Lilac Colored Glasses

Yup, I went there. With nearly 3 years of blogging under my bloggy belt, I’ve decided to do the “end of the year best of” post. You can thank me next year.

In January I held my head up high despite someone disagreeing with a major decision I made in my past.

In February I ran a month long series about circumcision (a.k.a. Friday For Skin) and I also dealt with some antics from our two kitties.

March I had some toilet issues.

We went to Pittsburgh in April so there were some guest posts, but I did have something to say about anger management.

May was a tough month. I worked for two weeks cleaning houses and then was fired. But in my traveling to different houses, I made some interesting observations. Oh, and I also fell down a flight of stairs.

June may have been one of the most eventful months of the year. My blog was majorly hacked (but fixed, thanks to CB), Rex found himself a crush, I took (and failed) a language exam to work for the city of Gent (found out later I didn’t need to take it), and we booked the location for the Belgian wedding reception. So I decided to point out a few good posts that seemed to melt into the background.

In July I worked a trial week in a disgusting daycare in Wondelgem but was not given the job (or the pay that was owed me until about 2 months later). But that wasn’t the best thing I wrote that month. And on the plus side, I ended up meeting a cool American living in Gent.

I reminisced a bit in August, amongst several photo filled outings.

September brought employment!!! Woohoo! And it also brought a confession of naiveté.

In October I was “put in charge” of the newest creche in my company and I had another trip to Pittsburgh, sans CB. You could tell my outlook was a bit brighter by posts like this.

In November my posting was scarce, but I did manage to have some fun bashing the Brits for their irrational smearing of Herman Van Rompuy.

Which brings us to December. Again, posts are scarce, but that seems like the norm now that I’m working full time in Brussels. This month I took a few minutes to help someone in need. Which I think we all need to do a bit more of this upcoming year.

Anyway, my best and brightest new years wishes to you all. Be safe, be healthy, and I’ll be seeing you in 2010!!

Ah, the first snowfall of the year! I love it! Last year the first snow was in November while my parents and brother were visiting but this year it held off until today. And what a great snow!! Perfect, huge fluffy flakes that ended up accumulating to a few inches or so. I took a quick walk to the corner store on my break just to hear the squeaking crunch under my feet and to feel the soft feathery chill on my cheeks.

Three of the children (Peanut, Drama Queen and Spazz) were old enough to be totally amazed by the layer of white that was quickly piling up on our back terrace. They even got an afternoon cookie from us kindly grownups to celebrate their first snowfall. It’s funny that I hate the cold but love snow so much. Somehow, snow seems to take the edge of the bitterness of a cold winter. It turns even the most mundane things into something beautiful and special.

It even has the power to totally diffuse my would-be angry reaction to the total ineptitude with which Belgium handles their 2-3 snowfalls per year. Cause this few inches of snow caused amazing traffic, the cancellation of all inter-city trains and the sidewalk to become a veritable ice skating rink. I got home about 2 hours later than usual. But the most acidic thing I could think of to say to CB about it was that I couldn’t understand why no one ever thought to invest in a bag of rock salt. I was really too busy walking around in a winter wonderland (and trying to stay on my feet and not break my face on the ice) to care much about the delays. It just gave me more time to be happy about the first snow.

A long time ago, a much younger me told my father that he was something beyond my father. He was an enigma.
Yes, I told my father that he was an enigma.
And to me he was.

He wasn’t like the other fathers I knew. He didn’t wear a suit and tie to work, he never went fishing or golfing, he never drank a beer during the Steelers game or got together with “the guys” for a poker night or anything like that.
He worked as an under appreciated furniture warehouse manager in the Hill District for most of my youth. He woke up at 4:30 am, had his coffee, put on one of his Wear Guard button down work shirts with his name embroidered on the chest, a apir of blue jeans and canvas sneakers and headed off to work before sunrise.
In the winter he’d often have cracks and slices in his weathered hands from breaking down cardboard boxes or unloading trucks but he never complained or went to the doctor. He never called off sick, even the time he accidentally stepped barefoot on a nail sticking up from the floor when our townhouse was being recarpeted. He just bandaged it up and went to work.
And as much as I loved my father, I guess I never felt like I fully understood him. When I was younger I worshiped him and admired his strange habits. I feared his temper and craved his approval.
When I grew older and started working and getting up earlier, I thought my father was a glutton for punishment, though I still harbored some admiration for his ethics and quirks. I avoided his temper and convinced myself I didn’t need his approval.

I am 28 years old.
Last Thursday I woke up at 5 am and as I was getting dressed for work, I stepped on a piece of broken ceramic tile on the bathroom floor and it punctured my foot. I ignored the pain, put on my polo shirt with the company name printed on the back, my black yoga pants and my old Sketchers, and was on my way to work before sunrise to my job as an under appreciated crèche demi-manager.

I enjoy waking up early and being alone with my thoughts in the darkness before most of the world wakes up. I like the fact that the people at the AMT Coffee kiosk in Saint Peters Station know how I like my latte now. I cringe sometimes because I recognize my temper and I require no one’s approval but my own.

And some days the understanding of my father’s ways is very clear to me. As clear as looking into a mirror.

Only without the mustache.