Pass the Dutchie

I’ve never had a problem grappling with the idea that I married a guy who is half Dutch—mother born in Holland and then raised there till the age of five—but what often causes me pause, is the fact that I now have Dutch children, even though I’m not Dutch myself. (I’m more Irish/Scottish, or mostly Canadian since my ancestors have been here since the early to mid-1800s). I am a fan of the Dutch, and the phrase “If it ain’t Dutch, it ain’t much” is one I’m fond of. The phrase “Dutch people: wooden shoes, wooden head, wouldn’t listen” also amuses me, but of course it’s not as nice.

I don’t like Dutch candies—the black licorice tasting ones with the salt—but I do like Dutch cheese (Edam—yum!), tulips, and Dutch athletes. There’s one great swimmer in particular: Peter Hoogen-can’t-spell-or-pronounce-it-Baum.

I have one rule about the Dutch. I never play Dutch Blitz with them. Dutch Blitz, technically speaking, is a German card game, but you should see the tremendous dexterity and swiftness with which my Dutch friends can snatch up cards and throw them down. I have never won a game. Never. So in accordance with this rule, if I decide to adhere to it, I won’t be able to play Dutch Blitz with my children. But I’m not too sorry about that, as they can play Dutch Blitz with their father, level playing field and all.

So the World Cup action is underway. As my husband is a huge sports fan and LOVES soccer, he finally decided that our car desperately lacked a Dutch flag, the kind of thing most people in the greater Toronto area have flying from their vehicles, respective of their soccer-playing countries of course. We had to look far and wide to find the flag; the malls don’t sell them. Instead, we stopped at a roadside flag vendor and my husband proudly spent $20 to buy the Dutch flag, which in his own words “kind of sucks.” (The flag, not the money spent, although I will note I have since found out that the wholesale price of the flags is $7.) My hubby thinks the Dutch flag is too generic and can be easily confused with the flag of Luxemburg and Croatia, among others. “Will people know it’s the Dutch flag?” he wondered out loud. “Sweetie,” I reassured him, “the right people will know.”

So there it is: we now have the Dutch flag flying proudly from the car. My husband broke the first one, so I went and bought him another. And it’s OK with me: after all, my kids are Dutch, as crazy as that seems to me. My son has beautiful blond hair, and blue eyes, and my daughter we’re not sure about yet. At four months old, her hair isn’t fully in, and her eye colour isn’t set. They’re blue now, but there’s a chance they will turn green and be like her mommy’s.