Friends came and went.
It was nice, but they are my husband's friends, having a shared history of university and youth and anecdotal people I will never meet or experience.
It highlights what I lack: a history here in the Netherlands.
My history no-one understands, and this translates into mouse-like, shrinking-wallflower behaviour.
I've changed over the years.
Everyone is busy being dynamic, but I have slowed down to a full stop.
My lack of ambition was glaringly obvious yesterday, ununderstood by the successful friends.
It's been a busy week.
Today a museum with the boys, then on to the in-laws.
I feel tired.
I'm tired of Europe, with its us-them discussions of borders and cultures and crises and the scary rise of populism with ISIS and bombings of Libya looming in the background.
Everyone has an opinion here, everyone expects to be heard.
The rise of the individual is holy, the group takes a sad second place.
I long to be part of collective gasps over outrages in a society that I understand and empathize with.
This, then, is the ongoing impact of immigration.
Always on the fringes.
It is one of those days where one longs to be 8 forever, where your parents are expected to be immortal and life is an endless series of games and bicycles and summer.