It’s December 6. While I was traveling a couple of weeks ago, I found out that’s the day the Dutch celebrate Christmas. The day I arrived was the day they turned on the Christmas lights. It felt meant to be.
Today, I got updated Ancestry DNA results – that put the Netherlands smack in the center of two overlapping circles, my own Venn Diagram of genealogy. So, I’m celebrating some Dutch heritage, and feeling festive.
This week, I’ve been watching cheesy Christmas movies, eating chocolate-covered raisins, and meditating for 40-50 minutes a day. Last year, I was doing two of those things. I’ll let you guess which ones.
Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be putting up a series of posts about my trip. I’m feeling an apprehension that I haven’t felt before about posting. Sure, I felt a twinge about the sex books, but this trip feels bigger than that.
I could whitewash it. But as they say, if you’re going to lie, you’d better hope you have a good memory. I don’t, which is why I write everything down. So I’d rather tell the truth than try to keep my story straight.
I went to the Netherlands because what I wanted to do is illegal in the U.S. That makes some people uncomfortable.
I don’t want to put a disclaimer up about my content, but I do want to invite you, if you choose to keep scrolling when those posts start coming, to keep an open heart and to stay curious. It’s been a phrase that has been coming up in my life for 3/4 of a year now – that invitation to stay curious.
It’s a lot easier said than done. I often get judgemental, indignant, and hurt before I remember the part about curiosity. So go ahead and feel those other things, too. But remember the curiosity.
What are your best sensory memories? What about it is the part that makes the memory special? Was it the company, that time of your life, or other sensations tied to the tastes, smells, or textures?
One of my favorite treats is Jelly Belly jelly beans, at least, the good flavors. I understand this “good” is different for everyone. For me, it’s pear and peach flavor, along with a few others. When I first bite into a pear Jelly Belly, I am taken to Amish Country in Lancaster County, PA.
I was there with my family as a teen. In an indoor market, one of the stalls allowed you to buy Jelly Belly jelly beans by the pound AND by the flavor. Which means you could pay the exorbitant price of Jelly Bellies, but not end up with any of the gross ones (I’m looking at you, popcorn, root beer, and black licorice). I left with a whole bag of the best ones – fruity ones, some tart ones. Just sweet, chewy goodness. And the weight of the bag shifting in my lap in the car as we drove away.
My mom always told me I had a sensitive heart.
As a kid I was full of raw emotions and felt other people’s pain as my own. I cried freely when I saw others hurting and was easily moved.
The movie My Girl came out in 1991. I think I saw it the summer I was 12 or 13 – it was on VHS by then. *smile* I remember settling down in the living room of my grandma’s house to watch it one day with my cousins.
One evening not too long ago, we did our twice weekly walk at the riverside bike/hike trail. It’s something we’ve been doing for a couple of months now. Our four Littles are used to it, even if they don’t always enjoy every moment. We’ve cobbled together a combination of scooters and strollers, snacks and water bottles, wet wipes and even a first aid kit. It works for us most days.
Even with all the supplies we bring, that there are always a few places on the walk when someone isn’t happy. Everyone has their moments, but usually, it is Six. He doesn’t like any situation where he isn’t in control, and he knows if he slows way down or refuses to continue, we have no choice but to either wait for him or try to cajole him into some alternative – whether it’s walking a little further, going a little faster, riding in a stroller for a bit, or taking a piggyback ride.
This particular time, he was at it again. We were very near the parking area after an especially long walk – we’d gone further down the trail than we ever had before, and all the kids were tired.
Six was fed up with walking and stopped off on the side of the trail and refused to go any further. If we weren’t in sight of the end of the trail, we would be around the next corner. Two bikers loaded down with gear bore down the path, riding side by side. One of them spoke loudly as he approached us where we walked, a hundred feet or so in front of Six on the trail.
I was working myself up to writing about shame when my three-year-old, Six, came in the house howling. He was covered in dirt, with the epicenter somewhere near his face. I heaved him up over the edge of the kitchen sink, trying to rinse the dirt out of his eyes, but quickly realized a more extreme approach would be called for.
Taking him under my arm in a football hold, I charged into the bathroom and started the water running while Six screamed, begging me not to use the sprayer. But this was a job for the sprayer. A bath just wasn’t going to do it. His scalp was covered in dirt, and it was stuck to his neck and all over his face. Five did it, he claimed angrily.
I soaped him up and came after him with the sprayer, trying to avoid his face. Six is a fan of only one type of bathing – the type that doesn’t involve getting his face or hair wet. I braced myself, and his screaming reached a crescendo.
