DutchInLaw

In our old house, the kitchen piled high with the mess, and in our new house, the kitchen piles wide with the mess. The two adults and the child who live here all have more interesting things to do throughout the day than clean, which means it's normally evening before anyone takes action. And by anyone, I mean D clearing off his part of the counter so there's space for the bread machine, and me clearing off my part of the counter so I can set out breakfast bowls and spoons. In the morning, the counter fills up again quickly, but I'm teaching Pippin to help unload the dishwasher so I can load it again. Sometimes the mess in my kitchen stresses me. On rainy cold days, when the world seems against me, even just clearing the counter can seem too much to handle. Other days it's much more manageable, fortunately. When guests come over, the kitchen gets cleaned quickly. If there's a good movie on Netflix, the kitchen gets cleaned thoroughly (like when I binge-watch...

Tonight I was so bored of painting my nails and reading adoring fan mail that I decided to clean my dusty-from-unuse stove. Wait. No, that's how it happened in the alternate reality where I'm a famous but and reclusive writer, living in a seaside loft by my lonely self, writing best-selling songs and poetry and subsisting on organic salads and fruit smoothies. In this reality, I took a break from all my other to-do lists to scrub the stove that we use every single day. The stove that has five glorious burners so I can cook Christmas dinners for nine people or just spread out fresh pans of chocolate bark. The same stove where a gleeful Pippin helps me mix pancake batter and fill muffin molds.  The same stove that was filthy and sticky from a concoction of dust, grease, and miscellaneous spatters and practically screaming for a bath.

It's funny how Christmas takes on different flavors as I get older. December as a whole becomes different, and instead of a spectator, I'm the orchestra director. I'm the one doing the Christmas magicking, whereas as a child it just seemed to happen. Back then, the music wrapped around the days in a soundtrack of jingle bells and choirs. My parents called us downstairs for the Christmas story, and explained our traditions as we lit candles and unpacked the tree. My mother taught us special Advent crafts, and we made ornaments of clay or felt that represented Baby Jesus coming to this world to show God's persistent love to surprised humans. As a child, I watched as presents appeared under the tree, and wrapping paper rolls appeared in the closet. Guests showed up at our house to feast and laugh and hug. As an adult, and especially as an adult living in Holland, I know that Christmas dinners only happen when everyone synchronizes their schedules and messages about who...

Some days we just burble along here. Other days are OSSIM. Today was an ossim day.

Marinate chicken, fry it on high. Start to set the table, soothe a hungry 1 year old, then hurry back to the kitchen when you remember the stove is still on. Hurriedly remove now-smoking chicken from heat. Open a window before the smoke alarm starts, then whirl to rescue bottles from 1 year old who is exploring the usually gated kitchen. Yell accidentally at 1 year old, remove 1 year old from kitchen, remember to turn off fire while still holding smoking pan. Put chicken down, shut kitchen gate, and apologize to the now-crying 1 year old. Kiss husband when he walks in the door in the middle of the chaos. Accept compliments on the smoky yet sweet flavor of the new favorite dish.

Our house is relatively child-proof, but Pippin keeps getting older and faster. If I leave a door open, he finds it, guaranteed.

Pink and white trees are blooming all over Rotterdam. Pippin and I have been to parks twice in the last week and played on the swings and slides. The sun shines through the windows and has coaxed me to pull out some Tshirts and shorts. Not long ago, my sister sent me a link on capsule wardrobes. A few days later, my mom sent me the same link. And then a few days after that, a friend messaged me with " Random question: do you do a capsule wardrobe? " Either spring fever is in the air or they've all been conspiring together. Maybe both.

Some days, being a stay-at-home-mom bothers me.  Some days I miss being able to just escape the house without having to bring extra diapers, an increasingly heavy Pippin, and a carrier or buggy. Some days I miss being able to move around the house and make noise without having to take naps into account.

From this... to this. From this... to this. My kitchen will be so much tidier now. And the Het Goed 2nd hand store should be rather pleased (I hope) when they sort through the stuff we brought them. Stuff that we have appreciated, and enjoyed, and are now ready to pass on to someone else who will use it more than we do. Storage issues and moving possibilities aside, it bothers me when we hold on to things that we don't use. My ever-patient husband is great at reminding me to stop and consider whether we need something before I buy it on a whim ("I think you need a lightsaber") or toss it on a whim ("It's summer - let's get rid of the fat scarves.") I'm good at questioning whether we need to keep certain things that rarely get used in our lifestyle. Vases? Ice skates? File binders? Some things go in a give-away pile; some stay but get better organised. Meanwhile, Faramir and I sit together on the couch in the...

Last week I wrote about when logic and frustration came together sweetly... and I replaced all of our mugs . I'm starting to give our bowls the Stink Eye this week. And I spent about an hour yesterday washing and inventorying all our baby bottles and parts. There's something immensely satisfying about actually taking action on a frustrating area of life. No matter how small. And I know in the grand scheme of things it. does. not. matter. that we have mismatched bowls and mugs. If we lived in a seaside cottage or sprawling farmhouse, I think it would be great fun to have whimsical mugs and cups and bowls that visitors would choose favourites from. When I visit my parents' house, I recognise the special mugs that my uncle sent to my brothers about ten years ago. The mugs sit next to The Cup that my mum has measured out ingredients in for her (famous) homemade biscuits for the last fifteen or so years. And there are new little mugs and bowls that they have picked up on trav...