There are a few things I won’t compromise: lighting, mood music, an airplane conversation with strangers, wine, and apparently a rocking chair. 

Sitting in a corner of the family room, Adele is snuggled aggressively and appropriately in my lap. My foot is perfectly propped in the front window looking out to the street, at my erratic Christmas light-adorned spruce tree (I love her). Khraughbin is playing on repeat. While the puppy is snoring, Willie’s watchful eye makes me feel comfortable being the solo parent in the house, with my glass of red wine proudly poured in a wedding glass that we never use. Baby is sound asleep upstairs, mindfully watched by our overly big brother-esk monitor. 

I love this rocking chair, in this corner. 

Nobody puts baby in a corner. Says who?

The rocking chair, the corner, the mood. It’s bringing a visceral joy I didn’t know. An exhale, among chaos. A chaos that is welcomed. A welcomed slow down in the small moments, despite the routine. 

We went to dinner tonight. B and me. Solo. 

Michael’s on a well-deserved, although protested, guy’s snow escape. Part my doing, to bestow a ski getaway and Dad responsibility relinquishing; part Jonas, being an awesome friend, brother, and adventurer, all the same. 

We miss Dad. Mikey, my penguin love. Nonetheless, baby and I did have an awesome time at dinner. 

The line was terribly long. The decision to stay was wavering halfway through. And then, we committed. Together.

We hung out, explored, stayed in our area, made friends. We were even recognized by friends of friends (!). It was a celebrity sighting meets “Raising Bebe” French mom outing goals. And yet, we didn’t give a fuck what anyone else thought. We were in our own little world. Our date. Our time. 

We ordered caprese salad, two different raviolis (off the adult menu), and not two, but four meatballs on the side. Ample bread, ice water, plates, and Mom’s glass of Sauvignon B arrived in excellent timing with baby’s highchair (god bless). To-go boxes became hide and seek, salt and pepper shakers were instruments, and neighboring tables became onlooking elderly reminiscence parents (as their daughter sat glued to her phone and they evaluated the difference between the Peloton bike vs treadmill exercises). 

We had a date. It was us. You grabbed the legs of the two women waiting in line in front of you, exploring the area, losing a shoe in the process. I smiled at the counter, offering to take a single bar stool to speed up the line for everyone else, despite being hungry as fuck. Did I want the process to move? Yes. Did I enjoy the slow moments? Um yes. Did I still feel like someone was watching us over my shoulder like a ticking time bomb? Sure. Is that motherhood in America to a tee? Absolutely. Damn. 

We had a date. You know, the type when you forget everything around you and find yourself only smiling, losing ourselves in each other's eyes… once we were seated. You fed me bread, I offered my burrata (a coveted piece of the dinner). You made a joke with the to-go box, playing peek-a-boo (or was that flirting hard to get?). I laughed a belly laugh I haven’t in a while. 

You took off your sock, threw a piece of tomato, and inappropriately laughed out loud. What’s inappropriate? There were no rules. Just us. Just now. 

“Was that your stroller?” 

“Did you leave your baby in there?” 

“I’m surprised it didn’t get stolen.”

“Moms look at me with pity when she has a tantrum.”

Woah. 

Five minutes out the door, with our doggy-boxes in tow (aka your peek-a-boo machine mask), and… woah. Braided by a couple sweet old (out of touch) women walking towards our stroller parked outside the restaurant door. Another mom tried playing empathy, and it came out as vindictive. 

“How could you leave that outside?”

What? This equipment? This stroller? The thing I truck around to get my toddler from point A to point B because he’s become too heavy to carry, too heavy to cuddle the way I loved, the way I used to? (Please don’t make me cry). How did I leave it out here? Hm. Like this. 

Immediately, I reflected on the Netherlands. Strollers, wagons, bikes, everything parked in the streets, in the community. Kids playing in puddles, walking in parks. It’s raining. The teachers are watching from afar. The playgrounds are full, the kids run, walk, run again, laugh, cry, laugh again, maybe cry again for good measure. On their own. Am I writing with reflective rose-colored glasses? Of course. Did it still mean something to witness? To see a way of life, where, “No bitch, my stroller’s not going to get stolen. And if it does, karma on them.” Yes. It was magical.  

To jump in puddles. Without a care in the world. Raincoat, body raincoat, plus rain boots… allowing the wetness to joyfully permeate, but not enough to make you cold. Ya. I’d like that. 

I wear my pounamu stone from New Zealand around my neck every day. I even got it reinforced with a gold chain when Brooks started gnawing on it for comfort. I asked someone for their expert option on how to reinforce the stone so he won’t choke, seeing as they were a jeweler. Her response: “Well, you shouldn’t let him do that.” Hey thanks, that’s not what I asked. 

The necklace layers another necklace: a small gold pendant choker. It’s one of those ones where if it falls off, your wish comes true. I’m a sucker for those. One of them already fell off, with my original wish. It stopped me in my tracks. I laughed in excitement, glee, and false hope. 

We’re not pregnant yet with that spirit love. But, I know we will be. 

In the meantime, I got another wish necklace. It feels like it’s choking me. And yet, I can’t, won’t, take it off. What does that mean about me?

Exhale. Stop. Sip. Snuggle. Adele snores. Willie sighs. Ahh. The lights are still twinkling. “Humankind. Be both.” 

The Netherlands: we felt moments. It wasn’t a historical lesson on the Cordesius-Sloots family tree. It was feelings, experiences, verbs, adjectives. 

Aukje welcomed us into her home, wide timid arms, accent and smile exactly like Oma’s. I was not prepared. She was too similar, too real, too alive. Oma lived on, through her, through my cousins, through her sons. It was unparalleled. After the initial shock, grounding down in her beautifully hoarded home with trinkets and treasures, Jenna and I started a conversation. It never went to small chat. It was immediately feelings. Memories. Distinct memories, moments, honesty, warmth, and mischief. 

As niece and aunt, Oma and Aukje were peas in a pod, kindred spirits, questioning and going against authority (as a teacher Oma to Aukje, or Oma leaving her family household and immigrating). Biking on the back of bikes, visiting Delft University, asking for banana ice cream knowing it wasn’t offered. These were the moments, the distinct feelings, memories. 

Hearing this, absorbing every word, wishing the conversation wouldn’t end, I couldn’t help think: What will ours be? The moment. The memories. The feelings. The verbs and adjectives. 

There are a few things I won’t compromise: lighting, mood music, an airplane conversation with strangers, wine, and apparently a rocking chair.