Amsterdam Mamas Feature

Following my nomination for the Expatica Expat Blog Competition, Amsterdam Mamas ran a mini-interview with me about why I started blogging, my favourite post and what surprises me about blogging.

If you want to know the answers to those questions then head on over to Amsterdam Mamas. and whilst you are there read the interviews with the other family related competition entrants, including two of my favourite expat blogs in the Netherlands, Adventures in Integration and Invading Holland.

Smoking and Children: The Dutch Attitude

In a recent 'trending topic' survey in the Dutch Fabulous Mama magazine 96,1% of those asked responded that they hoped that their children wouldn't smoke when they were older. Pretty obvious then that amongst mothers the idea of children and smoking isn't a popular or pleasant one. 75.2% of those asked in the same survey strongly agreed that smoking is a bad example for children. 14.3% followed suit with a milder conviction. 

Photo: Jorc Navarro

And yet... the place my children come in to most contact with smokers and cigarette smoke is on the school playground. A notable amount of parents stand on the schoolplein waiting for their kids with a cigarette in their hand.

It is a topic that has been raised many times by parents. The school say they are not in a position to ban smoking on the school playground (how ironic does that sentence sound?) because it is actually council property and a public area. They did state they could try and discourage it but to date aside from a newsletter bulletin asking parents to place cigarette butts in the bin after the school kids had cleaned them all up from the playground, I have seen nothing on the topic. I kid you not: kids picked up all the butts.

The common sense seems to be there. But the willingness or courage to ban smoking in certain places seems to be absent (you only need to look at the situation in Dutch cafes to know what I mean by that!).

Smoking was a hot topic here when the results of Dutch infant mortality rate were published (in the European Perinatal Health report of December 2008). At this time it was stated that 13.8% of pregnant Dutch women continued to smoke throughout their pregnancy. (A 2010 report gave the figure at somewhere between 10% and 17%). Of course there are countries where smoking is far more prevalent than the Netherlands, and smoking during pregnancy much higher, but as this is the place I live I do notice a fair few pregnant women smoking around me and it never fails to shock me.

How is smoking around children perceived where you live? Is smoking on the school playground whilst waiting for children to finish school common and seen as acceptable? What about smoking during pregnancy - is that a taboo in the country you call home or an accepted part of the local culture? 

Pregnancy Tests, Gizzards and Cycling: A Cultural View of Pregnancy

"Un test de grossesse s'il vous plaît ," I said, having consulted my dog eared French dictionary for the French word for pregnancy test.

"Oui madam," replied the petite, middle aged woman behind the village chemist counter. She opened a small drawer in front of her and pulled out a box. She babbled something fast at me in French and I smiled and handed over a fifty euro note.

Two days later we replayed the same scene, undoubtedly depleting the village's entire pregnancy test supply, whilst simultaneously getting tongues wagging about a potential impending baby boom in the area. From what we had seen of the local demographics there was more call in the area for Zimmer frames than baby products.

Two positive pregnancy tests under our belt and we were confident that I was pregnant. My Dutch partner and I were going to have a baby. And then panic set in. We were on holiday in a remote French village, suddenly pregnant in a foreign country without internet. Did we need to tell someone? Were we supposed to go to the doctor? Were there things I shouldn't eat or do? I had already indulged in the local delicacies, including wine, pate and 'gésier de poulet' (I had no idea what I was ordering, and even after a text from my dad translating gésier as gizzard I was none the wiser). Wine surely wasn't handy.

We called our GP back in the Netherlands. The doctor's assistant summed up what we needed to do,

"Firstly congratulations! When you get back to the Netherlands register with a midwife. Don't go and see a French doctor - you'll be told you can eat anything and everything but you can't. Avoid non-pasteurised cheeses, alcohol, pate and anything from the inside of an animal." Oops. She had just listed the main constituents of my diet for the past week.

Pate best eaten in moderation during pregnancy - according
to the Dutch but not such an issue for the French?
Photo: Neil Gould

"And what about cycling?" my husband asked.

"No problem. Cycling is fine. Just don't fall off!" she replied.

An English friend had been told to avoid cycling during the critical first twelve weeks of her pregnancy. However, after seven years in the Netherlands I knew that asking the Dutch not to cycle for twelve weeks would be like asking them to chop a leg off. It's just never going to happen.

Already during the first week of pregnancy I was learning that culture plays a big role in having a baby as an expat. There were plenty more culture shocks to come during the next nine months.

I came to learn how the Netherlands is very much a midwife based maternity system - a big shock for many American expats - and midwives encourage home births and natural births (in other words, without pain relief) wherever it is safe to do so. I love the mentality that a pregnant woman does not have a medical condition - and should not be treated as if she has.

Before our babies are even born there's a cultural maze to walk our way through - and that's just the beginning!

What notable differences have you noticed with how various countries handle pregnancy and child birth? 

Expat Blog Competition Nomination!

I am delighted and flabbergasted to announce that this blog has been nominated for Expatica's "i am not a tourist" Expat Blog Competition. The fact that I am sitting in a list with the most amazing expat bloggers that the Netherlands has to offer is an honour in itself. Added to the fact that this blog is a new venture that I started at the beginning of this year, I am truly delighted that "Expat Life with a Double Buggy" is already striking a chord with other expat parents out there. This blog is still in its infancy, and I'm still finding my feet with it so I'm chuffed to bits.

Writing a blog (let alone two) whilst being a full time mum to three small children is a challenge. But this kind of recognition certainly makes it all worth while.

As part of the competition I had to nominate my favourite post, and I found it tough. I eventually chose What If My Kids Had Been Born in England? A recent holiday (spurred on by my own childhood vacations) to Cornwall got us thinking about a move there in a few years. Which in turn got me to thinking about how different life would be had I not moved to the Netherlands; if my kids had been born in England. It's fascinating how a birth country can mould the formative years of a child. So that's why I wrote the post, and why I chose it as my favourite.

Voting for the Expat Blog Competition is open until 9am on the 1st October, and the three winners will be invited to the Expat Fair on Sunday 7th October. Want to cast your vote for an expat blogger in the Netherlands? You can submit your vote by visiting http://www.expatica.com/iamnotatourist/blog_vote.php

De Peuterspeelzaal (aka preschool)

My middle son started preschool (peuterspeelzaal in Dutch) this week at the tender age of 2 years and 4 months. It's been an emotional week... for me at least because I was suddenly faced with a new phase and although I have been through this once before with my eldest son it still felt weird to realise my son is no longer a baby. He was delighted to spread his wings a little and start school "like his big brother" and he's far too busy even to wave goodbye once he gets playing there.

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.....

Sharing my British Roots

A Place I Once Called Home
(c) Amanda van Mulligen

It's not often that I get the chance to show my kids directly where I came from. To show them my roots. Where I grew up, where I went to school, where I played out on the streets with my younger brother. I'm talking about way back when, in the days when I called England home.

It's been twelve years since the Netherlands became my home. My children have no idea what it's like to live in England and it's possible that they never will.

So this summer, after a holiday in Cornwall, we took a detour to Watford after visiting a friend nearby to take a tour of my British roots.

We went to the flat that was my first 'out in the big, wide world alone' dwelling. A one-bedroom flat I bought along Whippendell Road. It's a hop, skip and a jump from Vicarage Road, home of Watford Football club where I attended almost every home game for more years than I care to mention.

Now someone else's family home
(c) Amanda van Mulligen

Then we drove past the business park I worked in for a year, following the road up to Croxley Green. From memory I directed my husband to the house which was the last family home I lived in before the members of the family I grew up with all went their separate ways to form new families of their own. The house had been slightly extended, built upwards over what was my parents' bedroom. The front door and windows were new. But in essence, the house looked the same as it did so many years ago. A dark blue car was parked under the tree that stands in front of the house, the same place my Dad's Renault stood when it was broken in to multiple times - every time a Phil Collins CD disappearing until my dad got fed up replacing it. The same parking space I used at the end of so many fun evenings with friends.

My former secondary school
(c) Amanda van Mulligen

We turned down the road at the side of the house and I remembered the surprise we got one morning when we came downstairs to find our garden wall blown down after a stormy night. The road was filled with cars, parked on both sides making driving there a slalom affair. We headed past Croxley station, past the pubs on the green where I spent many a social evening and down Scot's Hill to my former secondary school, St Joan Of Arc. It looked the same as it did over twenty years ago. Did I say that out loud? Twenty years? How can it be so long since that school was like a second home to me? How can it look the same as it does in my mind's eye? Awash with happy memories.

Then it was through Rickmansworth High Street where Boots the Chemist still occupies the same space  it did over two decades ago. Natwest Bank has the same home at the end of the High Street too. It seems that in a world of change, some things do actually stay the same.

On to Mill End where we also used to live, close to my former primary school. The house looked in desperate need of updating, some care and love to be poured in to it, but the school looked familiar. Bigger than I remember it and certainly not on the same scale as Dutch primary schools which tend to be smaller but more in abundance than British primary schools. We passed the community centre where I used to attend drama classes. Something that seems incredulous now to my introvert adult self. There was even a picture of my drama group in the local paper, but I cannot remember why. Memories. A car trip down memory lane.

My roots. My life in England. My British upbringing. And what did my children make of it all? All three boys sat in the back seat fast asleep.

How do you share your birth country roots with your children? 

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?"

What If My Kids Had Been Born in England?

I've been thinking. How different would my children already be if they had been born in England instead of the Netherlands. So, instead of three little Dutch boys with a British mother, they were three little English boys with a Dutch father.

The most obvious different is that their first language would be English, and not Dutch which is the case with my eldest. My school going 5 year old speaks better Dutch than English (whereas it was the other way round when he was a toddler because he was home with me) and now has a Dutch accent when speaking English. In England, they would not currently be bilingual.

But what about culture things? Or experiences? How would they be different if my children had been born and raised in England?

Food
Well they certainly wouldn't have eaten sprinkles on their bread had they been born and raised in England. They wouldn't have eaten so many pancakes, and certainly not under the label of "dinner". They probably would have a better selection of healthier meal choices (read not everything fried with chips) whenever we eat out had we been living now in England.

My boys would know what a crumpet was without a lengthy explanation about a bread type thing with holes in it. Scones would be second nature. Hot cross buns at Easter time would be taken as a fact and Christmas crackers wouldn't be such a novelty.

Culture
Had they been British born, they wouldn't have had such a fine collection of orange shirts between them. They wouldn't have a clue what a Beesie was, seen an orange German helmet or seen a prince throwing an orange toilet. I can't imagine I will live to see the day that Prince Charles takes part in a toilet pot throwing competition, and I guess the real question is this: why on earth would he?

They wouldn't have scouted around flea markets on Queen's Day. Sinterklaas would have stayed a stranger.

None of my kids would have experienced being transported around on the front or back of my bike as past age eleven I cannot even remember owning a bike in England, let alone thinking about ferrying kids around on one.

Jip and Janneke would be an unknown couple. Dikkie Dik would never have become a familiar feline face and Nijnte would be called Miffy. They would have grown up with the bird on Sesame Street coloured yellow going by the name of Big Bird, instead of a blue bird called Pino.

Education System
My eldest would probably be wearing a school uniform (thus saving the knees on his day to day trousers) and I would likely be transporting him to and from school in a car. In England, he also wouldn't have already been a fully fledged member of the local junior school at the tender age of four.

They would be addressing their teacher as Miss Smith instead of Juf Krista if they were in the English education system and they would be unlikely to see their teacher in jeans unless on a school trip.

Television
I'm going out on a limb to say that I assume my sons would not be so exposed to poop humour in England as they are in the Netherlands. They would know the voices of famous actors such as Tom Hanks from watching children's films in their original language, instead of Dutch dubbing which is (rightly) used for kid's programs. They would never have heard of Bumba, K3 or Kabouter Plop. They would never have seen Charlie and Lola speaking Dutch or Makka Pakka singing in Dutch.

Outdoors

This is what I call hills - something my Dutch boys are not familiar with

If my boys had been born and were being raised in England, they would most certainly know what a real hill looked like. As it is they think a speed bump is "high".

For my little Dutch boys an old, traditional windmill is commonplace, not something special. If they had lived in Watford like I did, a windmill sighting wouldn't be a weekly occurrence.

I am not convinced my eldest would have already had ice skates on and been on natural ice had we been an "English" family. And they wouldn't have been ferried around on bikes as babies.......

As my boys are still only little, there are lots more things we will come to experience that will make their lives here in the Netherlands different to the one they would lead in England. Some are positives (after all, Dutch children are the happiest in Europe), and a few are negatives.

But sometimes I wonder what impact being born in England would really have had on their lives, their personalities, their youth, their memories of growing up. Would their lives have taken a different path? It's an interesting train of thought!

What differences would have been evident if your children had been born in your birth country instead of the country you now call home? 

A Strange Begin: Sleepless Nights and An Ambulance,

Photo: (c) The Writing Well

When my youngest son (our third) was born last October, the kraamweek (the week after the birth) didn't quite go as planned. We came back from the hospital on a Friday morning and our interim kraamzorg was stood at our front door to meet us. The first day home went as planned. Lots of rest, help, and time for my eldest two sons to meet their new brother.

The night however was a different story. Our new addition cried a lot at night. By that I mean unless he was being held upright he was crying. As soon as we laid him down his eyes sprung open and he began to scream. That meant, with labour and the birth included, I hadn't slept at all for three nights. I was a little tired to say the least.

Saturday night was a repeat of the night before. Four nights without sleep.

Then on Sunday morning I felt a little strange. It felt as if I was on the verge of slipping away into a dreamland, whilst lying in my kraambed. My kraamzorg (a trainee) came to bring me breakfast, was shocked by how I looked and flew back down the stairs to alert the experienced kraamzorg that all was not well upstairs. They both came charging back upstairs. I was conscious of everything that was going on around me but could not respond. No words came out, my head wouldn't move. My blood pressure was high and I had what I can best describe as the shakes. The kraamzorg called the midwife, who arrived quickly but then struggled to get an accurate blood pressure reading. Due to my unresponsiveness she called an ambulance, informing them not to come with sirens and lights.

A few minutes later I heard a siren getting louder and louder and my insides curdled. My eyes told those in the room that I was horrified with the arrival of an ambulance with "bells and tooters" blazing.

The next fifteen minutes were amongst the strangest of my life. Two ambulance personnel, a male and a female, began loading equipment on the bed. The room was a hive of activity with 2 maternity nurses, a midwife and my family milling around trying to help and get a grip on the situation.

After tests and questions the decision was made to take me to hospital in the ambulance, back to the maternity ward for checks. One of the ambulance crew said it seemed like I had gone in to shock. A birth and four nights with no sleep seemed a viable reason for this....

Somewhere amid the commotion I began to return to the land of the living and could communicate once more.

And so I made it downstairs with help from the ambulance personnel and my husband, and I was loaded on to a stretcher outside our house. Which is when I noticed that the arrival of the ambulance had attracted a sea of onlookers in the street and surrounding houses...... My husband took the baby in the car, as he would stay with me in the maternity ward to ensure that the breastfeeding could continue. My eldest sons stayed with kraamzorg until friends got there to look after them. It was chaotic, upsetting and stressful - for us all.

It was only the second time I had ever been in an ambulance. The first time was to accompany my brother when he had a serious asthma attack when we were out in Watford, England one night. It was certainly the first time I had ever been in a Dutch ambulance. By the time we were driving to the hospital I was compos mentis again, and well aware of the drama of the past half an hour, hour - who knows how much time had passed.

Photo: Pam Roth

Once we arrived at the ambulance entrance of the hospital we seemed to whizz through corridors, past a sea of faces waiting their turn in queues in various departments, until we arrived in the maternity ward. Familiar faces came to help me from the stretcher to a bed and started hooking me up to an array of machines.

Lots of tests ensued from a gynaecologist and a neurologist and I had a few more 'attacks' like I had had that morning. The result was that I had to stay overnight in the hospital. I was devastated - it wasn't how the kraamweek was supposed to be! The kraamweek following the births of my first two sons are etched on my mind as wonderful weeks, a treasure trove of precious moments. And this time I ended up separated from the rest of my family, my husband home worried sick looking after our eldest sons who didn't understand anything that had happened, and me unable to properly care for my newborn.

Aside from a near collapse (luckily a nurse was holding on to me) walking back from the bathroom, the night passed without incident and the next morning I was allowed to return home. Kraamzorg returned. The kraamweek recommenced. The rest of the week passed without incident, but the sleepless nights continued.  So we turned to an osteopath.

He diagnosed our little one as suffering from silent reflux. He was having a rough time of it, hence the sleepless nights. I'd like to say that we got referred to the paediatrician, given medicine and all was well but the reality is that we struggled at night for many months and have only really had peace at night during the last month.

We've come through the other end - and the most amazing thing about all this is that our youngest son is a smiley, giggly, happy little boy - despite the less than easy start in this world.

Photo: (c) The Writing Well