A BIRTHDAY IN BELGIUM

On the morning of the first day of my 37th year I awoke to the pitter patter of little feet. Two curly blondes smothered me in sloppy kisses and happy birthday mommas. I strolled the rainy streets of Belgium with my husband and my babies stopping for a coffee and a croissant at every bakerie we passed. There was a chill in the air and gloom in the clouds and fall felt wrapped all around us. I kissed everyone goodbye and wandered in and out of quirky shops alone. Bought myself a pair of birthday earrings. Sat in a warmly lit used book store amongst the tattered covers and listened to Tom Waits’ voice crackle. Sipped on cappuccino with fluffy hearts swirled over top and wrote and wrote and wrote about everything I felt. I blew out birthday candles with the people I love the most and ate chocolate cake with the most delicious $5 bottle of red wine. I spent the evening at a fancy pants Belgian spa and sat around in a steam room with a bunch of nude strangers (a weird but wonderful experience) and got a massage. It truly was the best day ever. Birthdays are funny things. Celebrations that mark the passing of your life. Pauses that make you reflect on where you’ve come from, what it took to get here, where that it is you’re going. I feel like I’ve taken a lot of big leaps throughout the years. Leaps that I thought would get me to the life I was dreaming of. Some of them were exhilarating and some of them were terrifying and some of them were heartbreaking and some of them were lonely. But I know now they have all been leading me to this point. I’m living that life I dreamed up, and it’s better than I could have ever imagined. I’m so grateful to be here. In this moment. With these people. The leaps are worth it. Magic is real.

Belgium has been lovely, but not without its moments. We’re staying in the town of Ghent, which was selected because of the very cool, yet affordable loft style airbnb we found. After a long travel day (and by long I mean the kind of body crippling exhaustion you can only feel after muscling children and luggage on and off public transportation for 6 hours straight) we arrived to check in just as dusk was falling and realized the loft was likely affordable because of the semi sketchy neighborhood in which it sat. We also realized we had failed to read the check in instructions, which a.) specified that no children were allowed in the dwelling and b.) required the filling out and signing of about 75,000 forms before access could be given to enter the apartment. We of course couldn’t get ahold of the landlord, airbnb customer support had a four hour wait, the kids were crying and it was starting to get dark. Brad and I looked at each other - both at a loss. This kind of thing is to be expected when traveling, and was fine when it was just the two of us, but man does it add a layer of intensity when you have two small kids with you. We decided to lug everything to the closest restaurant so we could at least feed the boys and be in a lit place while we figured out our next steps. The restaurant was Turkish and no one spoke a lick of English. After fuddling our way through the menu and ordering god knows what Brad finally got a call back from the landlord. We decided he’d take a bag and go figure out the check in and I’d stay back with the rest of our luggage and wait with the boys. He rushed off so quickly that I hadn’t even realized he had taken my phone with him - which let me tell you, makes you feel godamn naked and afraid when you’re alone at night in a bad part of town in foreign country with your kids. A half hour ticked by as we ate our dinner. Then another half hour. As the third half hour passed the kids were starting to loose their minds and I was starting to loose my shit. The apartment was a 7 minute walk away, it shouldn’t have been taking this long. Worst case scenarios started skipping their way through my mind. I tried to stay calm and promised myself that I wouldn’t truly freak out until 8:30. Then what would I do? Try to hand gesture my way through an explanation to the guy at the counter that my husband was missing? Even if I could convince someone to let me use their cell phone I couldn’t call him (our phones both can’t get incoming calls in Europe). Would a stranger help us get an Uber? Where would we go? The police station? A hotel? In this neighborhood? Alone at night? By 8:27 I was spiraling down a dark hole of possibilities. Then I shit you not, at 8:29 pm I caught a glimpse of Brad in the corner window and relief started welling up in my eyeballs. By the time he got to the table I was straight up crying and it took me a good 10 minutes in the bathroom to regain my composure enough to carry on. Turns out getting into the building was tricky.

By the light of day the neighborhood didn’t feel all so bad and an actually quite perfect place from which to explore Belgium. We spent the week bouncing around between Ghent, Antwerp and Bruges admiring the way vines crawled up the ancient brick buildings and quietly laughing at the large groups of men who bellow out tunes loudly in unison as they down lagers under the awnings at the local pubs. We ate French fries and waffles and beer and strolled past houses that looked like they were made of gingerbread and icing. We chased the boys around medieval castles and listened to Ketch giggle with a sort of unhinged glee at the sight of giant swords and suits of armor in display cases. We rode to the top of giant Ferris wheels and peered over cities while West clung to Brad in excitement. It’s been fun.

I didn’t know what to expect knowing Brad would be working in the evenings but it’s actually turned out to be really nice and we’ve fallen into our own kind of routine. We wake up and work out together - squatting and pushup-ing with two little monkeys crawling all over our backs. Then we all catch a train to somewhere and Brad explores with us all morning. We eat a big lunch and he leaves to go back to the apartment to work. I wander about with Ketch & West some more and then just have to figure out how to get us back home, wash em up, feed em a snack and tuck them into them to bed.

Being alone with the kids here is something I’ve gotten used to in baby steps. It felt a little scary at first, and I still feel like my head is constantly on a swivel, trying to figure out where we’re going and what train we need to catch while simultaneously making sure my toddler doesn’t dive bomb onto the tracks. And I think shuffling them on and off busses with the stroller in the point seven seconds you are given before the doors slam shut is something that may always make my heart pump a bit. They are wild things and trying to corral them around sometimes feels absolutely bananas. But it really has been such an amazing experience. One that has made me feel more confident and capable as a mother. And god I just love watching them take this all in.

One morning in Antwerp I ordered a coffee from a barista who was running around like he was on fire, serving everyone in the cafe. “Are you the only one here?” I asked, surprised he was juggling all of the chaos. “Yes,” he replied “but the craziness makes me feel alive.” And oh how I found that small sentence profound.

Me too, sir. Me too.

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