Dearest T,

The past year had gone by so quickly. Your baby phase is over and now that you are a toddler, we have a new set of struggles to overcome. I wouldn’t say that it had been a roller coaster ride because Mama finds roller coaster rides horrific.

Our first year together wasn’t all that bad. In fact you’ve shown me how to love unconditionally. And you are probably the only person on Earth I would do that for.

If there’s anything, the last year had been about learning and love. You’ve taught Papa and Mama the extremes of things, patience, weakness and strength, anger and joy, depression and happiness, hate and love. Most especially love. You’ve strengthen the love Mama and Papa have for each other. And our love for you is a unique, overwhelming and scary thing that we’re only starting to get a grip on.

I hope you don’t mind that we didn’t have a lavish celebration for your first birthday. That you didn’t have a balloon because Mama finds it unnecessary and only pollutes the environment (Papa tried to convince me otherwise). That you didn’t have a cake smash like all the other 1-year old of your generation. Remember Mama forbids you to play with your food? That’s the same idea sweetheart. Mama finds it utterly stupid to let babies smash a cake and waste it.

I was recently introduced to the new world of Dutch day care (kinderdagverlbijf or crèche). Here’s how it sounded (to an expat mom like) me.

Getting in
How nice you’re working, and full time too. You want to put your child in our day care?! Sure, get in line. We have a long waiting list but we couldn’t tell you how long. We also don’t answer emails. You have to call. But we don’t pick up the telephone either. Too busy.

You might want to register your child as soon as she’s born so you have a good chance of getting a place when she turns 1.

And while you’re at it, get your finances in order. You have a decent salary? Prepare to fork out at least €250/month (from your own pocket) for two days a week of day care.

This morning, as I was sitting in my fauteuil by the window, I watched my daughter tinker with the keys of the cabinet at the far end of the living room. She turned the key several times but didn’t realized she had already unlocked the door. She push and pulled the whole thing, shaking the vase, the jewelry box and all the knick-knacks on top of it, desperately hoping (I assumed) that something will fall. She gave up after a while and wobbled towards the kitchen where my mother was washing the dishes. I could hear her giggle when she opened the cupboard.

I watched this scene in silence, a few meters away, like some sort of film playing in someone else’s life. She is my daughter and my love for her had grown tremendously in the last year but that moment felt like it wasn’t mine, that I was an outsider looking into a dreamy clip.

The first time I got my period, my mother cut an old t-shirt into several rectangular pieces, piled them on top of each other and sew them on my underwear. I was the only one who knew about it but I was so embarrassed. Why in God’s name must I be made to wear this hideous thing when you can buy disposable ones?

For a kid who’s just about to start high school, the thoughy of my classmates finding out that I’m wearing pasador was terrifying. I could already imagine what they’ll say, especially the girls from the well-off families from town. “That’s so old-fashioned” and “disgusting”. Imagine having to touch all that blood while washing it. So I replaced the pasador with disposable pads.

After giving birth, it took me a while to get my regular period back. But as the amount of soiled diapers piled up (eventhough I’m using environment-friendly ones) , reaching for a piece of disposable sanitary pad gave me an overwhelming sense of guilt.

I‘m living relatively frugal (compared to a year ago) nowadays. I haven’t bought a single article of clothing, bag, or shoes, not even a cup of coffee at the train station since starting my No Spending Challenge in January.

Despite that my savings account is declining every day and I’m expecting it to drain at the end of the month. So where the hell is my money going?

Here’s what my bank account says
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