The Tale of the Mysterious Cameroonian Housekeeper:

(WARNING: very long post. no pictures. read at your own risk.)

It's no secret that I have been a little overwhelmed with my responsibilities here and as such, I made it a top priority to find some domestic help STAT. I set about looking for the world's perfect domestic helper, one who excelled at both housecleaning and childcare and who could speak both French and English fluently. I secretly hoped she might also be very likable and could double as "my friend," but that's another story entirely.

Knowing little about how such people are located here, I went to our trusty "xpats.com," which is a kind of craigslist for expatriates living in Brussels. It's an amazing resource and I found many ads for women (and men) looking for just the kind of job I was offering. I quickly set about emailing all of them (literally), hoping to found one I liked. I got a few responses, not as many as I'd hoped, but a few was enough to find "Anny."

Anny and I corresponded over several emails. I learned that she was young, 26, and she was originally from Cameroon. She had loads of experience "child-minding" and cleaning and she also "loved to iron" (huh? really? okay.) Her written English was superb. It was very, very formal, yet instilled a sense of total calm. I felt her words formed a warm embrace around me and said, "I will save you. I will make your life livable. I will coddle your children, iron your bed-linens, cook along side you and sing haunting, west African lullabies all the while." She seemed perfect.

We set a date to meet: 6:30PM last Monday evening. I was so excited. I had found the solution to all my problems: out of control children, disaster of a house, wrinkled duvet covers, lonesomeness. I spent all of Monday preparing the house (weird, I know) and setting the stage. I wanted to say, "We need you, Anny, but we're not totally out of control." I lit candles. I dressed the children. I coached Stefan. Then, we waited. And waited. 6:30 came and went. 7:00 came and went. I scratched my head and defended her to Stef, "Perhaps, she's gotten lost. She's never been here before after all." Right. 7:15 arrived and I decided to call her, "Anny? It's Devon. Just wondering... are you still planning to come... I hope?" Her creamy, smooth French/African voice sang, "Yes, Devon. I am just getting off the bus. Should be there momentarily."

She arrived at 7:45. It was admittedly sort of ridiculous to be over an hour late to a job interview, but it's ridiculousness sort of made it all right. I was also very desperate. The interview went well. She had a strong maternal presence despite having had no children of her own. She had gentle eyes and a soft voice. She was confident in her interactions with the girls. She answered our questions thoughtfully, if not a little bashfully. She was willing and eager to do all the things we asked and ready to start immediately. Phew. Fabulous. We left it that she would start on Wednesday, as long as her references came in and were up to snuff. They were. Well, it was.

I sent emails to the three references she gave me and I got one back in response. It was glowing and included passages such as this:

"With regard to the quality of her work, one word summarises her output- superb! She tended to the general cleaning and tidying up of the house and that she did remarkably well! With respect to childcare, she cared for our kids as she would her own-- with sheer kindness and affection. The kids simply loved her, and would mimic and sing the new songs she taught them."

And also:

"Besides, she was punctual, and incidents of timing or lateness were very uncommon."

To summarize, these people, for whom she worked for two years, thought she was the second coming. They adored her and had nothing but extraordinarily good things to say about her. Additionally, the woman mentioned timeliness, which had obviously already become a concern, so I felt like this was as good as I was going to do with absolutely nothing to go on. She seemed great. She said all the right things. She seemed like a good fit. And most importantly, Adela seemed to like her immediately. So, I wrote an email and said, as I had mentioned at our first meeting, that I would like her to start on Wednesday morning, at 9AM.

Tuesday night, before I went to bed, I checked my email for a final time and she hadn't written back. Then on Wednesday morning, I hadn't heard from her still, so I called her and asked her if she intended to come. She claimed had only just seen my email, but would love to come work for us and she would head right over. She would be here at 11AM.

At noon, she came and she made no apologies. Okay. No problem. She hadn't expected to come, but she made it. And she got right to work and began cleaning. And she cleaned and cleaned and cleaned. I was very ill. We were all quite ill, but she cleaned around us... for 8 hours. Much longer than I had asked her to and much longer than anyone would have expected her to. So sick was I that I just kind of let it happen and enjoyed the sounds of the vacuum and mop downstairs. Finally, Stefan suggested that she leave and go home. She had done enough for the day and could finish on Friday when she came. She left us with a mammoth list of supplies that she needed to "do a proper job," and left. We agreed she would come back on Friday and that I would email her the time.

The next day, I wrote to her asking her to come at 1PM and thanking her for her hard work the day before. She wrote back and said she would come at 1PM and thanked me for thanking her.

Friday at 1PM came and she didn't show. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. By 3PM, I started to worry about her. The weather was bad. It was icy and snowy and Anny, well, Anny is a very large young woman, so I was imagining that she'd taken a bad fall along the way or some other horrible scenario. After all, it would have to be very bad for her not to even call me from her cell phone to explain her absence. I had long since forgotten all the things I needed her to do and was more worried about her well being.

At 3:30PM, I got a message. It read,

"Dear Devon, I'm deeply sorry I couldn't make it today as earlier agreed, due to my failing health. Worse still, I couldn't send you a mail notifying you about my impending absence (lack of internet connection). I've been bed-ridden the earlier part of the day. Hoping to regain health and vitality back quick enough. Please, accept my most profound apologies for every inconvenience inflicted upon you and your family as a result of my poor health. I'm awfully sorry. Whilst counting on your kind consideration, Regards Anny"

Hmph.

Now, I ask you, friends and followers, what would you have done? Every instinct I had told me to cut and run… immediately. In this day and age of instant communication, there’s really no excuse for the old “no show, no call,” and in any formal workplace, there would have been nary a second thought. But there is this nagging part of me that still isn’t sure that my immediate dismissal of poor Anny wasn’t just a bit too harsh. Of course, we probably gave her the illness that kept her from coming to work. And I have no idea what her circumstances are at home. So, I feel a little bad and a little sad about the whole thing. Mostly, I just think it’s all a bit weird and when it comes to choosing the people who will help care for your children, weird is something that we all try to avoid at all costs. So, I explained that I need someone I can count on unconditionally and that her not calling to let me know was simply unacceptable and the end of this very long tale is that Anny’s gone and my house is still a mess, my children are still overwhelming and I am still a little lonely... but, just a little. Life has improved immensely. More on that tomorrow.

My Dramatic Turn-around:

Admittedly, my last post was pretty bleak. Perhaps even more so than I intended. When we got here and Stef immediately went to work before we'd had a chance to iron out the kinks in this life, I felt bewildered (I still do to a large extent). Taking care of two babies, 2 and 9 months respectively, along with two dogs and a four bedroom house all alone is very, very difficult. Add to that the unfamiliar city, the lack of being able to communicate with the locals and having NO ONE to talk to or lean on, was a recipe for disaster. I fell apart. I am a little ashamed of myself. I am feeling a lot more normal now. Here's why:

This weekend, we walked all over our neighborhood and beyond. I made some incredible discoveries. In addition to our gigantic park, where dogs and children are encouraged to run free (pictured below after a recent snow storm), there's a huge gourmet market called Rob within a reasonable walking distance.


We also found a fancy European Mall and a cultural center, as well as a nifty, little place called "Cook and Book," which is a combination book store, art gallery, restaurant and library kind of place. Crazy cool, right?

We also went to three, yes three, embassy Christmas parties. All of which yielded a few, like-minded trailing spouses. On Friday, we went to the Embassy Children's Christmas party for a failed visit with Santa. Then on Saturday, we went to a reception at the Deputy Chief of Mission's gorgeous home. And finally, last night, we had chili and fritos with some of our contemporaries at the embassy (one of whom took me to Cora, Brussels' answer to Target, where I bought an incredible Bosch vaccum cleaner that may have played the biggest part in my attitude adjustment).

Here's Addy on the stairs at the embassy, post-Christmas Party:


And of course, a holiday weekend in Brussels wouldn't be complete without a stop at one of the city's many, many Christmas markets (pictured here):


And just so you know that I am really quite a bit happier and better adjusted, here's a picture of Stefan and me on one of our many walks around town:

Week One:

It's been one week since we arrived in Belgium and so much has happened, it's hard to know where to begin. First of all, I know that pictures are in order and I promise, I am working on that. I promise.

In the meantime, I have to purge some of this weight that is building. Everyday that passes here, I feel heavier with new information and more overwhelmed by the scope of my changing perspective. What I have discovered is that while I absolutely love Brussels and I absolutely love our house and our neighborhood, this type of transition is very, very hard. The challenges are so many that it's difficult to even pinpoint each of them in a way that makes it possible to resolve it.

Of course, there are the obvious challenges. Our household goods haven't arrived and the "welcome kit" is laughable. Yes, there are sheets, but they are hard and coarse. Yes, there are plates and bowls and drinking cups, but there are only four of each, so they have to be washed immediately after each use and forget about adding a fifth to your dinner table. The same is true of the towels. When someone did the blog round-up with the theme, "What I wish I packed in my UAB," I had nothing to contribute, but boy do I now! I think I would have packed: one small piece of artwork to hang in our home, perhaps a few extra drinking glasses, definitely some wine glasses and some sheets of our own. A sampling of home. A few things that make me feel like I am home, because for now, I am in this weird in-between home with naked walls and cold, uncovered floors. My children are so sick and tired of the same toys they've been playing with for the last month, they look at them with nothing short of contempt.

I have my issues with the inside of my new home, which I really believe will all be resolved when that shipment arrives. I know I am very, very, very lucky because I think we might get it before Christmas, making it a 6 week process. There are many other families in the Foreign Service who aen't so lucky and to them I strongly suggest bringing some "pieces of home" either in the luggage you carry or in the UAB that will arrive sooner. But then there are issues outside of the house that are arguably even more challenging. One, I was told by so many people that I shouldn't worry too much about learning French before getting here because, "everyone speaks English." While that might be true in the professional environment, it doesn't seem to be true of the people with whom I do most of my interacting. The sales clerks, our neighbors, the people I pass on the street while walking the dogs, none of them seem to speak english, which makes my days long and very lonesome. I can't wait to start French class in January (of course, this will only help with half of the city's population because the other half proudly speaks Dutch.)

I would be lying if I didn't mention the toll this has all taken on my marriage. I am finding that we are on separate fronts this last week, both fighting our own, separate battles each day, but occasionally taking a moment to fire at eachother. I was once told by someone who grew up in the FS, that Foreign Service marriages either thrive or explode into a million sad little peices. I am always thinking about this statement. I find myself, for better or worse, viewing the marriages around us under the same lens. Will THEY thrive or explode? Will WE thrive or explode? Will all this travel and transition make us stronger or drive us apart, resentment having built past the point of no return? I don't care how you spin it, this life comes down to a few simple facts. With all the excitement and diversity of experience, comes the reality that all members of a FS family give up their freedom to choose the physical path their lives will take. The Officer gives up his/her freedom in exchange for the career of his/her choice. The rest of the family gives it up for both the unconditional love of the Officer and for the security and lifestyle the job affords. Inevitably, there is some resentment.

When Stefan walks out the door each morning here in Brussels, he goes to a place where everyone speaks English. He is surrounded by interesting information and all the resources he needs to be a success (at least in his job). He also had language training, so he speaks French, if not perfectly, well enough to do absolutely everything he needs to do a daily basis, including talk to people who both inspire and interest him. On the other hand, I am left behind, trying to raise two small children in a home without carpets, in a city where nothing is familiar or easily attainable; where I can't even order a cup of coffee without being overrun by self-doubt. I know it probably seems trivial to lament these things when you consider all the beauty and intrigue this city and its location have to offer, but it's still very hard and it's hard not to lash out at the person closest to you when you're feeling this utterly fragile.

I promise tomorrow will be lighter and I will post little words and many pictures of our house, our neighborhood and all the things I see day to day.

P.S. I apologize for what I am sure are many misspellings in this post. I can't seem to change the language on Blogger from Dutch to English! Once again, foiled by my lack of understanding of the local languages!

Bon Jour Bruxelles!

We made it. It wasn't easy, but we did it. And somehow, against all odds, it's 7AM and the kids and dogs are still sleeping. Stefan is in the shower, getting ready for work and it's almost like nothing has changed. Almost...

Arriving at JFK on Monday afternoon, we had 11 bags, two dogs, two babies, two giant dog crates, a double-wide stroller, three adoring grandparents and a lot of nerves. We arrived with what we thought was a comfortable 3 hours early for our flight, but by the time we'd checked the dogs and our bags in, said goodbye to the grandparents, made our way through security and had a beer in the "lounge" (Stefan accumulated "platinum status" thanks to his previous job), the plane was boarding. In true Whitney-fashion, we still had to run for the plane and were the last to board.

The flight itself was brutal, but could have been much worse. It could have easily been twice as long, so I am counting my lucky stars. After about 2 hours of excited babbling, Flora fell asleep and stayed so until we landed. Adela on the other hand, slept nary a wink and vomited all over herself and her car seat about an hour before we landed, forcing us and the flight crew to scramble to find cleaning supplies and something to supress the characteristic odor. I had a lovely French-speaking gentleman tap me on the shoulder in the midst of her embarrassed sobbing to alert me that "it is quite unusual for a child to cry so much, no?" I wanted to jump over the seat and throttle his tidy, European neck.

There was very little turbulence and that was a blessed good thing because every time the plane so much as leaned too much in one direction or another, I found my heart in my stomach thinking of our nervous, four-legged family members down below. When we forced Otis into his crate at the airport, he was terrified-- panting and looking wild-eyed and vulnerable. Rudi seemed perfectly at ease, but had the fear of his previous life to contend with. It was with much reluctance that we said goodbye after security at JFK. Thinking of them in the belly of the plane throughout the 8-hour flight was arguably worse than cleaning the toddler-vomit from the crevices in Addy's car seat.

All the anxiety was for naught because despite a very long wait upon arrival in Brussels, Otis and Rudi seemed less nervous than when we'd left them. They were happy to see us, happy to get out of their kennels and as relieved as we were . They were perfectly fine and still are, 24 hours later. I have no regrets at all about bringing them with us. Stefan and I are still most amused that our dogs are now in Belgium. How funny.

We were picked up by one of Stef's colleagues, who was lovely and informative, but who laughed when were told her we expected our cable and internet to be set up at our house when we got there and that we expected to receive our household effects in time for Christmas. Despite her considerable skepticism, I remain hopeful.

Our house is lovely-- spacious and clean and everything we hoped it would be. Our neighborhood is sleepy, but charming. There's a small square two blocks away with a large grocery store, a butcher, a bakery, a small gourmet shop, a dry cleaner, a gas station, and a book store. We have several playgrounds, or pleins du jeux, within walking distance as well.

All things considered, we are very happy to be here and very happy with our home. I look forward to venturing out today with the girls and the dogs to see what else the commune of Woluwe St. Pierre has to offer.

And for those we are interested, the State Department furniture is just as bad as we'd feared. So, I am glad I insisted on bringing as much stuff as we did. It's going to take an awful lot of decorative savvy to overcome the "scrolly knobs" and stylized upholstery.

The Final Days...

Wow. It's been a really wild few days... er, weeks. We've been ticking off one item at a time from our "to-do" list, the vast majority of which seems to somehow involve the dogs. I have been at some type of veterinary establishment for each of the last three days, compiling Otis and Rudi's medical records and mounting proof that they are indeed Rabies free and fit for travel. Today's trip to the USDA in Annapolis was (hopefully) the final step. The tricky part of transporting dogs is that none of the paperwork is valid unless it's done within 10 days of travel, so no matter how organized and proactive you are, there's no way to really prepare ahead of time, with the considerable exception of knowing exactly what you have to do beforehand.

So, all of our stuff has been shipped and by all accounts is on a freighter somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Our car was picked up today and will be loaded onto another ship on Friday. Our newly purchased luggage has arrived and is sitting, across the living room, staring at me, wondering when I am going to fill it up (gosh, I hope all that remains will fit!!!) It seems like everything is in order. There are still a few items on that "to-do" list, but nothing insurmountable-- just little things like buying a weather guard for our double BoB stroller and doing a couple of loads of laundry.

In five days, Stefan, Adela, Flora, Otis, Rudi and I will board a plane, bound for Brussels, Belgium. It is a fact that I have no way of processing in advance. I feel sudden moments of electrifying excitement. I feel utterly exhilarated by all the unknowns. I can't wait to see our house. I can't wait to take my first walk around our neighborhood. I dream of the local restaurant that will soon become "ours" on the nights I don't feel up to cooking. I can't wait to ingratiate myself to the local butcher, baker and candlestick maker! I want to make the most of every minute that we live in Brussels because if the last 7 months is any indication, time is going to go by terrifyingly fast.

I do feel very blessed that our first post is one in Western Europe. While it might have been nice to be in a more affordable place, where babysitters and household help would be within our reach, I think the undeniable comfort of Europe and the excitement surrounding it is just what we need right now as a family. We've had a tough few years. My mother is very ill, as I've recently described. My father is arguably more ill, as he is a terrible alcoholic who seems to have reached rock bottom in the last year (let's hope) and has done everything in his power to bring the rest of us down with him. Subsequently, he and my stepmother are splitting up and that is proving to be as ugly and painful as it was the first time around for me. In addition, Stefan's mother suffers from Alzheimer's, the most tragic disease of all and one that requires all of his father's attention and patience.

All of this has happened as we have been building our own family, trying to become whole and grown-up. With every joy we've experienced in the last two years, it seems some hidden challenge jumps out from a closet to threaten that happiness. It has been said that God gives you just as much as you can handle. While I am not entirely sure about the "god" part, I do feel as though the universe posted us to just the right place, a place where we can be comfy, cozy and free to focus on being our best selves. I look forward to that, more than anything.

And on that note, here are two recent pictures of our girls. Addy is talking-- stringing together sentence after sentence. Flora is crawling and knows the meaning of "mama" and "dada." Her little mouth is rapidly filling with super sharp teeth and she's growing up way too fast for my taste.

Adela, 2 years:

Flora, 8 months:

The House of a Thousand Couches/Packout Part Deux

Ooooops, guess I misunderstood the housing manual. I thought it said that we had one opportunity to tell them which furniture we didn't want. I was wrong. That opportunity is rare and well, they are going to provide full sets of living room, dining room, family room and bedroom furniture. Unfortunately, I packed TWO sectional couches, one a monstrous three piece and the other, a small two piece I intended to use in the playroom. I was thinking that I didn't want to sit on an uncomfortable, government-issued couch for two years and we had plenty of room in our shipment. As it turns out, they are currently unwilling to even consider the possibility of removing the two full-size sofas, love seat and two easy chairs from our furniture inventory (there's currently no furniture in the house because it's a newly acquired property). On the plus side, we will have plenty of seating should we choose to throw any massive house parties. On the other hand, we're going to be walking across couches to get to and from the kitchen and bathrooms. Oye. I am such an amateur.

So, yeah, the pack-out was yesterday and I think the biggest snafu was the one I just described. I stupidly assumed that they would actually be pleased if we told them not to move in the couches. I don't know. Bureaucracy is so unpredictable and often, irrational. I really hope they take pity on us when they see the embarrassment of couches at our house.

We also cut it impossibly close with our weight limit. I think we just made it with 4 lbs. to spare. We brought A LOT of stuff and here's why: when we did our initial pack-out in NJ, I was still recovering from childbirth and Flora (henceforth called "FiFi," because that's what we call her at home) was only 8 weeks old. Addy was at her most irrational and it seemed impossible to spend the necessary time organizing our things. So, we have no idea where things ended up and those tattooed packers did NOT inspire confidence. We thought by bringing just about everything, we'd be able to do a better job next time. That said, there's not much room to expand, so we're hoping to purge quite a bit of stuff while in Europe.

All in all, It's really nice to have that part over with. The Oakwood apartment is no longer cluttered and feels like it could be any one's. There's nothing "Whitney" about it. Just a wash of beige and dark maple.

2 1/2 weeks and we'll be in Brussels. The waiting is quickly coming to an end. I am carrying the weight of a thousand and one emotions. Sad to be leaving my family and friends, but elated by the possibilities and opportunities for reinvention. It's a wonderful, challenging, overwhelming journey and we are just at the beginning.

The Incredible Flying Labradudes

I have come to realize that when it comes to dogs in the foreign service, there are two schools of thought. There are those who have the "my dogs go where I go" attitude and then there's the "this is not a good life for a dog" folks. Unfortunately, I've noticed, that many people who have the former attitude are new to the FS, while those who think dogs are best left stateside are seasoned officers. This is a total generalization. In fact, we have a friendly neighbor, a 25-year veteran of the service, who dotes on his petite female Lab with as much dedication as any landlubber would. But in fairness, he seems to be an exception.

As anyone who has kept up with my blog knows, we have two, large Labrador Retrievers. Otis, the elder statesman of the two, celebrated his 12th year over the weekend. Retrievers have an unfortunate average lifespan of 10-12 years. But this an average, which takes into account all the fluky passings of much younger dogs from heart attacks, strokes, and defects of other varieties. This reminds me of our recently departed friend, Mac, who was taken last month by a large tumor on his heart. He was only 9 and his death was unfair. It was also exceptional. MOST retrievers live well into the double digits, as Otis father proved by living to an energetic 16 years!

Now to the heart of the matter: We are flying to Brussels in less than 4 weeks and we have, just today, begun to get very serious about preparing our pooches for the flight. It has me thinking a lot about the impact this is going to have on my old pal. If you has asked me even three years ago if I would be willing to put him in a crate and fly him for 9 hours, I would have said, "absolutely not. We'll drive... or take a boat... or anything other than that!" But, now, our very livelihood depends on flying to foreign countries and Brussels is a very canine friendly place. There isn't really a choice... except that I could leave the old guy with my mother, which is completely uncharacteristic of me. I have never gone anywhere without him.

But, I am definitely agonizing over this. I am definitely imagining all the worst case scenarios. He's very sensitive and easily agitated and he's utterly co-dependent, so no matter how you slice it, the flight itself is going to be torture for him. The real question is: after the flight is over, will he be okay and back to his old self? Will he suffer any long-term emotional damage? (You're probably wondering why I am not worried about Rudi. He's a rescue dog and has been through far worse. He's also kind of a silly bone-head. I have total confidence he'll come out the baggage hold wagging his tail, with the same goofy look on his face. He's also 6.) Ugh. I have said it before and I am going to say it again, having the dogs is the toughest part of all of this and it was the biggest obstacle to my agreeing to do it. Now, here we are and I really hope it's all just going to be okay...

Shameless Self-Promotion and Holy Shi@, it's time to Pack!

Well, I am proud to report that I am keeping up a Halloween tradition started by my mother when I was a child. It's the one where the mother works tirelessly to construct a handmade costume for a child who will have no idea the amount of work that went into it until she has children of her own. It's taken 33 years, but now I understand the blood, sweat and tears that my mother put into all the amazing costumes she made for me as a child. I also understand the extreme pride she must have felt as I walked around in those costumes. I was so proud of Adela and of course, myself, when she wore this Madame Butterfly costume around the halls of the Oakwood, collecting candy of all varieties (much to her shock and amazement):

Holidays are so much more fun when you have children to celebrate with. Seeing Adela's uninhibited joy was as powerful as anything I have ever experienced. Christmas is going to be SO FUN!

In unrelated news, we have officially scheduled our pack-out. We decided to do it earlier than we had originally thought because we want our things to arrive in time for the big family Christmas we have planned in Belgium and because without all the stuff that has completely taken over our Oakwood apartment, it will be easy to move to another unit that isn't quite so surrounded by construction noise. Seriously, I know there are many who are suffering at the hands of this renovation, but we are one apartment literally surrounded by apartments (above and to each side) that are under construction. I feel like I am living an episode of "Candid Camera." Just when I think it couldn't get any more ridiculous, I hear a drill coming straight for my head from the ceiling above my bed. At this point, all I can do is laugh-- it's just too unbelievable that they would leave us in such a state...

So, our HHE is going to get packed out from the Oakwood in a week and I am nowhere near ready. It's time to get down to business. I want to mention that we have a surplus of baby toys and clothes that we will probably toss into the garbage if no one else wants them. Is there anyone out there reading this who would like some high-fashion infant clothes and toys that suit the 0-12 month set? If so, please let me know and I will get them to you!

I swear I am going to a better job at organizing this packout than I did for the last one. I mean, my father-in-law made the joke that the movers might have packed "dirty pampers" the last time, and now, seven months later, I am not entirely sure that our stuff is going to arrive in Brussels without the distinctive smell of a 8-month old, soiled diaper. It was that bad...

As I have mentioned in the past, this kind of organization and preparation is not my strong suit, so wish me luck as I enter into this next phase of transition.

P.S. After rereading this post, I have to clarify that we would never simply throw perfectly good clothes and toys into the GARBAGE! We will, of course, donate them all if no friends or family are interested.

HOME SWEET/SOUR HOME!!!!

There's good and bad in this post. I am going to start with the bad.

I hate the Oakwood. There, I said it. I know I am supposed to grateful and, um, diplomatic as per my husband's request, but I can't keep it in anymore. I have been grateful and diplomatic for almost 7 months and what have I gotten in return? I have been ignored, mistreated and then ignored some more. So, Oakwood, there you have it, I HATE you!

I hate you for your lack of charm. I hate you for your abysmal customer service standards. I hate you for the fact that you happen to be completely under-construction and my children haven't napped on a weekday for the last three weeks. I hate you for never so much as offering an apology for aforementioned construction. I hate you for all the calls I've made and gotten no response. I hate you for dangling the carrot of moving us to a renovated unit without construction noise and then never getting back to me give me further information one way or another. I hate you for leaving me, a chef, with a broken electric range. I hate you for choosing DISH network as a cable provider because it loses its signal at every climax. I hate you for making me use a code every time I log on to the internet and for letting me load an entire jumbo size dryer full of wet baby clothes and not telling me that IT'S OUT OF SERVICE! Ugh. I could go on, but I won't. Oh, there is one other thing: the goddamned vegetable peeler! Come on.

The good news: I have just over a month of suffering to go and then we are off to our new HOUSE in Woluwe-Saint-Pierre, a beautiful French-speaking commune in the heart of Brussels. Yes, the wait is over. The housing folks finally located a beautiful, little house for us and we couldn't be happier. There's a lesson here for new Foreign Service folks: if at first, your housing option makes you want to kill yourself, ask for another option. Chances are they will try to make you happy. In our case, they found what amounts to a perfect situation for us. It has four bedrooms so we all have our own room, plus a room for guests, which I anticipate needing frequently (hint, hint, nudge, nudge). There's a garden for us all to play in (girls), garden in (me), and lay about in (furry ones). There's a garage for our car, a nicely-appointed kitchen, and a separate playroom for all the toys and kid-related clutter. It's a dream, really. I am so happy and grateful to be leaving this hell-hole and going to a place that feels like a home!

Occupation: Mother?

I love my kids. I love being a mother. There has never been anything more fulfilling. I have a sense of purpose, really, for the first time in my life.

But I have a hang up. When I fill out paperwork that requires me to list my occupation, I always dutifully write: Mother. And there's no better occupation. I am proud and incredibly grateful that I am currently a full-time, stay-at-home mommy. But, there's the lingering reality that in the not too distant future, my girls are going to go off to school and will only need my physical presence before 8AM and after 3PM. I don't want to lose sight of this reality because if I don't stay focused on who I am independently of them, I could end up bored and even more purposeless than I was before I had these children of mine. Of course, me being me, I spend the time that I should be singularly focused on child-rearing, worrying about what I am going to do to fill my time when I am no longer child-rearing. Such is the plight of the neurotic.

I have cooked up an idea (pun intended) that I hope will serve to fill in the gaps while we are pursuing Stef's dream career. I am, by training, a chef. I graduated from the California Culinary Academy in 2003 and have worked on and off as a chef for the last 7 years, the most significant "job" being the one where I ran a catering business in San Francisco. I know many would dispute the "cheffiness" of this job. I wasn't running a robust, professional restaurant kitchen. I was running a ramshackle business out of my own kitchen-- cooking for anywhere from 8 to 300 people. The only full-time employee was me. The rest were hourly workers, mostly friends, who were able and patient enough to deal with the long hours and unconventional setting, not to mention my own questionable brand of organization-- handwritten lists on greasy paper towels and post-it notes on everything from the fridge to the range hood. It was crazy, but incredibly fun and rewarding. It required a specific type of focus and quick thinking, in addition to a lot of creativity.

But alas, I reached a point when I had to either "man-up" and get a professional kitchen or flee the business all together. My crippling fear of failure sent me fleeing to the world of marketing, copy-writing and event planning where there was little risk of failing and no hard-core personal investment. I don't regret it, though. If I had jumped headlong into business ownership, I wouldn't be here... I might not even be married to Stefan and then, I wouldn't have Addy or Flora. Everything happens for a reason, right?

So, now, here we are. We are heading to Brussels at the end of next month. My oldest daughter is approaching the age where preschool makes sense (god-willing she's potty-trained sometime in the next year). And my youngest daughter is not far behind. It's reasonable to think that this time next year, I will suddenly have a lot more time on my hands. Having taken a pretty major hiatus, I am now ready to return to cooking, in some shape. Trouble is: working in a restaurant usually means leaving your family (and any social life you may have) in the dust. Long, odd hours on the weekends and in the evenings are not well-suited to successfully raising a family. So, I am in the midst of considering how to combine two occupations, which are indisputably at odds with each other: cooking professionally and being a dedicated mother.

Until we get to Brussels and get settled in and I truly explore my options, I have nothing to do but "consider" the possibilities. So, for now, I am still a mommy and I am up to my elbows in Halloween costume construction (Adela's "half-cooked" Butterfly costume is pictured below).

The Birthday Present I DIDN'T Get and A Helpful Tip for Staying in New York City:

For some reason, I thought the Gods were going to shine down last week and force the housing person's hand in Brussels... to send an email to my husband... telling us where we are going to LIVE for the next two years. But, that didn't happen.

As I have done before, I am going to have to ask for a pass because I am naive and new to this whole process. I am just not accustomed to having so little control over my own life. I feel like I am a fish out of water... with no fishbowl in sight. Of all the things I anticipated being problematic for me, this one is proving to be the most so. I need something to hold onto, especially since I have completely lost patience with the Oakwood and I am really hoping that our next "home" is a nicer, roomier and less "under construction" kind of place.

There are things that those of us in the Foreign Service come to see as "acceptable" that people in the outside world would find impossible and astounding. I think not knowing where exactly you will be living until a few days before you arrive is one of those things. Yeargh. I am sure everything will be fine and that we will end up in a place that is completely adequate, but it's just plain weird to play a passive role in all of this. This is especially true for me-- someone who reads the Real Estate section of the newspaper with a microscope and fantasizes endlessly about the home I will someday own. Even when we've rented apartments in the past, I have taken such care to imagine where the furniture will go, what plants I will grow, how I will lay out the kitchen to its best advantage. I want desperately to be able to think about our new home in Brussels in this way.

I am hoping that writing this blog will spur some kind of celestial action...

Moving on, we went to the NYC area this weekend to celebrate my mother in law's birthday. We decided a month or so ago that given the size of our family, we needed to get a hotel room. The party being in Brooklyn, we tried first to find a hotel there, but were met with one figurative "no vacancy" sign after another. There was some event in Brooklyn that had claimed every room. Of course, Manhattan hotel rooms are completely out of reach for an entry-level Foreign Service family. Having moved to Falls Church, VA from suburban NJ (yet another fiscal compromise!), I had an idea: a brand new W Hotel opened in Hoboken last year and the room rates were reasonable and the proximity to the city unbeatable.

This was our view during the day:


And this was our view at night:


And this was the view of a local t-shirt shop:

I didn't say it was without compromise, but they were well worth it. We had an incredible suite with an incredible view (as evidenced above) and we were just minutes from Manhattan and Brooklyn. I highly recommend this route for anyone looking to stay in the area who isn't able to drop a thousand bucks a night or who is unwilling (or unable) to squeeze into a sardine can.

A Critical Discovery in NoVa:

In all of the madness of relocating and contemplating more relocations, and taking care of babies and celebrating birthdays and engagements, its easy to forget the needs of our furry friends.

Being cooped up in our tiny Oakwood apartment with little more than leashwalks to keep them entertained, Otis and Rudi have probably suffered the most in all of this. Its the sad plight of the dogs who came before the children. Once upon a time, their needs were at the very top of our priority list. But now, they have fallen sadly to somewhere near the bottom.

No more! Thanks to a convoluted discovery of the Shirlington Dog Park, the boys are back in action and I have some time to reflect on how very important these critters are to my sanity. For anyone with dogs, I urge you to make a trip over. It is a long stretch of park where they can frolick sans leash and take a dip in the stream that runs the park's length. Ever since we came upon this canine oasis, we've all been quite a bit happier and more relaxed.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today is my 33rd birthday and all recent blog posts aside, I feel very lucky and very happy. I wanted to take a moment to celebrate and take note of the things in my life that I am most happy about and proud of. Is that totally weird and narcissistic? I keep my telling myself it's okay because generally, I whine about how lame I am.

First and foremost, I am so lucky to have found Stefan. He's absolutely and without question, my soul-mate. I know that because when I wake up in the morning and see him next to me, I feel excited, alive and very safe.

I also know that "he's the one" because he got me exactly what I wanted for my birthday-- an Eve VanDalsen messenger bag! It's so pretty and unique and practical, a hard combination for even the most well-established designers. I see a very, very bright and prosperous future for our friend Eve and I am thrilled that I have one of her early (ish) bags. I can say, "I knew her when" and have a grey and aqua messenger bag to prove it.

Secondly, I have the most beautiful children on the planet. Adela is turning out to be happy, confident and self-assured. These aspects of her little burgeoning, personality make me most proud. I tend to think that she feels very safe-- emotionally and physically-- and I know I played a big part in that. Flora has an unbelivably well-developed sense of humor for such a tiny thing. It is with great irony and self-assuredness that she wears this silly cupcake hat my mother made for her:
Thirdly, I have become very close to my extended family in recent years and I am proud to be able to share my life with them and for them to share theirs with me. It's a rare and wonderful gift that one can call her 1st, 2nd and 3rd cousins not only family, but also her best and most cherished friends. This past weekend, we went up to New Jersey to celebrate my cousin Meghan's engagement to her fiance Fred. We stayed with my other cousin, Hillary and her family. The entire weekend was a total blast. The party was beautiful-- gorgeous food, great music and the best company. And even though I woke up on Sunday with the worst hangover I've had in years, I have no regrets about dancing into the night and eating three extremely decadent cupcakes... because I was doing it with the people I love most in the world. Hillary's incredible children got into bed with Stef, Flora and me when they woke up and it was such a perfect reminder of how important it is to stay in close touch with these amazing people.

And finally, I have a diverse and varied group of friends all over the country and the world, from Vancouver, BC to San Francisco, CA to Chester, CT to NYC, NY to London, UK and all stops in between who seem to actually like me and for that, I am grateful everyday of my life. There is no substitute for friendship and no better reflection of the person you are than the quality of the people who surround you. So when I am feeling low or as if I haven't accomplished enough by this stage in my life, I think of my friends and feel like I must be doing something (at least a little) right.

And now, my girls have given me the best present of all: they are BOTH napping at the SAME time. So, just when I thought my birthday couldn't get better, I have the rare opportunity to take a much-needed nap myself!

Good Things CAN Come From "Oversharing":

I got some very helpful responses/comments (both online and offline) regarding my last post. It was just what I had hoped for and it proves that kindness and support can come from both expected and unexpected places.

In addition to that, a funny, coincidental thing happened (You might not think it's a coincidence because you're probably sure that my mother reads my blog... but, she doesn't. Weird. Right?). Anyway, as I was wrapping up a phone call with her, she told me she was going to send me a picture via MMS. "Okay," I said and hung up. I waited a few moments before I heard the familiar "ping" of an incoming message. This is the picture she sent:

And do you have any idea what that is? Well, I did. It's a "Handmade Cupcake Hat" for my daughter, Adela. And do you know who made it by hand? That's right: my amazing, wonderful, talented-to-no-end mother made it.

I immediately texted her back:

"Is that a handmade cupcake hat. And did you MAKE it?"

"Yes. I did. Why do you sound so familiar with it? Have you ever seen a handmade cupcake hat?"

"No, I never have, but I'm smart."

"Yeah, I made it. I'm knitting again. What else do you want?"

This is a very, very big deal. It would seem that in some small way, the universe is listening to me.

Thanks for all your support!

"Lay Lady Lay"

Warning: this post is a bit gloomy and bordering on "a little too personal to share on the Internet," but I have reached a point where I feel like I need to reach out beyond my immediate community, for my sake (catharsis) and my mother's (maybe someone out there has a new idea).

For the last 6 years, my mother, who is also my best friend and the one person who I have always been able to count on, has been living on her couch, writhing and moaning in pain. That sounds extreme. Because it is. When she first fell ill, her doctors thought she had the dreaded "Shingles" and I remember her crying because someone had told her that it could last as long as a year. But a year quickly came and went, and she didn't improve. She got worse. Her pain spread beyond her torso, where it had started and moved to her hands, which swelled to comically large proportions. Her hands... she'd always said she could take anything-- the loss of her legs even, but not her hands. She's an extraordinary knitter, seamstress, cook and gardener. She's the most well-read person I have ever encountered, hungrily reading two, sometimes three, books a week. But without the use of her hands, she could do none of those things. Not a single one of the things she most loves to do was within her reach (literally and figuratively). It was at this time that she began to slip away. She started to transform from the person in my life who could literally do anything she tried well into a person who could do nothing but lay, uncomfortably, on her couch and watch endless hours of television-- old, scratchy, black and white movies to be exact.

During the early years of her illness, I was always hopeful. I was sure something would magically make her better and bring the woman that I so looked up to back to me. We would one day cook together, the way I'd always thought we would. We would make things and do things and I could show her the world, the way I thought I would one day when I was able. She would come back and all this would be a bad, distant memory.

When I got married, three years ago, she was really in very bad shape. She said on more than one occasion, "I wish you would wait so I could get better and enjoy the experience of seeing you get married." Of course, I couldn't wait because who knew how long it might take for her to improve to that degree. But she would get better... certainly by the time I started having kids and she would be the most perfect grandmother. She would play endlessly with my children and support me the way I've always needed her to-- guiding me gently and without judgment. I imagined her in the delivery room and coming to spend weeks at a time to help me get my bearings, cooking for me while I recovered, knitting the most beautiful baby clothes. She would be better by then, for sure.

Now, I have two children and she's not better. She wasn't in the delivery room and she's not been able to spend more than a few hours over the course of the last two years at my home. And it wasn't her helping me. It was just her trying to appear to be a participant in her own life. She can't hold the babies for more than a few moments, without being overtaken, again, by the pain. She can't handle the stress of my toddler wreaking havoc, as they do, all around her. It's too stressful to bear. My visits to her house are short, stressful and utterly heartbreaking because somehow, I still go to her with a tiny glimmer of hope that each time it will be different: that she will be able to get down on the floor with Addy and play for hours; that there will be a pot of something cooking on the stove; that she'll show me something she's made for one of them (this has happened... just once. She recently completed a tiny pink baby sweater for the girls. It took five years, but it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I show it to everyone who comes over, beaming with pride. My mother, my amazing, wonderful, talented-to-no-end mother, made this!).

Of course, everyone always wants to know: what's wrong with her? Well, unfortunately, the answer is pretty unsatisfactory to most people because it's elusive and intangible. It's not a disease that's easily classifiable. There's no tidy explanation. We've found that people have a hard time when the can't put a recognizable name on things. In the beginning, they tested her for everything. There were litanies of tests and doctors and specialists and alternative medicine practitioners all trying to come up with an answer. Lyme Disease? Lupus? HIV? Cancer? Autoimmune disorder of some kind? None of these fit the bill. No treatments worked. The specialists eventually got frustrated and slipped away, defeated. The doctors tried what they knew to do and when everything failed to bring her some comfort, there was nothing left to try. Now, she has her one neurologist who is very devoted, but out of suggestions. So, after more treatments and surgeries than we can count, her only treatment consists of handfuls of narcotic pain relievers that make her days as close to tolerable as possible. That's just enough to keep her from putting a gun to her head, but she can't go anywhere or do anything. She can't drive. She can't be away from home for more than a hour or two. Ultimately, her diagnosis is this: somewhere along the way, she contracted a vicious virus that attacked her nervous system, leaving her tender nerves badly frayed and incapable of transmitting normal signals to her brain. So, her whole body hurts... all... the... time...

As an pretty unhappy side note to her main complaints, her teeth have begun to rot out of her head. All the pain-induced vomiting and the stress-induced grinding have taken their toll. Human beings are funny. I think that if she felt pretty, she'd have a little more power over this thing. But she looks into the mirror and all she can see are those yellow and brown teeth. She's a beautiful woman, but she's atrophied and withered away. Her teeth are almost hard to look at at. Her hair has thinned. And her already fair skin has grown transparent from lack of sun. She's a broken version of the woman who raised me to think for myself, take pride in even the smallest of my accomplishments, to be bold and independent. She's weak, tired and finally, utterly hopeless.

What does that mean? Well as hard as it is for me to write this, it means that she's contemplating ending her struggle, her life. When she first began to talk of suicide, I used to cry and beg her to stop being so cruel to me. "How can you say that you have no reason left to live?" I would ask angrily and indignantly. I couldn't understand what she meant by, "no reason left to live." She had me. She had my children. She had the world's most devoted husband and a mother who doesn't deserve to see her child die. She can't give up, I would think. There's got to be another way.

Now, I just don't know. Now, I can see what she means. While she has me and her grandchildren and her husband and her mother, she can't enjoy any of us. She looks at her life for what it could be and not for what it is and the only thing more painful than those frayed and failing nerves is the reality that her life may never improve. And of course, her question then becomes, "how long can I go on like this?" It's already been six years. SIX YEARS. I can't even believe it's been that long. I couldn't do it. I couldn't spend six years on the couch in agony without knowing when the end would come.

My family is moving to Europe. I am going away and I won't be there for her. That's the hardest thing in my life and I can't reasonably and authentically write about life in the Foreign Service without addressing this aspect of it: you leave everyone behind, which is difficult even when everyone is healthy, happy and well. A day doesn't go by without me wondering how I am going to feel someday about having been so far away from my mother in her darkest hours. I imagine many folks in the FS have similar concerns. It's really the dark underbelly of this great adventure.

Anyway, she may be without hope, but I'm not. I am still hoping that something, someone, might come out of the mist with a new idea, a new suggestion, that will change everything and make all of this seem like a terrible, distant nightmare. Because I want my mommy back more than anything in the world.

Falls Church Aint So Bad...

It's no secret that Falls Church is not my favorite place on the planet. Sometimes, I feel bad for feeling the way I do about it. It's really a perfectly good town. It's close to downtown D.C. It has every store you could possibly need to manage a family of four. It's easy to find your way around. It even has something of a charming downtown (sort of). It's close to FSI, meaning that Stefan is never too far away from home to save me from a baby crisis. It's fine. Totally fine. But it's not at all inspiring. I feel like I am one of those uninspired people who needs to be in an exciting place in order to feel interesting and that's my shortcoming, not Falls Church's. Anyway, point being, I often complain about living here, but this weekend, I actually had a moment of feeling lucky to be here.

We are a family of walkers, born largely from necessity. Having the dogs means that we have to walk and if we can combine that with getting something else done, it's ideal. We often walk to the various playgrounds in the area, which is what we initially set out to do yesterday morning. We also wanted to hit the Falls Church Farmers Market later in the day. In a flash of genius, we realized we could do all those things in one walk. So, we left the Oakwood and meandered through the back streets of town until we arrived at the market. I have to say, it's a pretty legit Farmers' Market. I think I recall seeing somewhere that it was named, "America's Favorite Market," by whom I have no idea, but it seems like it could be possible. It has everything you could possibly need without any "fluff." We bought croissants to snack on while there. I got a pile of wild mushrooms, the likes of which I haven't seen since Northern California. There's a happy bouquet of zinnias in our single, striped Oakwood vase. We have apples, pears and nectarines to last the week. And when we were done with the market, we made our way over to the Cherry Hill Barn and playground, where Adela burned off some Toddler energy. It was like, an absolutely perfect morning.

As I looked around at the families at the playground, with their bulging bags of produce and their super happy children, I thought to myself, "This is why people live here." And it made perfect sense to me.

On Personal Heroines and Suburban Living:

Yesterday, I went to see Julia Child's kitchen at the National Museum of American History. It was everything I'd hoped it would be and more. It was tidy, but well-used and filled to the brim with every imaginable cooking tool known to man or woman. It bore no resemblance to the granite counter-topped, stainless steel applianced, utterly sterile kitchens one sees in modern-day American McMansions. It was lovely in its utility and proved once again that a kitchen need not be a glistening showroom to work well.

As with everything relating to the venerable Mrs. Child, the kitchen exhibit at the Smithsonian reflects the profound love she and her husband, Paul, shared. I was so moved by their partnership and how it served as the backbone for everything they did and accomplished. I'd like to think that Stefan and I have a similar type of respect for and devotion to one another. I would also like to think I too might be able to use my time overseas to advance my own culinary career. I am not, by any means, drawing a comparison between Julia Child and myself-- let me be clear-- I just would like to somehow capitalize on my experiences abroad and make them own, and not just my life as it relates to my husband's. I found the exhibit very motivating.

In other news, we got a preliminary housing assignment yesterday. It came in email form and all the anticipation leading up to it was nothing compared to the disappointment both Stefan and I felt once we'd opened it. It would seem, based on yesterday's email, that the only suitable housing for the Whitney family was to be found in a distant, Flemish suburb of Brussels called Steerebeek. While the house itself was perfectly adequate-- large enough for an even bigger family, with four bedrooms, a small garden and a garage-- the location is not at all what we'd hoped for. Not only does it represent an hour commute in either direction for Stefan, but the locals speak Dutch! Stefan will have spent 3 months "polishing" his French and I will have spent more than a few hours at the local Starbucks clicking my way through the French Rosetta Stone. How much sense does that make? None, I tell you.

When we filled out the initial housing questionnaire, we were very clear that we are willing to sacrifice space for proximity to the city centre. Really, all this means, is that we want to be on the metro line. Steerebeek is no where near the metro. Public transport to the embassy would include a bus and a train. The good thing about Steerebeek is that it's close to the American School, but with a 6 month old and a 23 month old, that means little more than nothing to us. I know that for some, this probably seems like splitting hairs because we are going to a wonderful city in a wonderful central European location. But, come on, what's the point of being there if we can't enjoy it on something near an every day basis.

We were given only one option and based on everything we knew up until this point, we expected at least two, if not three. So, we felt entitled to write back and say, "Isn't there any other possibility considering that none of our requirements are met with this option?" Our housing contact quickly replied that she and her colleagues will look into leasing something more appropriate. Let's hope they can find something closer to town in a French speaking commune, because if they don't, I foresee a LOT of bitching and moaning here on Devonnaire (and every where else in our lives).

I am still alive.

Despite a complete disappearance from the blogosphere, I am still very much alive and kicking. I let the summer get the best of me-- lakes, beaches, single-parenthood (largely), and family drama all made me feel like I couldn't get my head far enough above water to get to my laptop for 10 minutes. I have also been thinking a lot about my new (and forthcoming) blog, which I intend to be a much more professional and less personal type of blog covering what I hope will be my overseas career as a culinary observer. Details on that to follow later.

In the meantime, I have been thinking a lot about our journey to Belgium. The tickets are reserved, the dogs have their place as very special luggage on our plane, we have a good idea of what we'd like to bring as our HHE. It's all coming together and yet, here we are, in purgatory, waiting and waiting and waiting. Personally, I am ready to get there and get the next two years of our lives underway. While it's true that we have an abundance of great activities lined up here in Falls Church-- music, art and yoga, I am anxious to get Adela into La Farandoline, the french-speaking, co-op style preschool we're hoping will be her first formal place of education. I'm chomping at the bit to explore our new city and hopefully, find some form of daycare for Flora, so that I can begin looking for work as a cook. There's a lot to do that can't be done until we get there, so let's get there already! Here's to hoping that Stef's gift for languages proves itself and he passes his test with flying colors.

The waiting might not be so bad if we knew what type of house/apartment is waiting for us (because truthfully, that's the thing I'm most anxious about). But, despite all reports that the housing people in Brussels are the most attentive, we've heard nothing for weeks from them. I guess this is par for the course, but it's our first time, so we have no idea what to expect. There is so much variety, it seems, in the pool in Brussels, that we could end up in an apartment downtown (please, please, please) just blocks away from the embassy or all the way out in the 'burbs with no metro station for miles and miles. I just want to KNOW so I can both get emotionally prepared and practically prepared by locating the appropriate schools and figuring out of our new minivan will fit anywhere near our home.

Alas, these cycles of anticipation are just another aspect of our life in the Foreign Service, but as a sometimes blogger, I feel like I need big, momentous changes to write about to keep things interesting and for now, it's just a lot of waiting and preparing.

At Long Last:

Way back in May when we first arrived in Falls Church so that Stefan could begin his A-100 class, my stepmother came down to lend a hand. When she came, she brought a bottle of 1989 Perrier-Jouet champagne that she and my father had been given on their wedding day. For some reason, they never drank it or used the hand-painted flutes that came with the Belle Epoch edition bottle. When she gave it to us, she suggested that we would drink it on Flag Day to celebrate our first post and the beginning of our new life.

Our first Flag Day came and we were posted to Frankfurt and while we were relieved not to have been posted somewhere completely remote and difficult to live in (easy all you hard core Foreign Service types... We will do our time. We just didn't want to do it first with an infant and a toddler and all the tension that goes along with having them), we didn't seem compelled to really celebrate in the "pop open a bottle of Champers and run around screaming and jumping up and down" kind of way. It was good, not, like, totally great. There was the whole "compound" living thing and the fact that Frankfurt is almost completely devoid of romance, but it had its advantages and we were happy. Just not 20 year old Champagne happy.

Well, I think now that our second Flag Day has come and gone, we might just crack that bottle open and run around screaming and jumping up and down because we were posted to...

BRUSSELS, Belgium!!!!

And we are very excited.

Argh.

All week long, I was trying to concentrate hard on what was right in front of me-- the kids, the lake, my lovely extended family. However, in spite of my best efforts, there has been the unrelenting nag of the not knowing where we're going in the back of my head.

For better of worse, Beaver Lake is a tiny community and most people who are at all interested have some idea of what's going on in your life. So, of course, I am asked "the question" at least once a day.

"We'll know this Friday," I've said with confidence on multiple occasions this week.

That really kept me sane-- the whole "we'll know on Friday" routine.

Then Friday came around.

Stefan, god bless him, has been in the fiery inferno that is Northern Virginia while the girls and I have been enjoying the lake. So, I expected him to call some time late yesterday morning with the big news. My blackberry was glued to my hand at all times. We were assigned while all the CDO's (Career Development Officers are responsible for assigning posts) were on the 154th A-100 class retreat on Thursday and it made sense that Stefan's CDO would call as soon as she was able. That wasn't soon enough. Stefan called her around 10AM.

That phone call proved to be a major set back for the Whitney family (at least in the immediate) because she revealed that she's not in a position to tell us our post until FLAG DAY! Mother f-er. Seriously? OMG. WTF!!! God-damned bureaucracy! This normally calm, collected, roll-with-the-punches mother of two is starting to really lose her f-ing mind.

"I can tell you that you did get one of your "highs," however," she told Stefan sheepishly.

Of course, I can't tell you any more than that... until Flag Day. We were completely inflexible this time around and we only bid 6 jobs "high." Those six jobs are in 4 cities. Those 4 cities are among the best and most beautiful in the world. The good news: we got one of our highs. The bad news: it's starting to feel like we're never know where we're going.

Ooooops...

It would appear that my last blogging effort came through incomplete. I guess that's not a complete shock since I sent it from my blackberry and I have pretty shoddy coverage up here at the lake.

The last sentence should have read:

... Its so heartwarming to watch Adela eat a lollipop next to her cousin Violet after a long day of learning to swim off the Porter's dock. Especially since I too learned to swim there. Bringing her and Flora here makes me feel like I'm giving something back for having had the same opportunities.

This is a humble place. There are no frills or attitude. The road is roughly paved with loose stone and the docks are often bowed. The "beach" is roughly 20 feet by 20 feet and the keg at Saturday's Weenie Roast was filled with Budweiser. There is no air conditioning in most of the summer-only cottages and "out houses" are still in use all over the lake. But, somehow, the docks feel just right when you run off one and dive into the lake with its perfect lake smell and its murky bottom. The beach is a heavenly place filled with children, getting to know each other and the best ways to makes sand castles stand tall. The Bud is cold and pairs perfectly with a kraut-topped hot dog and even despite this intense and unyielding heat, the lack of air conditioning doesn't seem to hinder a perfectly restful night's sleep.

When you read the paper and drink a cup of coffee at the counter at the General Store, its impossible not to run into someone who remembers you as a child and can recall the way you ordered your ice cream cones.

Perhaps I'm naïve (or more likely, ignorant), but I don't think there are a lot of places like this in the world- a perfectly beautiful place with a community whose connections have a 100 year plus history.

I feel so lucky to be here and to have the opportunity to share it with my children.

Greetings from the Lake!

Well, the Whitneys are fully ensconced at the lake and we are virtually incapable of obsessing over "the post." For, our days are filled with splashing around in the lake and our nights are characterized by big, robust, corn-riddled buffets and of course, Saturday night was the first "Weenie Roast." It was a wonderful opportunity to see many, many old friends of the family and eat way too many hot dogs to recall.

Being here as an adult with two kids makes me realize how truly incredible it was to be a kid here. Without the burdens of washing towels, grocery shopping, and cooking meals, all that's left is to enjoy the lake and all its bounty: boating, fishing, swimming, walking, playing tennis, etc. Its so heart-warming to watch Adela

Shuffle to Your Past:

I don't know what it is-- the summer weather, a new sense of well-being since I dropped 15 lbs. (so far) on Weight Watchers, or the prospects and opportunities that await us overseas somewhere, but I am so into music right now... in a way I haven't been since I became some one's wife, then mother. Listening to loud music and waxing philosophic is generally reserved for people without a care in the world, rambling across European countrysides in old trains and daydreaming about lost and new found love.

A few days ago, I was driving in my very sensible family station wagon (hopefully soon to be replaced with the even more dreaded minivan... totally my choice too by the way. I care not for what the world thinks... just whether or not I can fit two car seats, two Labrador Retrievers and a week's worth of groceries inside. All you minivan haters out there: talk to me when you're in my shoes. Until then, shhhhh! Minivans rock!). Anyway, I was driving along, with my two gals in the backseat and I decided to turn off NPR and hit shuffle on our Ipod.

I was transported to such long ago times that I was forced to view myself as, um, kinda old. Were my girls a little older, they would have surely had a laugh as I bopped my head and mouthed the words to Cypress Hill's "Cock the Hammer," and reminisced about a time when I walked around the streets of New York, dressed like some kind of faux-hoodlum in baggy jeans and big, gold, dangling hoops. Oh, to be a child of the 90's in Manhattan (for some reference, there was a movie made not to long ago called "The Wackness" that really captured the essence of that time. Also, the movie "Kids" was made while I was living in New York and many of its stars were people whom I regularly ran into-- this is not so much a source of pride, but just a matter of fact).

Cypress Hill soon gave way to Portishead's "How can it Feel So Wrong?". That might not even be the name of the song, but if you ever saw "Stealing Beauty" with Liv Tyler, you know the song I am referring to. The soundtrack to that movie became my own one summer, after high school, when my girlfriend and I toured around France and Italy on trains. One late night, we were riding from Nice, France to Pisa, Italy (a stopover) and just as we had gotten ourselves good and comfy in our cabin, a man joined us from Monte Carlo. He stunk of booze and his tan lines revealed the places where his watch and jewelery were before he'd gambled them all away. He was creepy and kept saying, "Vous le vous coucher avec moi?" so when he got up to use the bathroom (and probably to restore his energy with something illegal), my girlfriend and I gathered up all of our belongings and ran for another cabin. We found two completely deaf Polish students whom we tried desperately to inform that we were running for our lives from a would-be Italian rapist. They were so sweet and confused by our hysterics.

Then it was Bonnie Prince Billy, who took me back to a time when I was living in Big Sky, Montana when I would drive 40 minutes through the most breathtaking canyons to go grocery shopping in West Yellowstone. His somber and sentimental lyrics suited this very lonesome but introspective time in my life. When, soon after I broke my ankle badly enough that I was rendered immobile for almost 6 months, I felt just as somber and melancholy as Bonnie Prince Billy (aka Will Oldham) seemed to.

And finally, since it wasn't such a long ride after all, came Feist's "Mushaboom," which truly was the soundtrack for the most incredible summer of my life, the one when I met my husband on a beautiful, warm, spring day in San Francisco. As I listened to her warbly voice as she sang of snow and crackling fires and watching her as-yet unmade babies grow up, I looked at Stefan and hoped for all the things she sang about... with him.

Music is so amazing and I hope that with all our upcoming adventures, we will have many new songs to attach to them. We found out this morning that we will, in fact, have to wait to hear about our new post until the 154th class is assigned. That's sometime next week. I wonder if there is a good song to capture the anxiety of this time somewhere on that Ipod of mine????

Minibar: It's Among the Top Five Whitney Dining Experiences...

I am not an "easy to please" diner. In fact, my professional food background makes me an ornery dining companion and I often wish it weren't so. Everything gets scrutinized to the nth degree and it has been known to take the fun out of going out to eat for me... and occasionally, my husband. Although, I have learned to keep my complaints under wraps for every one's sake.

When we walked into Cafe Atlantico in Downtown D.C., I was surprised to find a relatively comfortable and relaxed environment. The "guts" of the room were exposed (big, white HVAC vents and pipes running across the walls and ceiling) and the tables were sort of haphazardly set on white table cloths. The dominant features were big, bright oil paintings and a massive stairway leading to the unknown.

We apologized for being a little early (so eager were we to get out on our own, I think we arrived almost 30 minutes before our 8:30 reservation). They seemed delighted that we were so punctual and offered to seat us at the "downstairs bar" for a pre-dinner cocktail. I ordered a "Pineapple Caiparihna" and Stefan ordered a "Grey Goose Martini with a twist." Our server returned a moment later with the news that they were "all out of Grey Goose." Hmmm... "That's strange," I thought as I looked behind the bar at a giant, full, 2 liter bottle of the Goose. I was up in arms already, but Stefan assured me that he'd be just as happy with the Hangar One our server had sugested as an alternative.

We sipped our cocktails and wondered outloud where we would ultimately be seated. The host had given no indication. "Where's the minibar?"

At one point, our server returned with a small book, the winelist, and proceeded to list our "options" for ordering wine while we ate our 27 course "minibar experience."

"These are flights." He pointed to a list of four distinct "flights of wine," and explained that each was a 2 oz. pour and that we'd end up with about 3 full glasses of wine if we chose that route. Gulp. 75$ a person for three glasses of wine.

Then he turned the page and offered that, "these are half-bottles and we recommend choosing three to accompany your experience." The least expensive "mini-bottle" was 38$.

And finally, on the last two pages, full bottles of very expensive sparkling, white and red wines were listed. Our server explained that this was the least interesting option, because it limits opportunity (but certainly not the impact on our wallet...)

We chose the mini bottles and were shortly therafter, guided up that massive staircase to the second floor, where the "minibar" was located. Six seats, three chefs, and 27 courses of pure culinary intrigue awaited.

Almost immediately, upon sitting down, one of the chefs gave us the rundown of what to expect: "There are 27 courses, in total-- divided loosely into three sections: snacks, entrees and desserts. Most are intended to be one bite, but we will instruct you as to how many you should take with each course. We will place each course on the glass and ask that you pull each one down in front of you to eat. The servers will clear from the left, behind you. Feel free to ask questions and enjoy your meal."

We started with a cool, smoky "Passion Fruit and Mezcal Marguerita," served in a tiny, hollowed-out Passion Fruit and topped with Mezcal Tequila "foam," (yes, there was a LOT of the now semi-passe foam being tossed around). This was quickly followed by "Beet Tumbleweed," "The Popcorn," "Sea Bean Tempura," and "Bagels and Lox." None of these, with the exceptions of the "Tumbleweed" and the "Sea Bean Tempura" were what you would think. "The Popcorn," which has become a signature dish, is a completely deconstructed "one-bite" type of affair that looks nothing like buttered popcorn, but completely captures its essence. The "Bagels and Lox" looked more like a tiny ice cream cone, in which cream cheese "soup" is topped with tiny postules of salmon essence, made by the chefs one by one, and surprisingly "pop" in your mouth like caviar (that sort of begs the question... "why not use caviar?"). The undeniable standouts of the "Munichies" section were the savory "Ferrero Rocher" and the "Cotton Candy Eel."

As we moved through to the next section, "Flavors and Textures," we were delighted by the smoked raw oyster with apple. Stefan was almost moved to tears by the "Zucchini in Textures." A smoky, smooth layer of caramelized Zucchini custard is topped with a fresh and salty Zucchini gelee and finished with effervescent, hand-picked Zucchini seeds. Seemingly a strange choice for my husband's favorite, but zucchini has never tasted so good. Seriously.

I have never been much of a "Umi" fan, but minibar's "Sea Urchin with Hibiscus Foam," somehow how took away the slimy, livery texture of the sea urchin without compromising the pure taste of the sea it is so well known for. The next three dishes, "Organic Carrots with Coconut," "Sweet Peas Catalan Style," and "Corn on the Cob" were real show stoppers and perhaps, the most molecularly gastronomic (see pictures).

The final entry into what amounts to the entree section of the meal was a "Philly Cheeesteak," which is a puffy, cheese-filled pastry, topped with thinly-sliced, nearly-raw, delicately-marbled Wagyu beef. It explodes and drips down your fingers and chin while you eat it, just like its inspiration and it's even better, for it's sophisticated while being completely simplistic in flavor.

The dessert section seemed slightly less inspired (but only compared to what preceded it). There were "Strawberries with Cream and Sun dried Tomatoes," "Japanese Baby (green) Peaches with Burrata," and a non-specific, "Thai Dessert," which included all the most familiar Thai flavors without giving any of its ingredients away.

Minibar at Cafe Atlantico was an incredibly interesting experience-- completely varied and unexpected. Though, I am loath to make such an obviously cheesy comparison, we DID go there to celebrate our anniversary and I couldn't help but think what a fine metaphor it makes for our life together; It's unbelievably delicious, constantly surprising, never what I expect, but always, just perfect.

My Big, Fat, Crazy Week:

It seems like sometimes, I have to think real hard to come up with something to blog about and other times, I have so much to blog about that I can't find the time to write it all down.

This is one of those times.

Sunday was Fathers' Day, of course, and I had really wanted to write a long, wistful homage to Stefan for being such a wonderful father to Adela and Flora. The day came and went and I never got it done.

Wednesday was our 3rd anniversary and I had wanted to scan in a wedding picture and write about how grateful I am to have had 3 such wonderful years with my adoring husband. That day came and went and I never got it done.

I rationalized by saying, "Well, we ARE going to minibar at Cafe Atlantico tonight and THAT will really make for an interesting blog post, especially for my similarly food obsessed friends and family. Of course, on Thursday, I was too hungover and overwhelmed to write that post.

Then somewhere in the course of all of those things happening, we got some pretty jolting news: They are "breaking" our assignment to Frankfurt.

It would seem that one of the very things that made our Germany post so interesting (Stefan was born there) is turning out to be the very thing that will keep us from being posted there. His dual citizenship represents a problem, which is something we always wondered about and therefore, Stefan was very transparent about it from the beginning of the whole process. Bureaucracy being what it is, they overlooked his initial concerns and posted us there anyway. And now we've told everyone. I've spent two weeks learning German via FSI's Rosetta Stone and Stef's spent three polishing his German in class; not to mention the hours we've spent fantasizing about living in Frankfurt and the trips we've reserved (in our heads only, of course)!

Alas, this is a lesson that is worth learning early on. Stefan told me yesterday that he's heard of some Officers who spend an entire career not going to the places they were originally posted to. This latest development is further evidence that it takes a very special type of flexibility to live a Foreign Service life well.

So, here we are, seemingly back to square one, clutching the 154th A-100 class' bid list. Yes, we do have to bid again. The good news is that the 154th has an exceptionally good list. Assuming the same rules apply, I can't mention specifics, but I can say that we might end up being better off...