not lost your perfectionist trait and having to use that eraser irks you.

Which reminds me - it's been a tough year for you little man. You changed schools, swapped the teachers, classmates and corridors you knew so well for unfamiliar faces and strange classrooms. But you blossomed, took it all on board as a positive change and haven't looked back. You've been welcomed in your new school with understanding and acceptance; all your highly sensitive traits acknowledged, acceptance that you need quiet time in the classroom, understanding about thinking deep and emotionally about the world around you. Instead of being dismissed, you are now listened to. Your juf gets you, doesn't deny how tired you feel (doesn't sarcastically suggest you go to bed), doesn't dismiss how full your bucket is, instead she encourages you to take time out, teaches you to acknowledge your own needs and encourages you to create a quiet space for yourself. She's helping you bloom instead of leaving you to shrivel. She's helping you grow. She's helping you build solid foundations.

And because you've found a classroom you feel comfortable in, you are shining at home too. We see more of the real Mr S coming through, instead of the tired, angry boy that dominated you a year ago. What a difference! Watching you play with your two younger brothers, watching you help them gain their independence with little gestures, watching you protect them, all leaves us smiling. It gives us the confirmation we need that fighting for you in school last year, for standing our ground, was worth every cross word, every meeting, every inch we had to fight for, and eventually the tough to decision to make a change.

So, not only are you learning lots yourself Mr S, you're teaching us lots too. I've learnt so much about myself watching you grow, I accept my highly sensitive traits now too - because you've shown me just how positive seeing the world through your eyes is. You've taught us that change is sometimes necessary to move forward, even though it seems so difficult. You've taught us to trust our instinct, go with our feelings because when we announced you were moving schools your response was, "Leuk!" It was a positive reaction, because you knew you were in the wrong place, though you couldn't put those feelings into words. It didn't feel right. Now it does. What a strength of character you have - to embrace change, and make it work for you in a way we could never have imagined.

And yet, you remain a little boy. For me, you will always be my baby, no matter how many candles sit upon your birthday cake. I hope you will keep wanting to take my hand on the walk to school for a little while longer, that you never get tired of hugs from us and that you keep cherishing the role you have as a big brother. Keep making your own path, deciding your own way of doing things and never lose sight of the fact that you know your own mind - your instincts are spot on so trust them. May you stay strong but sensitive.

We hope you love your Spiderman party today, make the most of your special day and enjoy those gathering together today in honour of you turning seven.

Happy 7th birthday Mr S!

Lots and lots of love and cuddles,
Mama & Papa
xxx

Confession Time: We're Donkey-less

New year. Clean slate. I have a confession. Just before Christmas I did something that turns this blog into a sham. "Expat Life with a Double Buggy" became a redundant title. In the interests of accuracy it should now be called "Expat Life with Two Single Buggies, One Of Which is Hardly Used". 

The Bugaboo Donkey has a new home. To be perfectly honest the double pram had been used as an oversized single pram for many, many months. More months than I want to admit. My three year old would sometimes stand on the buggy board, but hadn't sat in the pram itself for a looong time. Facing up to the fact that we no longer needed a double stroller meant admitting that I no longer have two babies in the house. I have one toddler and a pre-schooler, (and their brother of course - he's still here, but for the purposes of pram talk he's out of the picture). The time had come to invest in a pram that actually fits through the regular check out of my local supermarket. The days of being forced through the wide aisle needed to be over. Whilst the side basket on the Donkey in single stance was handy, the contraption all in all was wider than the standard single pram. It was time for a change. 

So with a heavy heart the pram was lovingly spruced up and put on Marktplaats to sell. That was a Sunday, just before dinner time. By the time we had eaten our meal and loaded the dishwasher we had a buyer. Twenty four hours later, we were well and truly Donkeyless, the Bugaboo Donkey and it's close friend our buggy board nothing but a distant memory.

What made me feel better about the whole transaction (aside from the addition to our holiday fund) was that it went to a good home, namely to foster parents who were likely getting baby twins to look after, in addition to an older child who was already part of their family. It's nice to think of a whole new set of children being ferried about in our pram. Our ex-pram. 

So we bought a new, single pram and we still have the 'spare' McClaren buggy folded and stored under the stairs for cases when space or stairs are an obstacle. So two single buggies. 

Anyhow, back to the point of this post. My expat life is now sans double buggy. But I'm not changing the blog title at this stage. When all three of my boys are teenagers I might consider it. Think of the title as preserving a little of expat history. Two single buggies is pretty close to a double buggy right?