A Holiday of Flies, Friendships, and Small Goodbyes

I’ve been sketching Lotte again. This time with three baby peacocks behind her. Two follow her without question, the third looks back, curious, as if something might be there. Maybe it’s just curiosity. Maybe it’s a little mirror of her.

We just came back from a holiday. A camping trip. Our “home” for the week was a trailer that reminded me of those old pull carts that once crossed the American West. Only this one was made of wood, polished, and much more comfortable, though without the luxury of a shower or toilet. For that we had to rely on the communal blocks.

It was a petting zoo farm. Which meant Lotte could run, explore, and play freely, while goats, ponies, and rabbits kept her company. Flat fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Water to swim in was there too, though the northern winds made it far too cold for me. My role was simple: draw a little, read a little, and try to catch up on sleep.

But sleep didn’t come easy. The nights were wars. Our enemies: flies and mosquitoes. The first night was chopped up into battles fought half-asleep. By the second day, we armed ourselves with tools from the store, and our nightly routine became a sort of family ritual: hunt, trick, eliminate, and then collapse into bed. It turned into a strange form of bonding.

Days, however, had their own rhythm. Lotte made a friend. Instantly, they clicked, and I watched her run off with someone new, someone she trusted. At first, we kept close, reciting the rules: don’t just wander into strangers’ tents, and don’t forget about stranger danger. But slowly those fears loosened. By day three, it felt normal to open the trailer door in the morning, put a sandwich in her hand, and see her vanish into the fields.

There were tensions too. Communication between me and her hasn’t always been easy. I had hoped the holiday would soften that, but instead it followed us. Some days were lighter, some days heavier.

And then came her friend’s last night at the campsite. Already the evening before, Lotte was in tears, her emotions spilling out in ways that still overwhelm her. But she had a plan. At a snack run she picked out a unicorn book. I almost dismissed it until I saw it came with a necklace and two bracelets. She didn’t say anything then, but later she revealed her plan: one bracelet for her, one for her friend.

That evening they reunited, traded their little treasures, and for a moment everything felt perfectly balanced. Marshmallows toasted, hot chocolate in hand, we went into our nightly insect war once more.

The next morning was goodbye. Lotte asked me what she could say to her friend. I suggested something simple: maybe tell her how happy you are that you met or how fun it was to play together. She walked up to her alone, while I drifted a little further to give them privacy.

Then she waved at me. I thought she meant, "Come here, I need help." So I walked closer, ready to step in. But as I did, she made it clear: the wave wasn’t a call for help. It was a go-away.

And that’s exactly what I did.

These are the moments you can’t fix for your child, only walk alongside. Misinterpretations and all.

Her tears reminded me of when she was four. Back then, when one of her best friends left school, she carried the weight of that absence for months. The same pattern, the same depth of feeling. She carries friendships deeply, like treasures.

And yet, as kids do, she found her way back into play. We showed her the bunnies at the petting zoo she hadn’t seen yet. Within minutes she was smiling again, wrapped up in something new.

The week ended with a visit to Voorlinden Museum in The Hague. Beautiful. Dreamlike. I slept in the car there, and again on the way home, while Maya drove. Indonesian food filled the car with rich smells. Back home, we unpacked, collapsed on the couch, and that soft, familiar comfort returned.

Lotte grabbed her Switch, her usual spot reclaimed, and as she powered it on, the first words out of her mouth were:

“I wish she were here.”

She moves forward quickly, but part of her always glances back.

And then she played.