Meet Karin and Adrian, and their 12 year-old son Ezra, residents of a riverside Dutch town with medieval roots.   Karin came here to marry Adrian, whom she met on the Internet.

Each of them brought three sons to the marriage.  Ezra, a student at the local Waldorf school, is the only one still living at home, although Joris, age 23, Kars, 21, Alex, 26 Rick, 23 and Frank, 19 still pop in from time to time. 

Karin and Ad's home outside downtown Zwolle.

"This is aWaldorf school(English) or a Steiner (Flemish) or a Vrije School (Dutch). Ezra had been a pupil since we moved here in 2003. It will be his last year, he is 12 and in August he will start secondary school."

Karin can find nothing negative about the town of Zwolle.  It’s an average city, she writes, and “has almost all the shops you need except Starbucks and IKEA but I don’t care too much about that. I just really like the old city center.” 

"Taken from Pelser bridge. In the backround the 'Mosterdtoren' (Mustardtower)." (FYI they did used to actually make mustard there. I know, I Googled it. ~DaMomma)

"This where Percy wants me to go, he wants to climb de Peperbus like a real tourist. I have done it before, so I know what I am dreading... "

"I took Percy for a ride on the bike. First we crossed the Twitvlietbridge over the river Zwarte Water (The Black Water), visible in the background. I like that bridge. I like the way it looks but its also the spot where husband and I first kissed. Its very quiet on this bridge, cars are not allowed to use it, you can only by bus, by bicycle or by foot. I take this route often, by foot or by bicycle to look around for photo opportunities. This is the grey time of the year, no flowers, a few birds. I did see a cormorant with wings spread to dry them but as soon as I had my camera ready he put his wings back in place. "

Writes Karin: "Looking at the old IJsselbridge. My parents live in a village on this side of the river when I started secondary school in Zwolle in 1973. I went by bicycle, every single day. I must have crossed this bridge a lot of times, in all weather conditions. This is the bridge, over the river IJssel into the province of Overijssel."

Karin has something to say about being from the Netherlands.  “There is one point I would like to make, to the rest of the world,” she writes.  “I am not from Holland. Holland is only a small part of the Netherlands, the two coastal provinces to be exact. Husband was born in North-Holland so he can’t see my objection. Almost everywhere I go people think I am from Holland. When I try to explain it’s the Netherlands the eyes go blank.”  To the people in Scotland, where she and her husband like to vacation, she explains the problem simply.   Saying she is from Holland is “like calling Scotland England! –Ouch, they ‘get it’ instantly!” 

"Looking at the old bridge across the river IJssel, a branch of the river Rhine. The water on the fields is frozen, and we can see a few skaters in the distance."

“I love to take the camera for a walk to do some macro photography, especially flowers and butterflies if they’re around.   It is really amazing what interesting objects you can find if you take you time and have a good look around you. I usually go alone.” 

“I can take an hour to make lots of pictures of just one flower, or the ants on a flower, trying to capture a bee sucking honey. I don’t like the idea of somebody waiting and I certainly don’t want to hear suggestions, I can see for myself thank very much. Basically, I am not very good company when I am with my camera.” 

“This morning I decided to take Percy for a camera walk. Though our chances for flowers and butterflies were very small on a frosty February morning I still wanted to give it a try. ”

“First we met the geese. We have a large flock of geese living a pond near our house. I like them very much; I feed them and take pictures of them” (One of Karin’s pictures is published here:  http://www.panoramio.com/photo/4157671) 

 ”I gave the geese our stale bread and we continued our way. It was cold, but Percy being a penguin did not care. He even sat on a frosted bank. Then I was lucky in my search for flowers. What I was hoping for was the common snowdrop, and we found them!” 

"As soon as Percy saw the bench he wanted to sit here. Not me, I am not a penguin and I don't like to sit on ice."

"I took a close look and they were real ice crystals on that bench."

“Some time ago on a boring Sunday we took the car to have a look at ‘de Ramspol balgstuw’ – the Ramspol inflatable dam. One of many projects to protect us from the water… ”

“However it was boring, not really much to see,” writes Karin.  “Husband looked around and noticed a small solitary white tower. After investigation a sign told us this was the last of the remaining look-out-towers built during the cold war. Watchers on duty looked for low flying airplanes (from the east!) until radar systems improved. ”

 ”This is where land that once was a real sea, begins. Yes, Zwolle used to be close to the sea. Weeks ago I saw a sign there that says,  ‘Welcome to the bottom of the sea’ and I thought it would be a great photo opportunity for Percy. So I made husband ride to the ‘Welcome to the bottom of the sea’ sign. ” 

Penguin on a road trip.

 

(Ad, it was totally worth it ... how can you not see that?! ~DaMomma)

“In Husband’s view the Cold war look-out-tower was far more interesting,” writes Karin.  “‘You want to hold Percy for a picture?’ I said.”

“’Of course!’” 

“However, you can see his male version of ‘holding’ Percy for a picture…. ”

(Dear Cute Husband -- Congratulations, now you are not the only man being tortured by this website. ~DaMomma.)

 

  

“Unfortunately the weather that had been bright and sunny changed to grey. I  tried to capture the wideness of the Polder landscape, anyway.”

During Percy’s visit, Zwolle made international headlines.

"Percy in front of Museum 'de Fundatie'. Zwolle made the world headlines this week with a new discovered Van Gogh. Percy wanted to have his picture in front of this, seemed like a nice idea to me. Though according to the website photographing inside (without the flash) was allowed, when we came at the Van Gogh exhibition it had a sign telling: No photography. I tried to talk to them ... in vain! No refund either."

 During Percy’s visit, I made a special request of Karin:  that she make the hour and a half-long train ride to Amsterdam.  She took Ezra with her. 

 

(Karin, I love this shot of Percy in the queue. ~DaMomma)

I have had many opportunities to be jealous of Percy since sending him out into the world last October.  But with this trip to Amsterdam, he completed a pilgimage, bringing some small part of me to a place I dearly want to go. 

 

 

Karin took Percy home to Zwolle, where that weekend she filled another request:  to make Percy some proper Dutch pancakes.  I know about Dutch pancakes from Cute Husband who lived on them during his time there.  Karin asked whether she should go out to a restaurant or have them at home, but I am a home-food girl. 

And pancakes are a specialty of hers.  

“One day my two-year-old son asked me, ‘Momma, can you make cake pans?’” writes Karin.  “It took a moment for me to understand what he was talking about, because he had turned the word around. While I stood thinking he added, ‘Granddad can!’” 

“That made the answer very easy. ‘Of course I can!’  –That’s were my pan cake years began. Son#2 was only a baby who at first did not believe in eating solids … however pan cakes were soon a favorite of his, too.”  

Karin’s Dutch Pan Cake Recipe 

± 300 – 400 grams flour 

± 800 grams milk 

3 – 4 eggs 

pinch of salt. 

 I make them in the simplest form. Flour, milk and egg … That’s it. I have no set recipe. I just add some flour to a bowl, add milk, whisk until I think its right and then add 3 or 4 eggs to the batter. I use the flour I can lay my hands on, what I can find in my cupboard, usually wheat flour. Sometimes I add water if the batter is to thick for my liking. 

 I wait for the pan and  butter to be very hot, ad a large spoon of batter, divide it evenly, wait for the top to go solid and turn the pancake. After two pan cakes I stop adding extra oil or butter, and bake them without. These are my favorites. I am an absolute fan of  the plain pan cake, hot on my plate with white castor sugar. Or with cottage cheese. 

Husband and Son like them with bacon and cheese. First the bacon on the pan, than the batter, and after turning the cheese on top.  When they are done I fold the cheese inside to melt. There are numerous way of making pancakes. My mother made them with apple and raisins, but that is not my favorite. Different kinds of cheese are possible, or a fried banana, a tomato, onions, etc etc etc. 

 But I want them plain. And Hot! 

  

"Percy checks the pan-cake batter."

"Percy next to the pan cake toppings. Special syrup, plain syrup, powdered white sugar, and white castorsugar."

"Percy is hiding behind the coffee maker, afraid of getting dirty."

 Percy had quite an adventure in Zwolle, and it was now time to pack up and move on.  Karin took great care following specific instructions in the packaging, tucked him in with his bag and his notebook and sent him … 

South. 

Percy says goodbye to snowy Zwolle.

 

 

Follow Percy’s Twitter feed for clues about his location, and follow Karin and her family on her blog.

8:03 Yes you can watch Sponge Bob.

8:07 Is there a limit to how much mucus can pour out of my cranium? Seriously?

9:20 Got shut out of Zumba because the gym nursery won’t keep Eden more than an hour and you have to get here 20 mins early to grab a spot. Pissed & frustrated

9:30 Eating fruit snacks from the vending machine, still pissed.

9:40 Gym Director personally apologized, hears my suggestions. Gives me guest pass to tomorrow’s private class with Miss No-Organs, whom I passionately love despite the fact she cannot possibly be carrying everything she needs in that tiny abdomen.

10:00 Much less pissed. Gym management is excellent.

Noon  STARBUCKS!

1:00 Schmoop naps and I look at the scattering of Cheerios all over my floor and put a good long thought into sweeping them up.  Then I come to my senses and play a round of iPhone solitaire.

Noon   I want to take the kids somewhere, but Eden has no more clothes.  Her drawers are totally empty.  I consider that it would be really wrong to spend another day inside.  And, in that vein, doing laundry would keep us inside, wouldn’t it?

1:00 Loaded the kids into the Loser Cruiser.  Eden’s totally naked, except for a diaper.

1:30  At Target we run into Ren’s teacher.  Ren gleefully explains that we’re there to buy clothes for her naked sister.  She’s so excited she almost falls over in her mismatched shoes.  I’m just proud we got all the barf out of her hair and I really feel like I’m doing well.  (Plus, honestly, lady?  If you didn’t feel the need to take a freaking break I wouldn’t be in this position, now would I? Am I right?)

1:45  “I’m totally telling this story to Eden when she’s old enough,” Miss Thanren* said. 

              “Oh, you won’t need to, all she’ll have to do is Google herself.”

1:50 We pick a cute outfit and upload the pictures to Facebook.  Everyone agrees she looks great in brown.

2:00  Errands, a few presents for the girls, STARBUCKS! –sun is shining, now we’re cooking with gas!

*The head teacher’s name is “Miss Smarter”

Ren barfed in our bed after her Dad stuffed her full of treats at the Celtics game.

Dinner was rice and broccoli with a side of hostility and regret.

8:02 a.m. Eden’s crying.

8:03 a.m. Eden’s screeching.

8:45 a.m. Fed Eden leftover tortellini for breakfast. I figure she doesn’t mind because, no one told her the social rules of breakfast food.

9:00 a.m. Nursed Eden, put her down, got back to cold coffee.

9:05 a.m. Ren stomps up stairs to tell me they are bored. I crack out the cool marble-tower run builder set thingy I bought for just this occassion. It’s Dutch.

9:10 a.m. Ren wakes up Eden, crying that she can’t read Dutch. She can’t read at all, actually, but that’s a moot point.

10:00 a.m. Up to my ass in marbles and Dutch. Eden is finding new and interesting ways to kill herself with marbles and piss off her sisters by smashing towers. That’s when it hits me: Holy SHIT this is a lot of kids.

1:00 p.m. Driving to Starbucks in 65-degree weather. Home Alone is playing in the back. Ahh … Christmas music and violence. Welcome, Spring.

2:00 p.m. Home from Targay Baybay. Sending the children out to play. Only 115 hours of break to go.

3:15 p.m.  Screechy-Mc-Asshole is not happy.  Ren is going to run away.  Mare is halfway through the first Little House book.  VACAY IS AWESOME!!!

Tiny, hunched over, with piercing blue eyes, my grandmother was nonetheless excruciatingly intimidating.  No one called her by first name — no one.   And beyond a polite hand shake — a kiss hello to the cheek if you were her descendant — you didn’t touch her.

She would receive you in an easy chair amid a pile of books and papers. She would invite you to sit across from her and if you were her descendant, you tried to sit up straight.  If you were a descendant of the female variety, you thought about crossing your ankles, and keeping your hands in your lap.

And then you talked about books, and what the river was doing, and polite news of friends.  She was very careful how she asked about personal matters, because she wanted to know, but it wasn’t drawing room conversation, and  — far more significantly to her – it was none of her business.

But she wanted to know.

So she would ask delicately.  “The last time we spoke, you were considering graduate school,” or:  “you seemed tired our last visit, I hope you’ve had some rest.”  (Your last visit, you were fighting tears and regaling her with the horrors of new professional life, but she totally forgot that whole part and just remembered that you seemed fatigued.)

And if she suspected a pregnancy?  Well, she so desperately wanted to know about that — but absolutely would not violate your privacy so would say, “How are you feeling?” with a sidelong look at your figure.

When the nurses in the hospital called her “Mary,” it made my skin crawl.

“OKAY MARY,” said the women banging into her room, pulling gloves on.  “YOU NEED A CHANGE, HUH?”

It was the very early morning of our second day in the hospital.  I had buzzed twice for help.  She needed fresh sheets.  She also needed medicine — her body was popping with contained pain and spasming muscles.  She was whimpering.

“OKAY, HONEY,” they said.  “I THINK YOU’RE DUE FOR A SHOT ANYWAY.”

And then they put their hands on her and talked about their weekend plans, while her body popped and she fought tears.

“IT’S OKAY HONEY,” they said.

And I understood that I wanted too much.  I wanted them to know that the person they were calling “honey” was the only woman of her generation to pilot a sloop through the waters of the Gulf of Maine alone.  That she had served her country in uniform because the only thing she hated more than war was Hitler.  That the week her sister — her best friend — had died, this tiny wrinkled frame of woman had sat for exams at Radcliffe and passed with honors. 

It had long been my routine to step discretely out of the room whenever an aid was helping her.  Her dignity was a family commodity — she was unflappable, super-human, and that was the way we all wanted it.

So I made for the door while the women chatted and prepared to change the bed, and my grandmother writhed quietly. 

 ”I think changing the sheets is quite painful for her,” I said.  “Can we put in an order for pain medication right now so it’s ready when you’re done?”

“Sure,” said one, yanking the hospital johnny, stripping my grandmother naked, cold, wet.  The woman brandished a damp washcloth in her gloved hand.

“How about you call for the medicine,” I said.  “Let me do that.”  The aid shrugged and handed me the washcloth and water bowl.

I looked down at my grandmother.

  “Okay?”  I asked.  She nodded.  I washed her as I had washed my babies a million times, carefully passing a warm cloth over precious, vulnerable flesh, patting her dry.

“Let’s get the bed made,” I said to the other aid.  “I’m worried that she’s cold.”

“I can’t do it alone,” she replied.

“Just tell me what to do,” I moved to the head of the bed.  I had seen them do this, turn her on her side, pull the sheet under her gather up the old, yank on the new, lay it flat. Someone had to hold her shoulders.

“We’re going to turn you on your side,” I said into her good ear, “and in a minute you’ll be all warm and fresh.”  I put my arms on her naked shoulders, lifted when the aid said lift.  My grandmother cried out.  I turned her into my chest,  wondering whether my presence was making it better or cosmically worse.

That was when she inhaled.  Deep against me, nuzzling, just like my babies did.  And it occurred to me that I was probably the first woman to hold her like that in about eighty years.  I rested my cheek against her head, stroked her hair.

“Almost there,” I soothed into her good ear.  “This will be hard for a minute and then we’ll have you settled and you won’t believe how good you feel.”

She whimpered, we turned her back, she cried out, and then she was settled.  A fresh hospital gown, pillows tucked carefully around her, a new cottony blanket.  The medication finally came, and while it took effect, I brushed her hair and someone brought soup.

And then she was propped up, eyes alert, fumbling to set a napkin into her collar.  I leaned over and helped, spreading it smooth over the clean johnny.

“Thank you,” she said to me with a warm smile.

“You’re welcome,” I answered.   

Her eyes went to the little stack of books on the table.  At the top, a new one I had brought her, filled with anecdotes and jokes about sailing.

“Would you like me to read to you while you eat?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” she said. So I read to her, and she laughed more than once, which made me laugh (because I know nothing about sailing).  We had a few more weeks together, and there were many more horrible nights.  But I never again wondered whether caring for her basic needs threatened her dignity.

 All she ever said to me about it was “thank you.”  And that was how I learned that’s all you ever need to say.

“Okay, put your stuff away, shoes in the cubbies, coats and backpacks on the hooks and I want all this –”  don’t say it, don’t say it, “crap put away.”

“What crap?” Mare asks.

“And that’s a bad word,” I add.  We stare at the knee-high chaos in the entry way.  “That,” –stuff, clutter, miscellany –”crap,”  I say.  ”All of it, the stuff on the floor.”

“Which crap?”  Ren asks.

“Mwaha,” Mare says.

“You know which,” I say.

“No, which crap?” Ren asks.  “The crap over dere, or da crap here?”

“Look, Ren.  Wherever there’s crap?  I want it gone.  Okay?  You see crap, pick it up.”

“Oh, o’tay, Momma, we picking up crap now.”

“And don’t call it crap.”

###

I tiptoe into the darkness of our bed room.  Cute Husband jerks awake.  He has fallen asleep with the television on.  It was a movie.  Now it is a coin extravaganza on a shopping show.

“Oh my God,” he says.

“Yeah?” I pile in beside him, turn the TV off.  I am mostly asleep. 

“What time is it?” he asks. 

“2 a.m.,” I say.

“I had such a terrible dream.  And you were such a shrew.”

“What’s that, now?” I asked.

“I was a corrupt cop.”

“Oh,”

“And, I stole money.”

“How much?”

“20 grand.”

“You sold your ethics and your soul for 20 grand — that isn’t even a nice car.”

“Shrew.  YOU WERE A TOTAL SHREW.”

“So I told you that?  In your dream?”

“Oh, in my dream, you were all-freaking-over me about it.  ‘Don’t steal, it’s wrong, give it back,’ blah blah, my GOD.”

“I like that girl, you should marry her.”

“I was a bad cop, Liz.  I was dirty.  I was on the take.  And you were bringing me down.”

“You are not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, you know that, right?”

“Bad cops forget nothing.”

“Except the value of a dollar in 2010.”

“Bringing me down.  SHREW!”

“I am so blogging this.”

###

“Hey, do you remember our conversation last night?”  We’re playing cards and eating dinner.

“Which one?”

“The bad cop?”

“What?”

“The extortion?  The take?  The shrew??”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“For full details? — Read my blog tomorrow.”

###

Ren scared the — stuff, clutter, miscellany — out of Finn today.  She told him there was a scary monster hiding in his mother’s jewelry room.  That little bit of fantasy was preceded by the game of “golden city” whereby Mare, Ren and Greta trolled the yard for the key to the magical fairy kingdom inhabited by, oh, God, princess hobbits or whatever the hell it is they find there.

Anyway, they came in after this game, Finny trailing along looking so confused, and Greta and Mare went upstairs to debrief their visit to the magic kingdom and Finn was making his way back to the toy room when Ren told him all about the beast hiding behind El’s cabinet full of Swarovski-and-wire.

“AAAAAAAEEEEK!” he said, weeping his little heart out.

El held him, and gave me — I swear — a dirty look.

Which I passed right along to its rightful owner, Ren.  Who informed me that the whole thing had started with Mare so while Finn wept to his mother about monsters I told Mare to go over and make things right.

“There’s no monster,” she said to him.  “I … I, well, I made it up.”  She shot me a for-the-sake-of-the-children, I-lie sort of look.

“Finn, remember how, in your video game, things happen on the screen … and they aren’t real?”  El said in a soothing voice, stroking his head. 

No, no he doesn’t know that, El.  He doesn’t because he’s a boy.  He’s a boy and to him if you see it it’s there, if you don’t it isn’t, and he is not capable of spending sixteen hours parsing it to the satisfaction of his beleaguered heart.

“It’s not real, baby,” she says, stroking his head.  “It’s not real, it’s just pretend.”

And Greta, Mare and Ren soothingly stroked his little arms and legs, telling him it will be all right.

And you know why?  Because they have the magic swords of Ulderbrand and they will use them to strike down the monster with great force because THAT is what the people of the gold city really want.

And, Finn?  — Dude you are totally right to be scared.  Some day you’re going to marry a little girl all grown up.  And she may not even let you have nightmares in peace.

###

And the answer is:  because I don’t feel like it.  Maybe some day I will, but not today.

What I will tell you is that all parenting — good and bad – is a reaction, good and bad, to the way we were parented.  And that one day a little girl decided the one thing she would never ever be was Mom.  And she fought and worked and grew up to be DaMomma, and that pleases her greatly, and the joy she has in it she shares as widely as she can.

My compassion, my desire for privacy, my stage of life will allow no more discussion than that.