In the words of Shawn Carter, lyrical poet and creator of statements so true that they border on the mathematical, to mention just one: "I've got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one" (because I don't have a dog), anyway, in his words: thank you, thank you, thank you, you're far too kind. My last post, which for English-only readers has been translated and put to music by Denis Leary resulting in this song, unleashed such enthusiastic responses that I can't help but take to the stage again, grab that mic, drop it like it's hot because I can't hold on to anything these days, and spit down my next verse because that's what I do with excess saliva.

So how you feelin', G? Well, weak. I was trying to undo and tighten the velcro on my wrist-brace. Try as I might, I wasn't getting anywhere. Luckily, Anna was there to help me out. She pried it loose, tightened it with force I don't have anymore, and smiled the loveliest of smiles when she was done helping me. Anna is three years old. Then she gently touches the scar on my knee and asks: Au? No, it doesn't hurt. It's ok. Thank you.

It's been getting slower and slower, a keyboard;

my friends

it's not that i don't want to hear from you

au contraire

but i can't

move my fingers

fast enough to mail you all

In fact, I've been writing this post for two weeks, seriously, that's how slow it is nowadays. Although, truth be told, I did take some breaks between paragraphs. Ha! Only four more weeks before Zomer is due. The price of having the ability to swaffel is never knowing what being pregnant feels like… I envy Iris. I know a milder form of pregnancy; words and thoughts fill up my head and my belly and I can't get them out. How did communication get so difficult? Good thing help is on the way. Soon I will control a keyboard with my eyes. Interestingly enough, as an artifact of Dutch healthcare (note how I don't call it a healthcare system), the guy who designs my eye-control-solution is the same guy who sells it to me is the same guy who asks the insurance company for reimbursement IS THE SAME GUY who decides if it should be reimbursed. Governance best practice. Of course, he only sells one solution which is probably not the one I'm going to like best. But hey, it'll just be my only way of communicating with the outside world. At least our country pays for it…

But where was I? Oh right, pregnancy.

"We need a clothing iron."

"We have 2… "

"Yes, but they are 10 years old and broken."

"Perhaps they were broken because they were never used?"

"I'm buying a new one"

Ah, nesting instinct.. Cindy recalls this particular hormone: the only week in her life she ironed anything. Not that I'm complaining; if I can buy this nesting hormone and secretly feed it to Iris, the house will always be tidy and my clothes will always look beautiful.

"And the amuse for dessert is a small shake of elderflower." Somehow, the event where I was supposed to thank my colleagues got turned around and they spent the entire evening thanking me. We're in our favourite restaurant and the conversation turns to: how would you describe elderflower? I close my eyes and taste – the answer arises in my memory. Roadside. A small road somewhere in Limburg. I'm not even 8 years old, my big tall sisters are harvesting the little berries and warn me that they are poisonous until you cook them. Later, we taste the home-made elderflower syrup at dessert over semolina pudding. Youth is for storing pure experiences that creative and ambitious cooks can try to evoke later on in life. Imagine you never smelled a cave or a farm or smelly feet – how would you ever describe cheese? What would wine smell like if you had never raked leaves?

The youth of Zomer will be filled with as many different smells and sights as we can afford her to experience.

To conclude, here's a little riddle I wrote when we just got back from Mt. Ventoux, about a month ago already:

Not all paragraphs have to make sense on the first read though – I can already see you wondering, "What is this note?". Really, it's not that hard, it's a piece of cake. I'll give you a clue: it starts with Part II. That's where I'm at now – trying to make sure he can't get my soul. And Iris being here, that helps: baby, in this world of shit, you are it. It's all right. The next one isn't so easy though – jungle telegraph isn't a common phrase these days… Ah, Zomer, send me some lovin', I can't wait for you to come out. Even if I can't be there to defend you from some random bus stop boxer… you'll prove something to the world. Before we know it you'll be in puberty, you'll turn into a beautiful teenage witch. I dont think that I can resist… I'll stick around as a friendly ghost to help you out. You know what they say: if you're scared to die, you'd better not be scared to live. Now, on to Part I. Is this making sense yet or are you just waiting for it to end? Aw yeah (that's a free extra clue that actually messes up the schema). I'm tired, we  just got back from France – not that I did any work, it was all woman driving man sleeping. My job was just looking for the toll money to pay. It was such a fresh feeling, being out there on that Mt. Ventoux in the morning dew. I'm here to tell you about that whole ALS thing. As it turns out, that's not really funny. I almost always laugh but right now it's just getting annoying like nothing else, and that's scary, because if it can get annoying, what else can it get? Anyway, your final clue: remember that post "Life ain't pretty for a dog-faced boy"? Jesus can't save me, but the first full decryption will get a bottle of Dom Perignon.

Your answers in the comments please!