I find myself watching football once again, with The Boy. Ars- Barc.

Of course, I am for Arsenal, of course, he is for Barcelona. And I know that he is right, but I am still rooting for Arsenal, where is Bergkamp these days, I ask ? I have not watched football for a long, long time.

He has told me not to say that I found Arsenal worthless this evening, even though I really wanted them to win. They were helpless. I am so out of the loop, I kept having to ask, the guys in the red are Arsenal, right ?

Look at all of those yellow guys, where are the red guys ? They can never score, there is no one to pass to.

I think that my only redeeming quality when it comes to watching football is that unlike a dog ( the dogs always watch football) I can say something.

It is not bright, it is not astute, but, hey, I am better then a dog.

The older that I become, the more that I realize that my Mother was a saint. I am not going to do the math, but we spent about 24 or 25 years together. I can only remember one time that she really become annoyed with me. I cannot remember what it was about, simply what she said : that I was the best excuse for birth control on this earth. That is witty, I knew this at the time. And that is it. She never yelled at me, she never swore at me, I always knew that my Mother would always be on my side.

My Mother simply wanted a June Cleaver Family, Happy Days, if you must. My mother was voted the most sexy ( clean it up, I am tired) girl in her high school class . And then she had me, this little Martian, plopped into their midst. I was always asking her questions. What do worms eat ? Why is the sky blue ? Why is Jello so thick and wobbly ?

According to my Mother’s stories, I taught myself how to read when I was 4. I have no reason to doubt this story, although I now know that she did fib to me at times, but never about me.

When I was about 7, she bought me two huge books, called * Tell me Why* ( our family always bought me books). It answers many stupid questions that children ask. I will not eat Jello again. Gelatin, gah.

I gave my *Tell My Why* books to The Boy, for he has that same penchant for stupid questions.

But The Boy does not read books. He reads newspapers, he reads tons of things on line, but books, no. I have to learn to accept this. New times and all.

As I grow older, it seems that I am reverting to those long ago days.

Why is there a bubblegum wrapper on the floor of the little toilet ?

Why am I the only one who puts a new toilet paper roll where it belongs ?

Why, why, why, can no one see the logic of hanging up a damp towel ?

Why, why, why, do I care about these things ? I like to talk metaphysics.

I am wondering why some Paris Hilton clone is talking about Kierkegaard’s leap of faith. This has nothing to do with a makeover.

Why am I back in that why, why, why, stage of life ?

I don’t think that I am spelling this right, so someone help me out.

Today, Baby brought home another ( yet another) paper from her school. It seems that there is some guy with a beard ( from Baby, not the paper, the beard bit) terrifying the children as they walk to school.

Two official complaints have been made to the Police and as of tomorrow, there will be a special police officer keeping an eye on things.

Baby and I talked about this, seriously. She does not think that Bas still lives here in town, so that makes her the kid who lives the closest to the school, 3 minutes, max.

She likes her independence, this is very important to her.

I gave her the updated version of what I once told The Girl and The Boy. First off, if you are in town, go into a store. Go to the baker, go anywhere. If she goes into one and says that some man is scaring her, they will take care of her. She knows our phone number.

If she is walking to school and someone scares her, she has my permission to be rude. Scream as loud as you can, draw attention to yourself, bang at that door, that woman is always up early, she knows you. Kick him with those vampire boots, shins. Pretend that you are The Girl: loud. If you are closer to home, come home, if you are closer to school, run to school. Don’t worry, we can always say that you are very upset and a bit high strung about this paper. People will understand.

I have thought this over carefully. We are on the very last bit of the main route to the school, the street is never empty, there are children walking to school, mother’s pushing buggies and talking kids to Kindie, this is never an empty strip of street at going and coming back from school times. Never.

I do not want her to be afraid.

I do not want to take her freedom away.

I hope that I am making the right choice.

Nope. I know that I am.

I should really tell her to punch him in the balls. As hard as she can. I know that I can find a sensible way to explain to her the pain that this will inflict.

Babies are really cute.

Tonight, as I tried to calm down, I found myself watching football ( soccer, pick your flavor) with The Boy. It was Bayern München vs Manchester United. He is for the Germans, I am for the Brits, Rooney and all.

This was going really well, Rooney scored early in the game, nothing is happening forever. And then , some time in the second half, late second half I am guessing, the Germans score.

I can’t believe this. I know how the Germans play football, they are going to win Boy. He is happy about this. I am saying, how can you be happy about this ? We shall never forget 1974. Daddy would never root for a German.

Yes he would, says The Boy.

I cannot believe this. What about 1974 ? Daddy would never root for a German team. He nearly slashed his throat when we found ourselves in Germany during some final taking place in Mexico, and all of these Germans are polonaising around the town. Fireworks, even , and I really like fireworks. Nope, we had to go into deep mourning.

All because of 1974.

Because the coach of Bayern München is Dutch. It is Louis van Gaal. And that is why Daddy would be rooting for the Germans as well.

The Germans won, like they always do, in the last 10 seconds.

I am still dumbfounded, THe Father, rooting for The Germans, after 1974.

Hi Sgt. Rock,

The Boy received your gift today, those cards. It came at a very good time, for he is in the middle of mid- terms and this looks grim. I, of course, say, you can do this but it is now time for me to step back and let him learn his own lessons.

So, we open this deck of cards and at first we think that it is a game called quartet in Dutch : find four of the same. He is looking through the cards while I am reading the box. I read boxes and fliers. And I realize that these are flash cards about land mines.

Flash cards about land mines. You cannot begin to believe how funny I found this and I cannot begin to understand why I find this so funny. It is not funny. But it has me in stitches. Flash cards. Soldiers are being trained with flash cards, like 7 year olds, 1×2 is 2. Claymore ! Claymore!

This can never have been used, this was some higher ups idea of a good method of training, right ? Some spook who would not know a Claymore if he stepped on one.

Thank you, this is the bright light of today-

Mummy Dearest

I am having a lot of troubles eating these days. I can handle pretzels and , yes, French , bread with Laughing Cow cheese on it. Otherwise, I am hanging over the nearest sink ( head above stomach, head above stomach). The miserable thing about this is that I have to clean it up. The bright side, is that since I cannot eat, there is not much to clean up.

I made some fried chicken strips strips yesterday for dinner. I like this, with a sortof tartar sauce. I like tartar sauce yum yum fine. And the cherubs start squabbling. And there goes my stomach. I look at my plate and know that I cannot eat this.

The dogs enjoyed my chicken yum yum fine.

Today we had my favorite meat , a beef one cooks for a cooties age, with broccoli, some red cabbage and apple for The Baby, and boiled potatoes, for The Girl ( never met a potato she didn’t like).

As I am putting the serving dishes on the table, the phone rings : it is finally The Father, calling from far, far away. He calls on The Girl’s cel phone, as that Bakelite cannot handle a call from far, far away.

The Girl hands me her phone, and since I busted both of my eardrums and am having problems hearing, I leave the kitchen and go to the front room. I am gone three minutes, max.

I chat with Daddy, and hear hideous screams coming from the kitchen . 3 minutes. I pass the phone back to The Girl and ask The Boy, what has happened ? The Girl sprayed him in the eyes with air freshener. I cannot believe this. Smell my eyeballs, The Boy says.

I can do this.

The children all chat with Daddy and then I fill up the plates. I have a plate of broccoli before me. I like broccoli. I think that I even had one bite. And then The Girl asked me what I said to The Father. Well, I told him that you came home from work cranky and were all honked off because you had to go with your Uncle to pick him up on Saturday, leaving here at 6am in the morning, that you- according to what you told me- had no choice. I was trying to get her out of this.

She looked at me and said, you should not have told him that. I put my fork down and said, I can say anything that I want to to Daddy, you are not the Alpha female here.

And then she said to me : Are you afraid that I am going to steal Daddy from you ?

I stood up and left the table, my broccoli left to chill. I told The Girl that I did not want to see her again today, I could slice that child into vermicelli in a second but I really have to keep my mouth shut now.

I really have to cool down.

Today, some Jehovah Witnesses were bopping around town and there are advantages to our doorbell not really working that well.

They left a flyer on our doormat. Jesus Saves.

The Boy found it and is going through his usual rigmarole : he wants to go to the meeting. Why ? He wants to have all his bases covered. I am saying, these people will be coming to our door for the next 40 years if you do. You are a Catholic, you have even been confirmed, Jesus will save you.

I know that he won’t go, but why does he like this sortof thing so much ?

I am reaching the point where I just say, oh, that is interesting. Do you know where Alice the Vampire is ?

Oh gosh, and The Girl. She went to the dentist today. How does one put this ? The dentist seemed to think that The Girl is too cute for her own good as well. I immediately asked her if she had that shirt on and if there was a female assistant in the room. No, yes.

I simply cannot think of a way to be obscure ( I have already been told that I need to go to sleep or else I will be cranky in the morning), but I certainly am not going to say * hard on*. Nope, nope, nope.

The Girl and I do agree that I take all three of them far too seriously and we nearly split a gut about her dental appointment.

Bekakt is a Dutch word that I cannot translate well, it sort of falls between posh , prissy and pretentious.

Tonight I have to go to a Parent / Teacher conference at Baby’s school. I have a very long history of abhorring one of her teachers, but I am trying to be fair, maybe Teacher has changed. Miracles can happen.

So Baby and I spent a long time together yesterday, talking, about this, about that. And she tells me that one of her teachers said that English was a bekakt language.

Now there are two native speakers of English- or bilingual- children in The Baby’s class. Baby was offended, but the other child started crying. I am not sure if Other Child was boo- hooing away or if only Baby noticed this.

I find this so very tactless.

I hope The Other Child’s famous parent speaks to the teacher about this, for I cannot. I am going to be too busy biting my tongue and trying to be civil.

Baby was bored today. We are sitting across from the kitchen table , talking. I really like her name, but I had others in reserve.

I would have liked to have named her Delilah. But that is one of those names that one has to be able to carry off. She could have done it, who knew.

I also liked Daisy and Alice.

Not only does Baby want to be a vampire, she wants to change her name to Alice. Ali for short.

I am really taking this seriously. No, I don’t think that changing your name will make you more popular.

All three of the cherubs have English ( American..I’m not going to beat this horse) names. I always knew what I wanted to name a boy, should we ever have one, and The Father agreed in about 60 seconds. It is also an inside, family joke, but we live in The Netherlands, so no one gets it, so it does not matter. Our only son has about the same name as some P.I. from cheap detective novels that my mother loved.

The Father named the girls. This was a matter of trust. I spit them out and then asked, what is our baby’s name ? He did a fine job. The Girl is named after my mother and Baby after an Irish woman that The Father was very fond of. I have met her, I still send her Christmas cards, late, as usual. But I have always known that he loved her name.

I can live with this.

But the Dutch cannot pronounce the girl’s names correctly, they twist those vowels around.

Alice. Who would have thought that someone wanted to be named Alice ? Are we hitting the Johnny Depp factor here ?

Baby wants to be a vampire.

I really have to keep a straight face and come up with something sensible to say about this career choice.