Cooling Off

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I wish it had been a leaking pipe.

Europe is melting. I’ve spent the week chasing air conditioning, buying ice cream and discovering that parenthood remains, somehow, a full-contact sport.

Anyway.

“Firetruck. Firetruck. In the firetruck, Mama. In. In.”

A proper heatwave has hit Amsterdam. Our top-floor apartment, which offers beautiful canal views for eleven months of the year, has transformed into a Finnish sauna with better real estate. So every morning, Mini-Us and I leave the house as quickly as possible and head for an air-conditioned indoor playground. We’ve been there so often this week that I now feel entitled to shareholder updates.

From the outside, it looks like children are the main participants. Once you’re inside the ecosystem, you realise nearly every child has a dedicated shadow. The child goes left, parent goes left. The child turns around, parent turns around. The child climbs something, parent begins a sentence with, “Careful…” It’s less playground and more Secret Service.

I assumed my son would spend his time playing with the other children. News flash: toddlers are not interested in networking. At least not mine. Every other child is a direct threat to whatever toy he’s currently holding. Another boy glances at it. Mini-Us looks up at me, outraged. His eyes say: Did you see that? The audacity. Then he clutches the toy to his chest and announces, “No Mama. Baby no.” The “baby” in question is a toddler approximately his age, standing three metres away.

And then, at some point, they recruit you.

Two hours into today’s session, I found myself sitting in a wooden firetruck wearing a plastic firefighter’s jacket and, obviously, the accompanying helmet.

“Tuut tuut.”

I am forty years old. I have travelled the world. I have held corporate jobs. I once developed sex toys for a living. And yet here I am, making siren noises on command, waiting for permission to leave the firetruck.

“Tuut tuut.”

Across the playground, dozens of other adults are doing exactly the same thing. Pushing toy shopping carts. Checking the ear temperature of an octopus plush toy. Building block towers they know will immediately be destroyed.

Nobody looks surprised.

Finally, the ticket pricing made sense. The playground charges €12.50 for the child. And €12.50 for the adult. At first, this felt outrageous. Now it feels completely fair.

We’re not supervising. We’re playing.

Bare Minimum

We created a person.

We didn’t realise we’d also be ending late-night summer ice cream walks.

So now they mostly happen at home.

An Italian gelato master would refuse to classify this as ice cream. Mini-Us remains wildly supportive, which is the opinion that matters most.

This week’s favourite: blend frozen mango, half an avocado, a few spoonfuls of Greek yoghurt, full-fat coconut milk, fresh lime juice, a little stevia to taste and a few thin slices of fresh ginger until smooth. Freeze for another 30–60 minutes.

Cold. Refreshing.

Italy would never forgive me.

Elevator Mom Diaries

Ting. No elevator tonight. We’re in Amsterdam.

It’s 9pm. I’m exhausted, but I head out anyway. “Dressed” is a generous description. I’m wearing the equivalent of a pyjama - not the chic Pinterest version, the old dusty one - paired with scruffy trainers and my husband’s jacket. Absolutely radiant.

I walk down the steep canal-house stairs and head towards one of my favourite ice cream shops in the city.

For years, my husband and I walked through cities together in the summer. Amsterdam. Berlin. Barcelona. Wherever we happened to be. We’d get ice cream and talk for hours about life and the future.

Now I buy the ice cream alone.

Because one of us has to stay home with the future.

He’s asleep.

Outro

This week I sat in a firetruck, committed culinary crimes against Italy, and bought ice cream for one.

Same summer.

Different life.

- X - Yasmin

See you Sunday, 9:00 CET