The other day, The Baby and I were chatting about the big vacation. In that way that 4 year olds have, she went through the list of every place she can recall having gone to , anyplace besides our little town. Of course, we talked about Alabama in MeMerica the most, but she asked me when we would go to Amsterdam again ( I don’t know- when Grandma and Grandpa come to the Netherlands again, I suppose), and I caught myself longing to go to the gulf coast once more and wade in the green, clear waters when she brought up Florida.

Oddly enough, when she asked me when we would go to Viareggio once more I said I didn’t know. After all of these years, Viareggio seems to have lost it’s charms for me. I would rather eat scallops in a beach side shack in Florida , watching the sun set over the white sand then brave the long, long drive ( thank you, Switzerland, for always planning repairs to the Gottard during the summer season) to Viareggio and the daily trek from the mountains to the sea.

In fact, I realized that I have no desire to go to Viareggio once again at all. How odd.

Last night, The Father brought my contract home. I flipped through the many pages and signed on the various dotted lines.

I read about my vacation hours, my official title, who I officially work for ( read : my boss), how much I make in a month.

How very odd indeed.

We have tadpoles once more.

I do believe that I enjoy watching tadpoles far more than watching television.

In fact, I know that I do.

The Girl : What are you doing ?
Mummy Dearest : I’m cleaning house. What does it look like I’m doing ?
The Girl : Why ?
Mummy Dearest: Uh, isn’t this what I’m supposed to do ?

( later…)

The Boy : What are you doing ?

( The scene : after having been on the road since 6 this morning, The Father unexpectedly returns home an hour early, possibly hoping to catch a wee cat nap. Opening the front door, he soon realizes that there are 8 children spread throughout the house, some watching Nemo in the back room, some playing dress up in the playroom, some snipping and gluing bits of paper in the front room.)

Mummy Dearest : Uh, if I had known that you were coming…

Within a few days of the birth of a child in the Netherlands, the father- or, I suppose, any legal guardian will do- must go to the City Hall of the town where the child was born and register the birth. Han did the registering all three times, in our case, while I sat at home upon the largest and coldest thing that I could find in the freezer.

Now, when The Boy was born, The Father seriously wanted to lie about when he was born. He wanted to report that The Boy was born a few hours later, on May 5. ‘It would be so easy then to remember his birthday ‘, The Father said, ’05-05-95′. I- of course- would not tell a lie, and so The Boy still retains his true birth date : May 4th, 1995.

Recently though, I’ve been questioning the namby pamby, I- cannot- tell- a – lie stance that I took back then. I can never remember how to write his birthday- is it 04-05-95 or 05-04-95 ? And this year, one of the subjects that he is being introduced to in school is History.

History fascinates him, he sucks it up and tells me all about what he has learned. I- of course- am pleased that he finds it so interesting, for I do as well. I don’t really know why, but in his class this year, WWII comes up again and again. Oh, they’ll go over the Romans for a short while, but then the next thing that I know, he’s telling me all about Anne Frank.

Now, The Boy has always known that his birthday coincides with a National Holiday here, it just never- I guess- sunk in just what sort of holiday it was, for you see, May 4th is Dodenherdenking.

Last week, The Boye came up to me and we were chatting and he said, ‘You know, my birthday is on Dodenherdenking. That’s kind of creepy, don’t you think ?’. ‘No’, I said, ‘That’s just when you were born.’ ‘Do you think’, he asked me ‘that the town father’s will be angry- that I will get in trouble- if people sing Happy Birthday to me on my birthday, on Dodenherdenking ?’. ‘No Boy, it is- after all- your birthday, and you are just a little boy.’

As well as being easier to remember, May 5th is also a National Holiday , celebrating the liberation of the Netherlands from the Nazi s. A less gruesome birthday than Dodenherdenking, a memorial day for those who died during WWII.

Brushing Buddy a short while ago, I discovered a huge( bigger than an egg, smaller than an orange) lump on one of his front legs. I suppose that one could call it an elbow ( although I’m sure that it has a correct, more technical name. But why on earth would I suddenly fall out of character and know the correct, technical name for something ?) and the lump is right on the tip of it, going around toward his armpit ( here I’m thinking ‘lymph glands)’. It is not tender, nor red, nor anything good I am sure.

I’m sick at heart and try not to think of it, dwell upon it. I’ll think about it tomorrow, when I see The Father again.

At Tara.

( oh ,f*ck,f*ck,f*ck,f*ck…….)

We went over to have a cup of coffee with the new neighbors today. It was very nice, they were very nice, I had a good time but now that I am home, I find myself wishing that I had just kept my mouth shut. Not that I said too much, but I’m not used to meeting new people any longer. I think. I just wish that I had said less.

In that my- isn’t- it- a – small- world way in which the world is, it turns out that he lived on the same street in Tilburg that The Father and I did, at just about the same time. What do you know. And they do indeed have the wireless network that I sometimes bounce into ( and these are probably the only two wireless networks in all of town). As well as being an artist , he also develops something which requires him to use Macromedia’s Authorware. And so we talked Photoshop and IE for a while as well, while all of the children were across the street at our house, playing Monopoly.

As an odd aside, they in turn asked me if I gave lessons of some sort, for there always seemed to be a lot children coming in and out of our house. Uh, nope.

I hate when I come home after having had a perfectly good time and then have this feeling of almost shame, or dread, or something along those lines. The overpowering wish that I had remained silent.

I love my new toy.

Today was a bit of a red letter day for me. Oh, all right, I do now have the wretched DVD burner/ writer thing- right over there on my right in fact- but that wasn’t the big event of the day.

Well, I suppose that there were three Big Events today. After searching for months, ( or something like that, hmmm, Roberta?) I finally stumbled across- what my dictionary insists are- parsnips ( I myself wouldn’t know one if it bit me on the …). I was going up and down the rows of the Green Market ( Read : With Bugs !) in the Big City today when I saw a little card saying Pastinaak ( give or take an ‘ a ‘ there).

Of course, I stood there for an amazing amount of time. All of the cards for the other vegetables said ‘ X euro per kg’ or ‘X euro per bunch’, but this one simply said ’1.60′. Was that per piece, I wondered ? Per kilo ? How many parsnips does one need , in any case ? I finally decided to buy a pound, seemed reasonable- even if the price were 1.60 per piece, it wouldn’t be too outrageous of an expenditure, one to satisfy my curiosity about the vegetable that the potato replaced.

Of course, it was 1.60 per kilo, and I paid my 90 cents with a pleasant, oh silly me smile.

Roberta ( she’s over on the Blogroll there, and has very much been on my mind today) suggested either steaming them or frying them in butter. Since I’ve never had them, I decided to steam them, but now that I’ve tasted them, they probably would be very nice ‘fried’( uh, sautéed ? Although a crisp on them might be nice).

What did I find a parsnip to be like ? A cross between a sweet carrot and potatoes. I liked them fine and wonder how they would hold up in a soup ( they seem a bit delicate, not as tough as carrots). Perhaps I shall next go in search of a rutabaga. Haven’t a clue as to what it is or how to spell it, but live dangerously, no ?

While getting the much coveted DVD thing has pleased me immensely, as well as stumbling upon the parsnips has, I suppose that it really is a red letter day today because of what The Father told me in the car, as we went to pick up my computer….

‘By the way’, he said to me, ‘as of March 1, you are now officially working for the company. I’ll bring the contract home for you next week. ‘ ( Here I’m looking like I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightening… my work for them has always been … freelance). ‘That means’, he continued ‘you will get benefits and all- like vacation money, maybe you can go back to your old health insurance plan, build up your pension, get paid even if you are sick…’.

Well, I wasn’t expecting this. Not at all. I’m some sort of flexible worker now, minimum of 10 hours a week to whatever I want.

After all of these years of working for the company, I’m now official.

And pretty flabbergasted by it all.