A shirt for all generations

I’d forgotten about the shirt.

“Where did you find that shirt?” I asked, feeling like I might lose my balance. “That’s my Dad’s shirt”.

“Yeah, I found it in the dress up box” he replied.

Why my fourteen year old son, with his strong sense of “cool”, should be fossicking in his childhood dress up box was unclear. But there he was, wearing my father’s old checked flannelette shirt. 

. . . . . .

My father died twenty years ago today. His big, generous, under-functioning heart finally burst, sending him slumping onto the kitchen floor.  My mother and my sister were there when he fell.  My sister, the only one of my parents’ four children to still live at home, called the ambulance. She was fifteen. Meanwhile Mum crouched beside the man she’d shared her life with for over thirty years and urged him to hold on. The ambulance officers took Dad futilely to the local Accident and Emergency Department, muttering unconvincing, non-committal words of vain hope to my mother and sister. Shortly afterwards, my brothers and I received head-spinning phone calls and we independently began our journeys home.

Life without our father began.  

I miss him, although it’s no longer the acute, furious, wretched sense of loss that it once was. It’s become more of a fond recollection of times shared. And a dull regret for opportunities missed.

Two other brothers. My dad (left) and his brother, circa 1940



Mostly, I regret that I haven’t been able to share my sons with my father. I despair that I never got to hand them to him when they were newborns. I didn’t get to see him rock them awkwardly for the first time or hear him say quietly “Huh. Hello mate”.

I can almost conjure a picture of him wrestling playfully with two young boys before swinging them onto his towering shoulders as they shriek in delighted fear, just as he did with my brothers decades earlier. But it wasn’t to be.

The blazer. First grade premiers 1958

I hate that he never stood on a football sideline and cheered his grandsons on to Under 6 glory. I’m sad that he’ll never know that one of those grandsons recently captained a Junior Varsity team in an international competition on the other side of the world, where we now live. Dad played first grade football sometime last century, well before I was born. His club blazer hangs in the “Heritage Items” department of my wardrobe, right beside the wedding dress he didn’t see me wear. He should have seen me wear it. He should have seen his grandsons play football. He should have at least kicked a football around the backyard with them.

How proud he would have been of their passion for football; how he would have delighted in their interest, their determination, their dedication, their sportsmanship, their resilience. When Kleine Jongen returned from a trip to the UK earlier this year, having watched his beloved Liverpool FC win a Premier League game, I desperately wanted him to be able to phone my Dad, also an ardent Liverpool FC fan, and talk him through play by play (only partially because it would have saved me from needing to hear a play-by-play description of the entire ninety minutes myself).

“Did you see the Liverpool result from yesterday?” he’d ask. “ I was there! Did you see that second goal? Nah, it wasn’t offside. No. Yes. I know. But he did the same in the second round game last year. Mmm, should have been a red card. Maybe. But I think they should have played him up front. Oh well, at least they’re second on the table now”.

And so it would have gone on. And on. And on. Our phone bill would have been astronomical. I wish.

I wish my boys had had the chance to go to the Sydney Cricket Ground with Dad during long hot Australian summers. I wish he’d seen them swaggering to the crease and wielding the willow themselves in their own neighbourhood on countless Saturday mornings. Whenever I hear the excited trill of a cricket commentary, I picture them all sharing a companionable silence in front of the television, slinging occasional sledges at the Poms and chuckling at the combined familial wit and wisdom that they shared. Ned Nederlander would have been there too. He only met my dad a few times, but his comments and stories now make a brilliant contribution to keeping Dad’s memory alive. When we talk about him with the boys, we call him by his first name. He’s Graeme. My mother gets annoyed by that, wants them to call him Poppy, like the other grandchildren do. She thinks it is disrespectful to call their grandfather by his first name. On the contrary, I think it conveys huge respect. Our boys know that their maternal grandfather is a man called Graeme who died too soon. He’s not an unknown old dead bloke with a generic title. He’s a real bloke whose legacy includes a couple of boys who know they would have been adored by him.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that my boys had had to endure their grandfather’s unpredictable musings on politics and current affairs. I would have loved to have seen them gradually realise over the years that his infuriating switching of arguments mid-tirade was a cunning ploy to show them how to understand different viewpoints. It’s a life lesson valued highly by my siblings and me, albeit only now that we are adults. But my boys won’t ever learn that from him.

Nor will they ever learn how it feels to be held as unwilling prisoners in the back of a car on a long road trip with my father behind the steering wheel. They will never know the agony of being forced to listen to him reciting stanza after stanza after stanza of Australian poetry, as we drove for hours along  Australian country roads. Or worse, listen to him singing. Oh, Lord the singing. How many times in my youth did I desperately want to hurl myself from a moving vehicle in order to escape my father’s singing? And how broad would my smile be if I knew he was torturing his grandsons with his automotive baritone renditions today?

Each time I hear Grote Jongen’s articulate diatribes about some obscure topic, I marvel at how debating skills can be handed down from dead grandfather to living grandson with never a moment shared between them. Each time I see Kleine Jongen pick himself up after a disappointment and calmly and resolutely dust himself off, I marvel at how emotional strength can be handed down from dead grandfather to living grandson with never a moment shared between them. Not a single moment.

But earlier this week I was reminded that they share a lot. They share a heritage. Grote Jongen came home from football training, showered, dressed and came downstairs for dinner. He walked casually past me and sat down. I gasped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Where did you find that shirt? That’s my dad’s shirt”, I smiled nervously.
 
“Yeah. Found it in the dress-up box”, he replied casually.

Thankfully, even though he knew its pedigree he didn’t wear it with a spirit of reverence or solemnity. He wore it with a silly grin on his face and not the slightest bit of sentimentality.
 I was torn between giggling and snivelling. Then, with a flash of emotional perception that defied his years, my boy-man strode towards me and enfolded me in a wordless, spontaneous embrace. For a brief frozen moment, an old checked flannelette shirt with a tattered collar and a rip in one sleeve entwined three generations.

Then he was gone, back to the digital world of a fourteen year old boy, leaving me standing in the kitchen inhaling a heady concoction of childhood memories, maternal pride and gratitude. I realised that my son – Graeme's grandson - is suddenly mature enough, tall enough and broad enough of shoulder to wear an old man’s shirt without looking like he’s playing dress-ups. And it occurred to me that it is indeed a shirt for all generations.

Have a safe flight

I am what is known in the business as a nervous flier. Apparently, I have an over-active Newtonian Gravitational Theory gland. My condition means that I simply cannot accept that big things will stay up in the sky for up to half a day. Especially really big things weighing several tonnes. Especially really big things weighing several tonnes that are carrying my family.

One of the symptoms of my condition is an obsession with safety instructions. I hang on every word of them. I count the rows to my nearest exit, often before I sit down "bearing in mind that it may be behind me". I study the safety card which is handily located in the seat pocket in front of me.  In fact I am quite confident that should an emergency ever arise, I will have those plane doors open and slides activated before anyone can say "So, old Isaac was right".

Admittedly, my confidence in my emergency response skills was a little shaken on a recent flight. Whilst casually perusing the safety card, Kleine Jongen noted that in the event of a crash landing, I might be challenged. "Huh, look at this Mum", he smirked. "It says here that you should only open the plane door if you have a clear view of your external surroundings after a crash."  He paused for dramatic effect. "Apparently, you should NOT open the door if you can see water, smoke, or fire outside the aircraft, or if trees or other objects are impeding your exit," he warned.

At the time, I had been surreptitiously feeling under my seat to ensure the promised life jacket was in place, but his announcement stopped me in my tracks. "What do you think our chances are of good visibility immediately following a crash?" I squeaked.

He smiled and shrugged. Children can be so cruel.

On another occasion, I glanced over at Grote Jongen, who was sitting across the aisle from me on a plane preparing for take-off. The safety briefing was being delivered. As usual, and because apples don't fall far from trees (just ask Mr Newton ...) Grote Jongen was riveted to every word of the safety briefing.

Only joking; he was riveted to the very electronic devices that the cabin crew were suggesting should be turned off. I immediately pressed the call button. "Excuse me!" I yelled to the cabin attendant. "That boy hasn't switched off his mobile phone even though you clearly asked everyone to!!!"

At least I wanted to do that. For my own comfort and safety during the remainder of my life, I decided to instead shoot Grote Jongen one of my aeronautical maternal death stares. This is similar to a terrestrial maternal death stare, only more desperate, with impossibly high eyebrows, panicked hand gestures and silently mouthed cross-aisle threats.

Temporarily defeated, I slumped in my seat and waited for the clatter and jolt as we careered off the end of the runway, certain that our take-off was about to be rendered completely ineffective due to "interference with the aircraft's navigation system". Interference potentially caused by my defiant son.

When it became fairly clear that on this occasion we seemed to be taking off without incident, I switched to waiting - somewhat desperately - for the clatter and jolt of the drinks trolley instead. 

While I waited, it occurred to me that De Jongens are cruising down the runway of life. They, and we, know that very soon they are going to be soaring on their own.  Right now, they are magnificently and naively confident in their own flying abilities, in a way that I envy. As young adolescents, De Jongens pretty much believe they are just about ready to fly solo. To make this point they have a tendency to push buttons - generally mine - like pilots carrying out a pre-flight check. Between them, they manage to test the responsiveness and effectiveness of every control in the parental cockpit. Multiple times.

It struck me (where IS that drinks trolley??) that an adolescent, impatiently preparing for take-off, could take many useful life lessons from an aircraft safety briefing, particularly one lovingly prepared by a nervous flyer with a vested interest in the safety of her passengers.

So I offer the following advice to my gorgeously, frustratingly, impressively invincible boys, as they gather speed on the runway of adolescence, ready to embark on the tricky flight to adulthood.

"Good morning and welcome on board flight 1214 to adulthood. Ned Nederlander and I are the head stewards on your flight. We are here to ensure your safety and to assist you to get the most out of life while making a constructive contribution to society. In that regard, please be aware that we are entitled, under the Parental Aviation Act, to use reasonable force to stop you engaging in behaviour that is deemed at any time by us to be "stupid". It will be a more pleasant and comfortable flight for all of us if you simply accept that. However, since we know that you won't accept it, please keep listening. That includes the boy in seat 11A still playing on his phone, and the boy in Seat 11B who is laughing at his quivering mother.
 
While we are happy (at times convenient to us) to dispense drinks, snacks and in-flight entertainment, you will increasingly be expected to adopt a self-service mentality. Therefore, we ask you both to be aware that misuse of the "Call" button on this flight will not be tolerated.
 
Your seat belt should be fastened low and tight.  That is, your attachment to your family should not necessarily be on display for everyone to see (we understand that that gets embarrassing when you are at cruising altitude), but it is best to maintain a comfortable connection at all times.  Even though you might doubt the need for it at the moment, the familial seatbelt is one of the most effective security devices,  particularly in times of unexpected turbulence.
 
Please store all your adolescent baggage in the overhead lockers during take off and landing, to prevent others from tripping over it. By all means take it down during the flight and do whatever it is you need to do to deal with it. Of course, Ned and I will be happy to help you deal with it, but we suspect that we are probably the source of much of it, so you might not find our assistance particularly helpful. In any case, please take great care when opening the overhead lockers, as your baggage might have shifted during transit, and metamorphosed into something quite unrecognisable.  There is a high probability that it could injure other people if it falls out unexpectedly. The cabin crew will be happy to dispose of any unwanted baggage at the end of the flight.
 
Electronic devices should be switched off whenever we ask you to, as they can interfere with personal navigation systems. Instead of texting and playing mindless games, may we suggest that you work on developing the art of a spontaneous face to face conversation; one that can't be edited or deleted at your convenience. Or stop and ponder something of a non-digital nature. Or do absolutely nothing for a while. Better still, do your homework.
 
Fit your own mask before helping others. If you do not look after yourself, you can not expect to be of much use to others. Be kind to yourself. Figure out what's great about you - see Ned or me if you'd like a starter list; we are your greatest fans and after observing you both for many years in the departure lounge, we have gathered very long lists of your attributes.
  
Should there be a need to change direction suddenly, or undertake an emergency landing, which is common on flights to adulthood, you will hear the command "Brace, brace".  If this happens during the flight, plant your feet firmly on the floor, hold your head in your hands, stow that damned electronic device under the seat in front of you and await instructions from the cabin crew.  We are trained in emergency responses and will usually be able to get things back on track relatively quickly.
 
Now please, settle back, relax and enjoy your flight. Ned and I will try to do the same, which should help all of us on board this flight.
 
Finally, thank you for all the times you make this steward's heart soar. Thanks for the times when you lift me above my own fears and you help me to fly at my best. It's a pleasure to have you on board."

Flight 1214 ready for take-off. Cabin crew, arm the doors and cross-check.

The king of all marketing campaigns

I have learned this week that an impending royal inauguration can turn the mundane act of grocery shopping into a thing of joy and wonder.
 
I'm not particularly fond of grocery shopping.  I cope with it by sending myself into a Trolley Trance - a little known meditative state that sees me absent-mindedly strolling the aisles, half napping, half eyeing off the chocolate bars, looking at all the pretty colours, until I end up at the check-out with a full enough trolley.  It is generally only after I return home that I realise I purchased everything except the very item I went in to buy. As a consequence, and to avoid returning to the supermarket too often, I have developed an enviable level of domestic culinary agility, including the production of low down family favourites such as fish stew with sausages (but no fish), lasagne-less lasagne and herb-crusted lamb with missing herbs.
 
Having said that, grocery shopping in the lowlands has been extra challenging for me. Although there is no shortage of supermarkets, they are typically quite small, with aisles that are really too short  and too few in number to induce a sustained Trolley Trance. Most Dutch supermarkets also stock a limited range of products, which can at times necessitate visiting three different stores in order to source all of the ingredients required for a simple meal.  This often invokes a growling Trolley Troll, rather than a peaceful Trolley Trance.

Adding to the complexity, the Dutch approach to product placement is something I have not yet been able to fully understand. It takes quite a bit of skill to work out that the pineapple rings will be beside the corned beef and bottled frankfurts . . . on the off chance that you might be in the market for bottled frankfurts.

It's also handy to know that the spring rolls can be found next to the icy poles in the freezer section.

 

And that the laundry detergent is beside the pet food, which is conveniently located next to the potatoes.

But all of my petty frustrations with Dutch supermarkets evaporated this week. It seems there's nothing like a big Dutch occasion for bringing out the very best in the big Dutch marketing departments.

To give you an example, and to get you in the mood, let me backtrack a few months. I feel it's not too insensitive, now that the national devastation has eased a little, to highlight one of my favourite examples of Dutch marketing brilliance.  One particular personal hygiene manufacturer added to the anticipatory frenzy and performance pressure on the Dutch national football team during last year's European Cup by producing toilet paper printed with cute orange football-kicking dogs and the encouraging words "hup Holland hup". Ned Nederlander took a roll back to Australia for a friend who gave it to her 12 year old son, with instructions that it was to be put on his special "treasures" shelf, never to be used. It was cute; we all felt a little guilty using it for its intended purpose. The fact that Holland got well and truly poohed on in the opening round made it even more special.

But it's Queens Day that really gets the creative juices going in marketing departments. Especially a Queen's Day with a baton change between a mother and her son.  Inauguration-inspired grocery marketing has made supermarket shopping fun again.

I nearly fell into my trolley when I spotted this gem yesterday.

Talk about taking advantage of the extended cold weather - just rug up and make a nice big pot of King's Soup.  Five hundred grams of carrots, an orange capsicum, a brown (let's call it gold) onion, a couple of gold-wrapped stock cubes, an orange, and a sprig of rosemary, all together in a right royal orange packet. Had I been asked, I would have suggested they add a sweet potato.

The next aisle brought more jewels.  The 30 April (Queens Day) edition of cream of tomato soup. Note the little crown on the left of the label, because let's face it, tinned soup makes anyone feel like royalty, right?  On the right of the photo you can also make out a lovely biscuit tin bearing Queen Beatrix's face. So many collector's items, my trolley runneth over.

The biscuit manufacturers are clearly pursuing a strategy of packaging diversity. Not only have they produced a lovely tin with Queen Beatrix's smiling face (above), but they have also produced one with Wil-Al and Maxima (right), which is certain to appeal to younger generations. Personally, I couldn't choose between them so I had to get five of each.

I was truly delighted to also find that the local coffee makers weren't going to be left behind in the marketing stakes, offering a free unique spoon, and some special orange packaging for Tuesday's coronation.

And should you like a small treat to accompany your coffee, may I recommend King's Waffles?  Same recipe as last week, but a different - orange of course - packaging.



It's almost too obvious, given that we are celebrating the Oranje-Nassau family's rule, so I shouldn't have been surprised to discover that orange juice was not immune from the Queens Day treatment either. Like so many things in life, it benefits from the addition of a little French flair because after all, "sinaasappelsap" is a word somewhat lacking in regal grandure. So, if we call it jus d'oranje for a week, and add a crown to our logo, who knows what might happen?





For comparative purposes, the non-coronation packaging is also shown (right). The subtle addition of a crown is obviously perceived to be the key to a good logo upgrade.



  

The canny manufacturers of this bottle of €4.99 merlot seem to be targeting those with a taste for understated elegance and an inability to recognise that floral undertones are not usually associated with merlot. All power to them.

 



 

Of course, as any Marketing 101 student will tell you, the real test of a successful campaign is being able to sell something that consumers didn't even know they needed.

 

So, I've saved the jewel in the Koningennedag marketing crown for last. Orange revellers, I give you Royal W's. 

 

Who knew that we all needed something as unbelievably brilliant but undeniably essential as Royal W's? Of course we do. I certainly hope we do, given the number of packets that I squeezed into my shopping trolley! What an honour it must be for a king to have a "savoury corn snack with a cheese taste" produced in the shape of his initial.

Inspired by all of these irreverent Dutch marketing types, I find myself desperately hoping that the Duchess of Cambridge gives birth to a son. I trust that her people will approve my application to use a photo of Prince William and his son on the label of my gourmet bottled frankfurts range, to be sold under the "Little Willy" label.

Wachten, wachten

Waiting . . . waiting. Only two more sleeps.

The excitement in Amsterdam has been palpable in the past few months, as we all count down to the re-opening of the Rijksmuseum, the iconic national museum that invited the painters and decorators in ten years ago. Ten years. Really? That’s one year more than it took to build the thing.

There’s a part of me that can’t help wondering just how good I might look after a ten year restoration program. And a €375 million expense account.  I consider myself incredibly lucky to have had a one hour massage and a half hour facial on  two consecutive days over Easter.  I thought about following up with a pedicure on day three, but with temperatures still below 10^oC here, and a strong likelihood that I’ll be in boots for a while longer, I thought it a little self-indulgent. 

Anyway, for months now, the outside of the neo-Gothic Rijksmuseum has sported a huge, neo-digital clock, counting down to the neo-opening day and generating a level of anticipation that this country probably hasn’t seen since the ultimately devastating (from a Dutch perspective at least) World Cup Final of 2010. That ended in a 1-0 defeat of the Netherlands during extra time by their historical arch enemy, Spain (who appeared keen to avenge their loss of the lowlands in 1648 following the eighty years war. Eighty years. Talk about extra time!) To add insult to injury, the Dutch football team was subjected to accusations of foul play, bad sportsmanship and unseemly conduct.  Same thing happened in 1648. It makes it even funnier to me that a firm of Spanish architects won the tender for the restoration of the Rijksmuseum. Neo-attitude.

The clock pronounces “Nachten Wachten”, or nights waiting, a witty reference to the museum’s priceless centrepiece – Nachtwacht (The Night Watch) by Rembrandt. I remember staring at that clock for several minutes one day, grappling with a possible translation at a time when my repertoire of Dutch verbs would have numbered no more than twenty (it's now rocketed to about twenty three).  Suddenly I experienced a memorable linguistic lightbulb moment, realising that “wacht” could translate as either watch or wait. Nights waiting . . . Nightwatch.  I laughed out loud as I realised, quite smugly, that I had understood the irony, and I looked with pity at the passing tourists whose heads it must surely be going over.

 

Hence I retain a strange affection for the gaudy, neon hoarding. Of course, it signifies my coming of age as an unstoppable linguist, Antipodean expert in 17th century Dutch art and all-round aficionado of cultural wit. Setting that aside though, the clock  provides a taunting reminder of the inefficiencies of modern construction – the renovation commenced in 2003 and was expected to take three years, not ten.  Had the clock been counting upwards, marking the days since the museum closed in 2003, it would today announce something like “Jullie hebben gewacht: 3,400 nachten”. You have waited 3,400 nights. Thanks for your patience.

The renovation has been stymied throughout by the usual tendering controversies, some major asbestos problems, the resignation of the museum director, a misplaced hammer and the day to day challenges posed by tinkering with any building that has its foundations below sea level. It is rumoured that there was also a major disagreement on tile colours and floor coverings, in common with domestic renovations all over the world.

On top of all that, the project managers seem to have forgotten to account for the Dutch tendency to overleg. This broadly translates as “to consult”, but in the case of the renovated Rijksmuseum, translated instead to a seven year overrun.  The Dutch, bless them and their egalitarianism and tolerance of alternative views, have a tendency to widespread consultation on most matters, particularly administrative and professional.  This can be a fabulous thing, whereby a culturally ingrained openness to different opinions leads to a genuine meeting of multiple minds, a robust tussle of ideas and the generation of some amazingly innovative solutions. On the other hand, poor Ned Nederlander, my innately inclusive but efficiency-driven man, is regularly frustrated in his Dutch workplace by the need to grin and bear yet another round of suggestions and comments from a large number of colleagues and unsuspecting passers-by on something that really should have been done and dusted and at the printers last week.

In the case of the Rijksmuseum renovation, some eighty licences needed to be sought, all requiring considerable overleg.  Don’t ask me why those licences didn’t need to be sought, consulted on, modified, agreed and granted before construction began.  

There was another stereotypically Dutch sticking point in the whole Rijksmuseum project; bicycles. You see a cycle path has cut through the middle of the museum, via an elegant archway, ever since it was opened in 1885. The path was temporarily closed off during the renovations. I can’t imagine the outcry such a closure must have generated.  Nor can I imagine the clamour (nor the over-overleg) that ensued when it was announced a couple of years ago that, come to think of it, the cycleway would need to be permanently closed.  Even as a relative newcomer to this country, I know that some issues just aren’t worth “overlegging” about, because you’re simply never going to win. The preposterous suggestion that cyclists should be forced to ride a few hundred extra metres around the museum, instead of pedalling straight through it, is one such issue.



As the museum's Collections Director noted after the cycling lobby emerged victorious from the discussions, "The bicycle is folkloric in the Netherlands. Touch the bicycle, and you touch freedom." 

What I believe he really wanted to say, but didn't (probably because he lacked my insight into cultural wit) was "Amsterdam cyclists are the hub of this city, and they have generated a chain reaction that has forced us to find a bespoke solution to this controversy, meaning we have had to back-pedal on our plans to saddle people with an extended route around the rim of the museum".

So bicycles, that most beloved and undisputed Dutch icon will once more wheel along the path that bisects the Rijksmuseum.  I am so pleased. The cyclists, and the collisions with pedestrians that the museum’s director is convinced will occur, will be on exhibition for museum visitors to observe through renovated glass walls, in what I personally think will be a magnificent piece of constantly moving art, which could well become the Rijksmuseum’s greatest contemporary masterpiece.

A right royal idea

The much loved Queen of the Kingdom of the Netherlands has announced that she will hand over the reins to the reign on April 30th. That is Queen's Day, already the biggest, most anticipated annual celebration in the Lowlands.  Hold on to your hat - or your crown - it is going to be one serious national party this year.

In the meantime, Queen Beatrix has given me an idea. I'm thinking I might abdicate too. I don't want to be in charge anymore. Someone else can do it.

Imagine; no more debating the merits of financial aid to struggling child nations as they battle to fund another electronic game. Someone else could deal with it.

No more smiling and waving through tumultuous family battles about the nation's education policies. Homework and academic grades would no longer be my concern.

No more protracted diplomatic missions to negotiate anything from an overdue hair cut for one of the princes, to a washing up roster, now that the royal dishwasher is on the blink. My successor would have to sort it all out without me.

No more defending the realm against foreign invaders. Actually, come to think about it, we've really enjoyed our foreign invaders this past year, so we might allow that influx to continue.

No need to put up with the destabilising political antics of young wannabe usurpers to the family crown. They can have it.

But who to abdicate to? Grote Jongen would appear to have a hereditary entitlement to the position but I fear he is not yet up to the job. When his father, Ned Nederlander, ventured the suggestion this evening that we might do some right royal family camping in spring, Grote Jongen looked disdainfully at him and said "Nah, you and Mum go. Just leave us a big packet of pasta. We'll be right". However he regained some of my confidence this evening when, on bidding him goodnight, I shared the idea of my possible abdication with him.  He immediately sat up and said excitedly, "Well when I'm King of the family, I will immediately ban housework Mum". I was momentarily thrilled until I realised he was referring to "huiswerk", the Dutch word for school homework. His hastily added "No, no, listen: housework AND huiswerk will both be banned, and punishable by death" did little to reassure me.



Kleine Jongen making an earlier claim for sovereignty

Kleine Jongen, on hearing my plans, simply said "Yeah, well I'm already the boss of this family." Typical youngest child.

Meanwhile, in the House of Orange, Prince Willem-Alexander, soon to be King Will-Al will be the first bloke to be in charge here in the Lowlands for over a century.  His mother, grandmother and great grandmother have all added a highly successful feminine regal touch during the past century. Even his great-great grandmother had a go at the job for a while, holding the royal fort for a couple of years following the death of her husband King William, and prior to the coming of age of their daughter. Will-Al will have his work cut out for him following such a string of compassionate, intelligent, strong-willed women. Fortunately he has a fabulously compassionate, intelligent, strong-willed partner, not to mention three daughters, to help him adjust to his new role.

The same gender blip would apply in my family should either of De Jongens take over after decades of female rule.  Heaven knows my maternal grandmother, Queen Kathleen, was undeniably the ruler of her Mossman Street palace, wielding a wooden sceptre like nobody's business. Come to think of it, I believe it was a wooden spoon, but then again I also recall her wielding plates of scones with lashings of cream and homemade jam too. And hugs.

Kathleen's daughter, my own mother, was also not one for letting her prince tell her how things should be done, although she was known to call on him when she felt that some form of king-sized discipline needed to be dispatched. Threats of "Wait til thy royal father gets home" generally restored order to our familial palace fairly quickly during times of unrest. But through it she taught me the importance of ruling with your heart as well as your head. And on the whole, my father expertly played the good-humoured, supportive royal consort, winning the hearts and minds of all in the realm at the same time.

I cannot possibly comment on my own approach to managing my kingdom. But I will admit that as the eldest daughter, and with some formidable maternal forebears, it's possible that I am living proof that apples don't fall far from the tree.  Or if I might be so bold, jewels don't drop far from the crown . . . ?

Strong women rule!

Queen Beatrix's abdication has surprised few. It's Dutch pragmatism, palace style. In her speech this evening announcing her decision to down the crown, she reassured the nation that her son had undergone intense preparation for the role, and that he was more than ready to take it on.  Interestingly, she also pointed out that she thought his wife was good to go too.

That's more than you can say for me and my likely successors, so ever the control freak, I have decided that my loyal subjects need me in charge for a little longer. This Dutchess is unceremoniously withdrawing her notice of intention to abdicate.

Disaster averted

One of the great and unexpected joys of moving to the Lowlands has been watching De Jongens make new friends and settle into their new school "home". My happiness has been amplified because I know that a little over a year ago, their greatest fear about leaving the safety of the only house and schoolyard they had ever known was that they would be friendless loners for years to come. 

In their minds, they were certain to be banished to the bleakest corner of the new school's badlands by the sinister playground incumbents.  For De Jongens, the potential for rejection was terrifyingly and understandably real.  Of course, I knew that would never happen ...it wouldn't ....would it?? I willed away the self-doubt, that despised and destructive companion of the inexperienced ex-pat, which never discriminates between adult and child. Our children will make new friends; we are making the right decision; they will benefit from this experience. They will. Our whole family will. Won't they? Won't we? Maybe. I think so. I'm pretty sure. Yes, of course they will. Wait . . . maybe not . . . no . . . possibly . . . probably. Yes . . . yes . . .  yes . . . YES. 

Yes.

De Jongens didn't always share the breezy confidence that Ned and I pretended we felt.

Indeed in the lead up to our arrival in the Lowlands, De Jongens saw the threat of ostracisation in a foreign land as adequate justification for parental torture.  To achieve this they employed a sanity-defying combination of histrionics, verbal abuse, paranoia and the recently-recognised (by me) Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Grote Jongen in particular gave new meaning to the term "Dutch Resistance" by insisting with boring (albeit heartbreaking) regularity that he faced certain social ruin, and therefore would simply not be getting on the plane to "damAmsterdam".

In comparison, Kleine Jongen said nothing as we prepared for the move, stoically internalising his own disaster scenario in a way that his busy and preoccupied parents completely failed to notice at the time. Only months later, from a position of steady self-assuredness did he confess to having been terrified. He learned the hard way that the squeaky wheel is the one that gets the grease. We learned that a hitherto unrecognised level of retrospective parental guilt was possible.

Yet, after only one day at their new school, they both came home with a long list of neo-mates, some of whom were instantly nominated as potential "best friends", while others were simply noted as candidates for future birthday party invitations. During subsequent weeks, the title of New Best Friend was freely awarded and regularly modified, in a delightful display of flexi-camaraderie. New names were bandied about the dinner table each night, with the primary selection criteria appearing to be a willingness to kick a ball during break times and wield a game controller after school. Shared linguistic abilities appeared irrelevant, proving the old adage that all people smile in the same language.

Sometime around the end of week 2, Grote Jongen casually announced that he would quite like to stay until the end of Grade 12, so June 2017, and furthermore he might stay here by himself if we returned to Australia before he was ready to join us.  At that point, Ned Nederlander and I exchanged an incredulous glance, each knowing that the other was weighing up the pros and cons of either running away from home or mounting a legal action against our own children. Both seemed perfectly reasonable and justifiable options.

During the year that has followed, both boys have experienced bouts of excitement, invincibility and exhilaration. In between times they have also endured the usual emotional bumps and stumbles and the ongoing realignment of the playground and sporting arena politics that mark any journey through adolescence. I'm guessing it's the same in any country in the world; resilience training at its best. 

At the same time, and somewhat unexpectedly, Ned and I have endured some resilience training and realignments of our own; some truly tectonic adjustments of our domestic arena as De Jongens have insisted on growing up and becoming the independent souls that we always claimed we wanted them to be. It's been an unexpected challenge, this task of producing grounded young men whilst living on the opposite side of the world to those who know us all best. Emotional bumps and stumbles indeed!

Like De Jongens, Ned and I have relied on friends to help us adjust to our strange new world. Old friends who know us well, and new friends who are quickly learning, have imparted encouragement, advice, sympathy, ridicule, dismissiveness, diversions and wine in just about the right proportions. Thank you all.

Next week, several new families will walk into the foyer at our  school, just as our family did a year ago. No doubt their collective hearts will be thumping, just as ours were. I will be encouraging our boys to seek them out and still their thumping hearts.  

Paying it forward has never seemed so apt.