The Displaced Dutchican

Yesterday, the dutchkid had her first theatre experience.  I belong to this massive playgroup in town and they’re always organizing fun activities to do with your kids.  It’s big enough that I feel like I can blend in a bit.  I don’t do well with the kind of playgroups where you all take turns having everyone over to your house and it’s like mom-dating. 

So we went to go see the play “If You Give A Pig A Party” which is based on the children’s book.  I wasn’t sure how the dutchkid would do with it, but I have fond memories of those books.  My baby sis always loved, “If You Give A Moose A Muffin” and I remember reading it to her.  This was geared towards the younger set.  So we went. 

What made the experience even more interesting was the loads of kindergarten age kids who were there, I love watching kids see the magic of a story come to life.  One child did have some sort of pathological fear of the dark, though, and began screaming at the top of his lungs when the house lights went down.  Which made the dutchkid nervous.  But she did surprisingly well, except it was about 20 minutes too long.  For me AND her.  If you’ve ever read those books, they can get a little trying after the thousand times of getting sidetracked.  And after about 30 minutes, all the cuteness of watching over the top, theatre major college kids pretend to be whiny, obnoxious kindergarteners begins to wear thin. 

She was little too young for it, but we had a good time.  So much so that she threw a gigantic fit when we left because she didn’t want to go.  I think she thought that we were going to get to play on the set.  They’re doing “Winnie-The-Pooh” next, I think I might just have to go myself next time.

Maybe it was all the rain. Or perhaps the fact that my wonderfully smart and talkative child is still not completely potty trained and I’m really tired of wet panties all the time (hers, not mine. Mine are the ones in a bunch). Hence, I don’t have much to say today other than maybe the week will improve. It is Monday after all.

Sometimes I feel like I am living in another country right here on U.S. soil.

There have been times in my life where I have wished I spoke another language, and I’ve often felt like it would be a benefit. This is the first time that I have felt at a disadvantage because I only speak English. I was in a meeting for wives the other day that was entirely conducted in Spanish.

It is immensely frustrating to be well spoken in one language but like a 2 year old in the other. I am quite shy in new social situations under normal circumstances… so this just makes it worse. It is hard to be left out of conversations and constantly relying on others to translate for me. I have a whole new respect for people who have come to this country and had to flounder around without speaking English well. I don’t think I’ll ever be so intolerant again.

I found out today that I am eligible to take Spanish classes while we are here. I’m not sure how I’m going to work that out with childcare for the dutchkid, but I’m going to have to find a way. I can’t think of another time when I’ll be quite so motivated to learn. And if we do move to another country in the future (which is a possibility) I absolutely do not want to be in this situation again.

Yesterday the dutchkid decided to test the theory of gravity.  As dh and I were cooking dinner in the kitchen she climbed up on a kitchen chair, and facing the back rungs she leaned forward.

Time seemed to stand still and as I could hear myself screaming some variation on “No!” and “Stop!” my mind went on fast forward.  I was envisioning the exact same scene about 24 years ago in which the youngest of my two brothers, the one who was a holy terror, did the exact same stunt and broke his foot.  Immediately following that was images of blood, protruding bone, the hospital, the dutchkid in a cast and people asking questions about my parenting.

My body was moving about as fast as my mind, and as she fell I managed to get close enough so that the chair fell on my big toe.  My dh scooped her up to check her out as I was hopping around the kitchen on one foot. 

I subscribe to some sort of Zen parenting strategy, in which I attempt to go through life as a mom pretending nothing phases me.  A crucial tenet is one I learned from my mother: “Never let them see you sweat” (them being your children).  Here is where my strategy fails because seeing my child in any kind of physical danger freaks me out.  You would think that as a former nurse that I could handle it.  But I cry.  My knees get weak and my mind runs on some sort of “worst case scenario” loop.  She was just fine, but her mother was a wreck. 

My toe still hurts this morning and I’m afraid to take the toenail polish off to see what it looks like.  I’d rather live in ignorance if I’m going to lose the nail.  I’m still trying to regain my Zen.

07.03.08

Originally uploaded by dutchican

I used to think that runner’s high was a myth. I became a runner in college and it was more for the fitness benefits (I’m a big fan of eating whatever I want, usually in large quantities) than for the feeling. Honestly, most days running HURTS.

However, after the birth of the dutchkid I began the long journey to get back into shape. Let’s just say I gained more than the recommended amount during pregnancy, um, a lot more. When my dh deployed about 6 months after the dutchkid arrived, running was for losing the weight but more for getting out of the house . She didn’t cry in the jog stroller. It surprised me that after pregnancy my endurance got better. I guess labor puts all other pain in perspective.

I still wouldn’t consider myself a distance runner but I did manage to run the Army Ten Miler last year. An achievement I will never duplicate out of choice. It sucked. Still no runner’s high.

So imagine my surprise when over the past few months I began experiencing this odd feeling, often at the end of the run. It’s not earth shattering, but reminds me of the feeling I get when I am moved by an amazing piece of music (seriously, that’s all I can compare it to. Like when something gives you the chills). Maybe it’s because now that my dh is home it’s an unexpected pleasure to be running alone without pushing the jog stroller. Maybe it’s because I’m finally well rested enough because the dutchkid is sleeping through the night consistently. Who knows. All I can say is that I”m going to enjoy it. Its only taken 12 years.

Goodness gracious, I have no idea how that link came to be, but hi there and welcome. Although hits from the Pentagon make me nervous, I promise I practice good OPSEC. And would somebody be kind enough to tell me what exactly Stand-To is?

I have been itching to try to sew this super cute bubble dress for the dutchkid. I just ordered the pattern from Oliver + S because they have free shipping right now (woo-hoo!). Let’s just hope I can actually sew it. Don’t worry, when it gets here and I get started I’ll show you some pictures.

And my sewing machine is fixed! It sounded horrible before, but now it’s quiet and working much better. So now maybe I can finally get around to finishing the boxers for SMC that have been sitting around since the move. My poor regional contact person just emailed me wondering if I needed anything, to make sure I’m ok…. yup, I’m fine just a slacker. Argh. I have most of my curtains up, so I’m putting the rest of them on hold to get some boxers done. Somehow my projects keep multiplying while my free time gets less and less. I just can’t seem to keep that pesky good idea fairy locked in her closet.

I like living on post… most of the time. I’ve been contented with the housing itself, with the company managing it and I love having everything so close when gas prices are sky high. There’s just one aspect I had forgotten about because it’s been so long: the fishbowl.

At first we were some of the earliest to arrive, and the neighborhood was pretty empty. Now that PCS season is in full swing, however, our block is completely full. Most of my neighbors are in the same school as my dh and they are a friendly bunch. So much so that I have had to institute a “no wearing pajamas downstairs after 9am” rule. Which really cramps my style seeing as it’s now 8:53am and yes, I’m still in them.

I think it’s because I grew up in the country, where you could practically go out in your backyard naked and no one would see you. (Hey, that’s the good thing about how high corn grows). I don’t like always having to put my happy face on, just to let my dogs out in the morning. I read an interesting article in Smithsonian magazine a while back about how that might be why New Yorkers are perceived as rude. It seems they live so much of their lives in such close quarters and in “public” that they don’t see the point anymore of pasting on the perma-grin. I’m starting to think they have the right idea.

I knew I was in trouble when the pest control guy came and said I must have gone on my run early that morning because he hadn’t seen me (!). It also makes it difficult to avoid people you’d rather not spend a lot of time with, like my neighbor a few houses down who spends every conversation I have with her complaining about how awful this place is.

Thankfully the neighbor who shares the other half of my house is my kind of girl, she likes her privacy too. She has dogs that bark all day and night, but I’ll take her. At least I don’t have to make small talk with them.

My Google reader is working again.

That’s sad, isn’t it.

Sorry for my weeklong blogging hiatus, I meant to put something up about it and in the mad rush to get ready to leave for my trip home I forgot.

My mom got married this past weekend. It was a beautiful small wedding with a great big party afterwards, for those of you reading this who should have been there! Maybe I’ll write more about that this week, but right now foremost in my mind (believe it or not) is my appreciation for the Park & Ride driver.

The air travel did not go smoothly. I had to fly out of one of those mega airports and it was a nightmare. I literally drove around for nearly an hour trying to find an open place to economy park. When I finally arrived at the terminal, they said they couldn’t check my suitcase any longer. While I was holding the dutchkid, crying and trying not to hyperventilate, the flight attendant took pity on me and checked it anyway. I had to run through the airport carrying my 30lb toddler to catch the flight. On the way home I waited in the airport for several hours for “mechanical problems” which is always reassuring. I usually am pretty calm about these situations… you catch more flies with honey than vinegar as they say. But I was pretty worried about finding my car back and figuring out how to get home since several major highways all go by the airport. I am directionally challenged at the best of times, late at night, tired and with a crabby kid I would have been hard pressed to find my way out of a paper bag.

Enter my knight in shining armor.

He hauled my suitcase for me, reassured me that this was the right bus. Took me right to my car and put the suitcase in my trunk for me. He gave me simple but detailed directions of exactly how to get on the highway home. He waited for me to start my car and strap in the dutchkid so that I didn’t have to be alone in the deserted, dark econo-lot.

Mr. Park and Ride, my heart beats for you. A thousand thanks.