Power to the princess!

Yesterday a little girl turned three. A very special occasion, off course, and a princess party was requested, o yes, and a puppet show. Since mama is not too mean a mummy, she complied, grudgingly, but readily. However, there are limits. There is just so much pink and sweetness this mama can handle. So when it came to the puppet show, and the story line, she decided that all those disney stories were just not exactly what little girls needed in the twenty-first century. So she wrote her own. And, just in case you have a birthday coming up soon, of a little girl in need of some princess glitter, I'll share it with you. In hope we can reach all those little girls out there and show them what a real princess is made of!

The princess that did not want to marry

Once upon a time, in a country far, far away, lived a princess. Her name was Linde. She had long, blond hair, and eyes dark as coal. She had beautiful dresses, and her favourite one was pink.

Linde: Hello children, how nice to see so many of you. Are you having a birthday party? Who’s birthday is it? It is my birthday too today, did you know? Tonight we will have a fabulous ball, right here, in the palace. We will dance all night. I love dancing, it is my absolute favourite. Do you like dancing too?

But, do you know what is so stupid? My parents, the king and queen, they want me to marry. With a prince. A real prince. In a minute a lot of princes will come and visit, and I have to pick one to open the ball with tonight, dance the first dance. Yuk. I am sure they will all be horrid. I do not want to marry. I want to dance, and play. I do not want to be queen. Then I’ll have to do bow for people all day, and wave from the golden carriage, and be nice, and formal and stiff. No!

Queen comes up: Come on Linde, the princes have arrived. Let me see your hair, and your face, is it clean? Hurry up, and stand straight, dear.

The king and queen sit on the throne. One by one the princes are presented. First, a young boy in a football outfit comes up, running about.

Football Prince: Oi, princess! Got a ball, or something to shoot about? Nah. Come and see my big game tomorrow. You can sit in the stalls, be beautiful, smile and wave at me!

Linde, angrily: I do NOT like football. And I don’t want to sit, be beautiful and wave. I want to dance. And play in the wood, with sticks.

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Monkey comes up, bows, says ooh, ah, ooh ooh ooh, and monkeys around.

Linde, angrily: What a terrible prince. He has no manners at all. He acts just like a monkey!

‘Next,’ shouts the king.

Prince Penguin bows, ‘good afternoon princess. How do you do?’

Linde, icily: Hello.

Prince Penguin: Sweet princess, you are so pretty. I would love to take you to my Ice Palace, with it’s winding towers of sparkling blue. We can slip and slide down the stairs and have so much fun.

Linde: No. I do not like blue. Slipping and sliding will ruin my dress. And most of all, I do not want a palace made of ice. Ice should be ice cream, three scoops in a bowl, with a cherry on top. No. I won’t marry him. No!

Linde shouts: I will never marry, do you hear me? I won’t. Tonight I will dance with my friends. Or, even better. I will dance with a frog. That will show them. Pfft (blows raspberry) I don’t want some poncey prince. I am going to the woods, and I will play with sticks and get very dirty.

Linde, in the woods, with a stick: I told you, I won’t marry those stupid princes. A snobby footballer, who just wants me as his trophy? Or a crazy monkey? Or that ice penguin with his frozen palace? You wouldn’t want that either, would you? I don’t want to marry anyway; I don’t want to be queen. I’ll have to make stiff bows, wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and straight, and host dinners. No. I won’t do it. I want to always stay a princess, and dance all day and play in the woods. And when I grow up, I want to decide what I’ll be. Maybe a doctor. Or a pilot. Or the king. Yes, that would be good, because everyone would have to do as I say. Yes, don’t you agree, being king is be best.

Frog comes up, ribbiting.

Linde: Look a frog. I will take him to the dance, that will show my parents. Hello frog, would you like to dance? Linde and the frog dance and play.

Linde: Children, do you know what I am thinking? Frogs are often enchanted, aren’t they? He could be a prince? What do you think, shall I kiss him?

Unsure: No, maybe I shouldn’t. He is very green, and very slimy.

The children encourage her to do it anyway, and what do you think! The frog turns into a handsome prince. The prince gives Linde a big hug and a kiss. He seems very happy, and then retreats.

Prince charming: Thank you, princess, for kissing me. Very decent of you. But. I suppose I have to marry you now? He looks at the children. That is the proper thing for a prince to do, isn’t it, when a princess kisses him back from being a frog?

Linde: Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to marry at all. I do not wish to be queen, and bow, and wave from the golden carriage, and sit still and stiffly. I want to run in the woods and play with sticks. And when I grow up I want to be what I choose. Pilot, or doctor.

Prince charming: Oh, I love playing with sticks! And I don’t want to marry either, at least not yet. Let’s be friends, and always do what we want.

Linde: Yes! And can I then be king when we are bigger?

Prince charming: Well, we’ll have to see about that.

Linde: All right. But, one more thing. Would you mind dancing the first dance with me at my birthday ball tonight?

Prince charming: I’d be honoured to. I love to dance!

Together they dance away. 

The mamamonster

When there is too much screaming around me I can no longer think clearly. The pressure in my head builds up, higher and higher, until it bursts. I lose all patience, if I ever had any, and the screaming needs to get out. Out of my own mouth. The mamamonster has been freed.

There is a lot of screaming in our house. The vicious cycle twists round and down, they scream, I scream back, they scream louder and then me too. I barely dare go outside, in the garden. What will the neighbours think? Is it good that they can’t understand my Dutch, and can’t hear how I bawl at every kid’s nagging? Or is it a shame they can’t hear how they moan my life into a living hell, and understand my wrath is well deserved. I know I am the eldest. I know I should be the wisest. I know they are four, two and one years old. But the mamamonster is not sensible. She knows patience nor common sense. She let’s herself be dragged into pools of hormonal fury. The mamamonster talks in low-pitched, separate, demanding words. Stop. Now. Or…. then a silence follows, in which she thinks of terrible things. Or I will hurt you, thinks the mamamonster. I will wring you out till there is no scream left in you, I will kick you flying over the hedge, I will box your ears till they pound more than mine. But she will reach into the depths of her soul and drag out the last ounce of self-control she can muster from the deepest of her monster belly and growls: Or… Go. To. Your. Room. Now! The last word is spoken with her deepest, darkest voice, and all the terrible things shine through her piercing eyes. The frightened children start crying, which works like oil on the monster’s fire and makes her grab arms and legs and she drags the screaming inside, into the study and closes the door.

Surrounded by silence the mamamonster retreats, and when the children reappear, with crocodile’s tears on their cheeks, her last remains are cuddled away, send back to her dark cave deep inside.

But the next time there is arguing, over the colour of the cereal bowl, over who gets the spotted spoon, over the food that is not their favourite, when there is fighting, pushing, hear-pulling, and screaming, the mamamonster will rear it’s ugly head again. At the next tooth that breaks and sets off days of crying. When they throw food, moan, whinge, yell and squeal. When they are bored, when they whine, three times, mama, mahma, mahama. When the shoes are still not on after I asked ten times. When they cry, cry, cry and cry. When they scream. When the sound exceeds by far the allowed maximum of decibels at any other workplace the mamamonster will soar and roar. The mamamonster is mean. Little children beware. She is on her way.

On safari

‘Mama,’ Tijm calls. ‘We are going on safari.’
His rug sack is ready. The binoculars are in, the book of plants, some biscuits. From the handle bar of his scooter the tent dangles.
‘Come on,’ he calls, scooting on.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Exploring,’ he answers. ‘To find the waterfall.’
Just before the bridge we turn left, into the wilderness, and the mud.
Tijm gets his binoculars. He peers over the water, then at me.
‘Mama, you are very small. You are very far away.’
‘You need to turn it around,’ I point out. ‘What is far will become big and close.’
‘No,’ he yells. ‘It is right like this. Look, everything looks far away now.’
What can I say? In Dutch we call binoculars “far-looker”. So I nod.
Satisfied, Tijm looks around him. He spots something, far away, next to his foot.
Little flowers, like stars. We look them up in his book of plants.
Linde laughs at the name, speenkruid.
‘For Jasmijn,’ she grins, as speen means dummy.
She has found something too. Little brown balls, in the muddy water.
‘Frogspawn,’ Tijm tells us. ‘We must to take some home. Then we can make frogs. Just like at school.’
‘Maybe on the way back,’ I answer. ‘We haven’t found the waterfall yet.’
‘O. Yes,’ says Tijm and pulls Linde’s hand. I follow, drudgingly, with the buggy through the mud. Tijm and Linde run over the narrow sluice. The buggy won’t fit.
‘Mama,’ Tijm points at a wobbly bridge. ‘That is for you.’
Step by step I stagger over the boards. We have to, as we must find the waterfall. Tijm and Linde found it already. The water swishes over the stones, foaming, and roaring softly. Tijm climbs down, onto the stepping-stones.
Linde reaches out, ‘Mama, help.’
I help her over and look back, to the heavy buggy, and suddenly I do not know how to do this. Yet I do it. I step back, get Jasmijn and park her, behind a fence, as far away from the water as I can.
‘Tijm,’ I order, ‘watch your sister. Make sure she does not get near the water.’
As fast as I can I hop back, from stone to stone, looking back over my shoulder, to fetch the empty buggy. On the way back I look at my feet for just a moment, and when I look back up Linde and Jasmijn are in a tree. Jasmijn is nowhere.
My heart stops and I jump on land.
‘Where is Jasmijn?’ I scream, ‘you were watching her!’
‘There,’ Tijm points, calmly.
A bit further down I see Jasmijn’s back disappear into the park. Safely at the field we put up the tent, eat biscuits and pick flowers for our tea. Jasmijn keeps running away and on the way home Tijm falls in the rivers while scooping up frogspawn.
With wet wellies he screams the whole way home.
‘Mama,’ he yells.
‘Stop it,’ I grumble, ‘are you a tough explorer?’
‘But mama, there is a frog in my wellie.’
We poor it out, not once, not twice, but three times, until we are home and ready for bath.

On my facebook page you can find pictures of our exciting trip!

Mama tea

She needs to be dealt with, this shouting, stressed out mummy. I need to relax. Pondering behind my laptop I know what I need. A week at a spa, with yoga, massage and steamrooms. Me, enveloped in a chocolate-lavender wrap, listening to soothing muzak, nibbling on celery stalks and sushi. And daddy at home with the kids. That will add to my relaxation, revelling in the idea of him struggling, handling a toddler, a pre-schooler and a baby on his own. With two loads of laundry a day, three healthy meals, and a house where you can put one foot in front of the other without stumbling. I picture it, blissfully, until the bubble pops with a bang. He’ll laugh, say it will take the new and relaxed me five minutes at home to be her old angry self. And he is right, off course. I need a better plan. I think again, and if a personal masseuse won’t be an option either, what will? Pills, no. Homeopathy, I don’t know. Herbal concoctions, those I like. Herbs contain enough molecules to satisfy my scientific brain and enough magic to warm my heart. I sigh with relief. Finally, a plan. And how useful I named my children after herbs.

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Growing up

I no longer have a baby. On wobbly legs she toddles, round and round.
Zigzagging she sways through rooms, to where big sister catches her in widespread arms.
They leave the the hall door open, and before I can blink, she is up the stairs. From the top step she waves down, cooing triumphantly.
Tijm and Linde trek up as well, rug sacks on, to play in their room. Jasmijn follows, quick as a dart. Tijm clicks the stair gate, safely shut behind her.
I want to get her, take her down, secure under my watchful eyes.
‘No,’ Tijm shouts. ‘You can’t come up.’
Three a row, they grin at me from behind the gate.
‘I just want to get Jasmijn,’ I try.
‘No,’ says Tijm. ‘Jasmijn has to stay here. She is our friend.’
Linde nods. ‘Our fliend.’
I go back down, my heart in my mouth. Upstairs I hear clattering, laughing, bumping. Only a few screams. When I go up to check, around the edge of the door, six eyes eye me indignantly. Defeated I retreat.

I no longer have a toddler boy. With his tongue between his lips, in utmost concentration, he writes. Tijm, he writes. And 4. Linde, papa, mama and Jasmijn. Tom is easy, that is just like Tijm. In mass production he draws trains, trees, monsters giraffes and people with heads, bodies and feet.
Then, he rushes to the laptop, ‘type, mama, can I type?’
His fingers dance over the keys. Opa, oma. Opi. Omi. Omama, Roos, Bas and Maas. Others are more difficult and mama spells it out. An F, an R and an E. Slowly Frederiek appears on the screen. Then the A, for Anneke.
Later he nestles in the corner of the sofa with the Ipad, hidden under a plaid. He plays Sonic, Agry Birds, until I catch him on You Tube, staring at blazing guns and bombs, and I hide it on top of the fridge. Were we living back home, in the Netherlands, he’d have started school. He is so ready, my big boy.

And then there is Linde. The most incredible 2 year old ever. With bold, big eyes she defies me, staring over her plate.
‘Don’t want it,’ she pushes it away.
Where Tijm, who is so handy, refuses to put on his shoes, she needs to do everything herself. Everywhere dolls sleep, under blankets, tea towels and dishcloths. Everywhere Linde goes the dolls go too. On the Ipad she plays doctor, cooking and colouring. With felt tips she draws circles and curls, on paper, her head and her hands. She draws the L, for Linde, which she loves so much she uses it everywhere, in warking and rovely. Mole kisses, she demands, in bed, until she decides no, mama, enough, now she will teep.
Linde knows what she wants. And when she looks at me, from under her spotted hat, with those steel-blue eyes, I know one thing will never change. She will always stay my wilful child.

Stay calm and...

It is quiet in the yoga hall.
‘Inhale,’ says the teacher, ‘Exhale. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…’
The breath of fifteen mothers rustles through the hall. Again. ‘One, two, three, four…’
The first grizzle starts. A soft cry. Slowly the mothers rise. It won’t be, please? Fourteen mothers settle back down, relieved. Not theirs. One mother pulls herself up. A baby is cuddled, cradled and put back down, on the floor. The teacher continues, imperturbable. ‘Pull your navel down, put your legs up into the air.’
More grizzling starts. A moan here. A cry there. The air fills with little sounds. Yet it stays quiet, peaceful in the hall. We do yoga. The peace is inside us.

Even inside me. I have been on edge all week, bursting at every moan and every scream of baby or toddler, but here I let go. The soft, soothing voice of the teacher, the smell of incense, as soon as I put one foot in the hall my stress disappears, like snow from the sun, in the serenity of the hall. Nothing can disturb my peace.
The babies give it their best shot. One by one they are cuddled, rocked, fed and put down again. I rock mine, my nose in her neck, where her sweet baby scent mixes with the incense, forming a tantalising perfume. Back on the ground, she lies between my legs. My bum sticks in the air, my legs point up, one by one. She looks at me. Was that a smile, a chortle, does she think, ‘Mum, what on earth are you doing?’
She snorts and utters a small groan. I rub her belly and yoga on.

Half an hour later the babies get their turn. We are in a circle, fifteen naked babies, fifteen mothers that pour oil on their hands. We massage the babies, until they slither over the mats and their greasy fat legs slip from our hands. We roll every miniscule toe between our fingers. We rub oil in every crease, every dimple in their thighs. Over their bellies, their backs. My baby gets tired. She does not want to go on. Elsewhere babies get louder too. The naked babies get dressed. Slowly I feed her and cuddle her to sleep. Tea appears, biscuits, the mothers and babies enjoy their snacks. The silence disappears quickly, with fifteen tea drinking and biscuit eating mothers. Chatter fills the hall. Words, sentences, and laughter float around, bounce off the walls.

With mind and body cleared, I step outside, into the sunshine. I look around. Did I forget something, leave something behind? I have my baby, my bag, my buggy. That’s all I need, what I shed in the hall I do not need back.
Cheerfully I leave, to pick up my toddler girl and her big brother. Later that day, they cry, moan, flip and scream, but I don’t scream back. Angry and surprised they look at me. They grunt, frown, and then turn quiet. I smile. I am relaxed.

Cakes in a pan

One by one I take the orange bags from the man in purple. Tijm and Linde grab them, and drag them to the kitchen. Bags full, of milk, yogurt, flour, eggs, fruit and cheese. And much more.
‘This one’s too heavy, mummy,’ Tijm puffs, lopsided.
I take the sixteen pints of milk off him and pick up three bags of satsuma’s.
‘I wanted those!’ he screams, and snatches them back.
Cheerfully they run, back and forth, until the kitchen is lined with shiny orange bags.
When I want to take the carton of eggs the man pulls back his hand.
He observes the box. ‘One is broken,’ he concludes.
He puts it back in it’s crate.
I stick out my hand. My eggs?
‘One has broke. I’ll get you a refund.’
He scribbles on a piece of paper.
I don’t want a refund. I want my eggs.
‘There are still eleven left,’ I point out. ‘And I need them.’
He grins his crooked teeth. ‘I am supposed to send them back. But here, take them. For free. They’ll only bin them. You’ll need your eggs today.’
‘What’s special today?’ I ask.
How can he know what’s on the menu?
‘Well, off course. It’s pancake day!’

How could I forget. I blogged about it last year, on my dutch website, how this lovely English tradition of finishing all your eggs, milk and sugar before Lent starts was so sweet. How the shelves full of lemon, flour, and big banners made sure everyone knew. But not me, this year, me, who can’t face dragging three kids to the supermarket and orders everything online. I had planned something else. Also cakes. Also from a pan.

There are many little cakes and fritters that you can fry up. Children and adults alike will love them. They are an excellent weaning food for little ones, as well as a good way of getting vegetables into picky toddlers.

Latke, Jewish potato pancakes, are simple and tasty. You can eat them on their own, as a starter or side dish. With sour cream or apple sauce.


Potato latke

Potato
Egg
Pepper, salt, oil

Peel and grate the potato.

Now comes the most important part, you have to squeeze out excess water. This can be done in a muslin cloth (the baby ones are perfect) by wringing out as much as you can. If you do not do this your latke will go soggy and fall apart. Then add the egg, roughly one per half a kilo of potato. Season to taste. If you like you can add a little (potato)flour, to make them easier to bake, but you don’t need to. Fry the latke by dropping a heaped spoonful in hot oil and squashing in place with the back of your spoon. Fry until crispy on both sides and serve hot.
You can vary by adding other vegetables, for instance carrot, onion or parsley.

Anything fried and frittered is very popular in our household, and I make many different versions. For my children the following recipe, which is a combination between a latke and a pancake using various vegetables, is a favourite. The recipe below uses courgette, but you can basically use any type of grated, chopped or pureed vegetable. For instance carrot, spinach, sweet potato, squash or whatever takes your fancy. To make them a full meal add some cheese or tinned mackerel and serve with sour cream or cream cheese. As in our families we cope with different food intolerances we make them with glutenfree buckwheat flour and soy milk. But any type of flour and milk will work.


Courgette fritters

1 courgette
small cup of milk
around a cup of flour
2 eggs
1 teaspoon baking powder
green herbs to taste (parsley, thyme, coriander, …)

Mix the milk, flour and sugar into a think batter, add more milk or flour if necessary.

Grate the courgette and mix it in. The exact ratio does not matter, you can make them more pancake, or more fritter . Season with pepper, salt and whatever herbs and spices you like. Scoop spoons into hot oil to form little pancakes and fry them golden in a few minutes.