I bring The Baby downstairs after her bath to find The Girl home from the manege, hungry, and munching on a bit of leftover Naan. This is really good, she says to me.

Isn’t it though, I reply.

Yesterday, Mr. Alex came to The Boy’s class to give an art lesson. The Boy doesn’t like Mr. Alex, for The Bpy has noticed that Mr. Alex never says anything nice about his drawings. He finds a pleasant word for others, but not for The Boy. And The Boy is very pleased with his drawings. Very pleased indeed. Proud, even.

Of course, I knew why. The Boy’s interests in drawing lean towards animation and Mr. Alex is teaching, oh, shall we call it classical art, you know, perspective, shadows, the melding of colors. It was only after I had signed The Boy up for art classes with Peter that I realized that The Boy wasn’t looking for traditional art lessons. No, The Boy draws very symbolic things, every thing that he draws has a meaning. Why, when he made a drawing for Dad’s last birthday, he drew exactly 71 candles. The Tarot according to The Boy.

I suggested that he tell Mr. Peter that he was interested in animation. Which he did. And Peter gave The Boy a wonderful time, a great day. He didn’t tell The Boy that things should be different, that he should rub this out, alter that. Instead, during the class Peter asked The Boy what he was trying to show, to say and then he asked the magic question : he asked The Boy where he got his ideas from.

Thank you, Peter.

I love bread. I rarely eat bread, though, because I really love bread – good bread- and I have a fast rule that I never eat anything unless it appeals to me totally, that I can eat it peacefully and that I can eat it at the temperature that God intended it to be served at. No cold soup for me, no tepid vegetables, no shoveling of food into to my face as I multi- task. I often have a couple of Melba toasts with a soft cheese if I find myself simply starving at an inappropriate moment, like lunch time here during the week.

I really should invest a small bit of coin and buy a referee’s shirt. And a big, shiny whistle. To wear at lunch time, here.

In an effort to expand the cherub’s palates a bit, The Father asked me to prepare a mild curry one day, get them used used to spices other than nutmeg and cinnamon. And today was that day. To make it a bit more festive- or perhaps to silence the sweet and irresistible song of the Lorelei, who seems to have taken up residence in my one- big- mother of a bag of King Arthur flour in the pantry- I decided to make some Naan as well. Ok, I doubt it was really Naan, for I used King Arthur’s recipe and I suppose that -all things being taken into consideration- Vermont is just about as far away from India as one can get, in every way imaginable.

I was, short and simple, an utter hog. The steam of the yeast, the chew of the bread, I ate and ate and ate until I can feel my wee GStar jeans cutting into my suddenly swollen abdomen.

Today I did buy myself The Big Box over at Leonidas. The well manicured and finely coiffed personnel there all recognize me, and know that I often prefer to select the chocolates for my box, usually leaving out the white chocolates, often simply ordering a box with dark chocolates. My last purchase was one of their pre- packaged boxes and I was very disappointed, for there were around 6 bon bons of the very same , nasty sort* in the box, which I found, well, to reek of laziness, for Leonidas must have about 40 or 50 different sorts of bon bons and one should never, ever receive a box with 6 examples of the same….treat.

I came in and ordered the box for The Boy and The Father ( a full box of Gianduja ), and by saying that I wanted a bit of extra marzipan in my box, I received a delightfully diverse selection for myself.

Bread and chocolate – what is the point ?

That I would chose the freshly made bread any day, over the box of my personal choice.

Is there anything more appealing, more sensuous than really good bread ?

Set you up, for of course, there isn’t.

* Manon caf. I have a very low tolerance for mocha.

All is in place : tomorrow I go to The Big City.

Alone.

I very much need to get out of the house, Town, and even more so, my Mummy Dearest avatar. Simply a three hour, don’t- touch- that- dial moment, when I am back to being just me, the small captive which lies beneath all of the other avatars.

And I do have to buy The Boy some new pants , for- at some time when I wasn’t looking- he has sprouted up a bit, leaving all of his pants at water- wader level. Oh, I do not like the sight of water- waders, in fact, the glimpse of a boney white ankle ( won’t wear socks, will he, unless on the field…) upsets all of my sensibilities. Got to cover those nubs up.

Tomorrow is also the bio- markt in the Big City and I find that I am in the mood to sniff around there once more, perhaps buy some parsnips .

Or wild rice.

Who knows what whim might take possession of my soul, when I am out alone, unprotected by the rules and behaviors of the various avatars which make up day to day life.

Truth be told, I suspect the custom box of Leonidas might win out over the parsnips.

Or maybe I shall say, damn the consequences, and buy both, parsnips and chocolates.

Today we once again had a terrible Internet connection, but do I look hollow eyed ? Is my stomach causing me to double over in pain ? No.

And this is for two reasons.

One, I happen to know that everyone in the area has a more terrible connection than we do. The By’s's computer can still connect to the wireless system, and so this morning when I couldn’t connect through the…uh…not wireless system…I went over to his room. Within a few minutes, I had a report on the other 6 wireless connections within our range : while we rated low, all of the other connections were so bad that they didn’t even manage to hit very low. Nope, people were jumping off and on their computers all morning, trying to get something that told them they were actually getting a signal. I’m sure that they were thinking, well, Casa Kitchen would pick a fine time indeed to finally get wepped, wouldn’t it ? I am sure that we looked so lusciously tempting, with our connection, low though it might have been.

Two, well , this is one case of deus ex machina, for we had a brilliantly sunny day today ( rare , think: hen’s teeth) and all that I wanted to do was to be outside. It is still very, very cold, but oh the sun !

I was going to go out into the yard and tidy up some, but as I opened the door to the porch…uh…rose arbor… I saw the boys. And for the next two hours- wearing The Father’s coat and surgical gloves ( I kid you not, allergies)- I brushed the dogs. I could have done it for hours more, if dinner hadn’t called out to be served, if dusk hadn’t fallen.

Nope, didn’t mind not having a connection today at all, but indeed, what is that stench ?

The Girl told me the other day that The Baby was now at the top of the waiting list at the manege. A rather set rule at the manege is that any horsey- girl- wannabe ( or horsey- boy- wannabe) must first have a round of private lessons and then can join group lessons. There is always a waiting list for the private lessons and one may be added to the list on one’s sixth birthday. The Girl placed The Baby on the list and now, within a week or two, The Baby will have her first lesson, with the same woman who taught The Girl the principles of riding English saddle.

The Girl went through the same rigamarole when she started riding- first have to turn six, then onto the waiting list. I remember her first lesson, in fact, for I was big as a house, uh, large with child ( The Baby) at the time. I kept having to twist this way and that to fit through narrow corridors and concentrate on remaining upright, for I was very much at the weebles wobble but they don’t fall down stage. I was very excited for The Girl, for she had wanted lessons so badly and for so long. She looked big and capable and I never for a moment had any fear that she would be hurt.

And now my wee Baby is just the same age, much taller than The Girl was at that age but just as excited. And I dread, dread, dread her starting to ride, although being the little sister of an official Horsey Girl will make her life very easy indeed at the manege. I’m afraid that she will fall off of a horse, end up in a wheelchair, die even.

I find my fears so odd, for I never had them for a moment with The Girl. I suppose that The Baby will suffer under the eternal curse of being the youngest, Mummy Dearest’s baby.

Today we went to the opening of an art gallery. We were only invited because we live across the street from the people, small town, must do.

Now, I haven’t a creative bone in my body- did I ever mention that I was accepted to an engineering school at the same time that I was accepted to grad school in archaeology ? Engineers seem to have some sort of general characteristics which I am unaware of, you know, people are always saying, well, that’s an engineer for you… makes me wonder.

But when one lives in a small, small town crawling with artists, it is easy to feel, well, clunky. It is a safe haven for artists, good peer support all around, life on a different level and all of that. I can be insidiously practical.

And despite all of the peer pressure, a mist surrounding me, a fog perhaps, I continue to say, well, shucks, I haven’t a creative bone in my body.

The Boy will join the artsy classes at the gallery, something for him to do, something that he will enjoy. And I have to talk to Peter about The Boy and Peter is a kind man and will help The Boy.

For- after much testing- we know that The Boy should be left handed. Every trait and reaction he displays is that of a left handed person. But he writes with his right hand and this not always a smooth and simple journey.

The Boy loves to draw and loves what he draws, and I am sure that Peter will show him other, less fine motor control ways to ….recreate what his mind sees.

At least I hope so. After all, one does expect artists to be more sensitive than …most.

At least, that is the impression that I am always getting, as I stand on the sidelines, being insidiously practical.

Today, the children made sugar cookies. After many, many months of begging, a few weeks ago I succumbed to their joint wish to make homemade cookies. As the dutch do not bake cookies at home- as a rule- I guess that this is something that they zoomed in on when we were in the States.

We started off with chocolate chip cookies, then peanut butter cookies and today- by popular demand- we made sugar cookies, using cookie cutters and edible bb’s for decoration.

I had actually thought that only The Baby would want to do this, but when I announced at dinner that cookie baking would take place today, after dinner, rather than tomorrow, after lunch, both The Girl and The Boy insisted that I call them down when it was time to roll.

Which I did. I had mixed up the dough yesterday and rolled it out between sheets of bakpapier, then tossed it into the fridge to firm up overnight.

A good time was had by all, the children discovered the decadent joy of eating raw cookie dough and the kitchen smells wonderful.

I do have to do something, though, about finding a better grade of vanilla extract, as this one tastes like vanilla toilet spray smells, but, en fin.

Next, we are going to try to make home made pizza and then…and then …BAGELS.

Before I came to the Netherlands, I used to bake a lot. I think that all Americans do, when compared to the Dutch. And I am looking forward to taking it up once again.

Thank you, King Arthur.

In the morning, The Boy and I bundle the camellias back into their beach towels : the weather is expected to dip up to ( down to ?) 10 below over the next few nights.

And it was snowing as we wrapped them up once more.

For the last three days, I have crawled out of bed in the morning exhausted, with my stomach burning a hole through to my spine. I actually could and did take a four hour nap today.

Here is what I would like to do : mist my seedlings ( I have sprouts) and attack my 25 pound bag of King Arthur flour, yes, naughty me, I did indeed do that.

Instead, I have spent the last week or so trying to get 4 computers running well. This is not my job. We are willing to fling money left and right like a shower of soft rose petals in order to get our computers to work correctly, but instead, I, the wannabe earth mother, have to try and straighten things out.

The computer that Mr.Vous set up for The Girl crashes every five minutes. She yells at me in frustration, for she just spent 40 euro of her own money for a new Sims thing and cannot play it..

This morning, none- not one- of the computers would connect long enough for me to check my email.

Why is this my job ? Why can’t I find someone to fling filthy lucre at to do it for me ?

And why- oh why- does no one listen to me, when I tell them that I have set up a DHCP on the modem which just, maybe, might, be conflicting with the DHCP they have set up on the *sucks eggs* new router ?

I am one very, very unhappy camper at the moment.