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# I’m Raising My Daughter in a Country That Didn’t Raise Me
- URL: https://www.tawnymagazine.com/im-raising-my-daughter-in-a-country-that-didnt-raise-me/
- Published: 2026-10-15T11:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-16T00:20:08.000Z
- Description: I grew up in the United States, but I'm raising my daughter in the Netherlands. Yes, it's as hard as it sounds.
- Author: Sarah Veldman
- Tags: Personal Stories, Motherhood, All Lifestyle

Last week, my daughter, who, by the way, is just 6 years old, corrected my Dutch pronunciation. I can never, and will never, be able to roll my R’s, but she does it with the precision of a true native speaker. The worst part was that she didn’t seem to think anything of it and said it with the calm, confident demeanor of someone who had seen this mistake before and probably will again. 

“Mommy,” she said, patting my hand.“It’s Rrrrregenboog (rainbow),” she said, then purred like a small cat as she rolled her R perfectly. I tried again, and it came out as a mix between a gargle and a sneeze. “Almost Mommy,” she said gently, as if trying not to hurt my feelings. That’s what you say to someone when it's the exact opposite of almost. Basically, I can order a coffee, argue with the insurance company, and read a rental contract in Dutch, but ask me to say the word “rood” while I roll my R’s without sounding like a pirate? Nope, not gonna happen. 

## Becoming “the foreign parent”

If you hadn’t already guessed, we live in the Netherlands, and I’m American, married to a Dutch man. I’ve lived here for more than 10 years now, and talk to other parents in the schoolyard with a mix of 80% Dutch and 20% English (I like to call this “Dunglish”). Somewhere between a very difficult visa application process and a very small, very loud person arriving in our living room, I stopped being an expat and became something even harder: the foreign parent. I’d like to think I’ve handled this with grace. 

I was doing just fine before I had my daughter. I can cycle in horizontal rain while holding an umbrella and a bouquet of flowers and still preserve my dignity. I’ve learned so many parts of the culture, including how you bring treats to the office on your own birthday (which still strikes me as the world’s most generous form of self-sabotage). I’ve survived the dreaded Dutch “circle party” where about 20 adults arrange chairs in a circle to chat and take turns congratulating each other when it’s the birthday of your immediate family or spouse. I’ve made my peace with the fact that “gezellig” has no English translation, but I will never stop trying to find one. 

These small “quirks,” as I like to call them, are quite charming. But once you have a child, these go from minor things to major decisions. Suddenly, every cultural difference in question is about how to raise a human being, and I’m the only one who learned the answers somewhere else. 

## The language problem (it’s me, I’m the problem)

Okay, let’s start with the obvious: The language. I took many lessons before she was born, and I’ve gotten quite good at it, actually; I’m a solid B2 level in Dutch. My daughter, on the other hand, speaks Dutch the way I wish I did: fast, unbothered, and with the correct throat noises that sound like you’re hacking up a hairball. 

We speak in English together, and we speak English at home, but now she and my husband have started speaking Dutch to each other as if they’re in a secret club I don’t have access to. 

And I try, I really do. I was even a class parent last year, and was the head of a WhatsApp parent group. Messages would move at the speed of light, and I would ask ChatGPT to create answers that sounded “natural, warm, and confident.” I’m fairly certain the last message was about someone asking what clothes the kids need for gym class, or about fruit; it’s hard to say. 

I’ve gotten over all that. But what really surprises me is the grief that comes with it, and it’s a small, unexpected kind. I sing her songs I grew up with, and she’s politely baffled. I read her Dr. Seuss books, which she loves, but she tries to read the words and says the letters with Dutch pronunciation. She knows a completely different set of songs entirely, ones my husband sings with ease, and I can only hum along. My childhood, in the most literal sense, is not her soundtrack. 

## School, or: the great relaxation

Children here start school at 4 (though they aren’t legally required to start until they are 5). The first years look suspiciously like play; there are no worksheets, no reading levels, and nobody is asking a 4-year-old about her 5-year plan. When I said this to a friend back home, she asked if my daughter was “keeping up,” and I realized I had no idea what she would be keeping up with. The Kardashians? 

Then, at around 12, there’s the other half of the system: a combination of teacher recommendation and test results that points a child toward one of several tracks. To my American ears, it sounds like a lot of pressure applied rather decisively to a group not very famous for sound judgment and long-term planning skills. When I was 12, my life goal was to marry a member of \*NSYNC (Backstreet Boys if none of the members were available) and finish every Harry Potter book.

My husband, being a pragmatic Dutch man, thinks I’m being dramatic. “It works,” he says. And the annoying thing is that it really seems to. Dutch children regularly land at or near the top of those “happiest kids in the world” lists. 

So, I keep my skepticism, and I also keep a suspicion of it. Because I know where it comes from: a childhood spent absorbing the idea that every moment is a résumé line in progress, and checking out books with lists of the best colleges in the U.S. at the library. Part of me watches my daughter, covered in mud and utterly un-optimized, and feels a flicker of panic. The other part thinks she looks happier than I did at 5\. Both parts are real, and neither pays rent. 

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/5d/7f/5d7fd442-71ad-4570-8922-dc1cc32e7d8e/content/images/2026/10/5150.webp)

Image courtesy of The Guardian

## Independence, and my heart rate

Let me tell you, nothing tests a foreign parent’s nerve (especially if you’re the helicopter type) like the Dutch approach to independence. Playgrounds look like they were built with not one child in mind. Children bike to school alone or in small packs, along with traffic. Our neighbor casually mentioned that her 6-year-old plays in the street out front, and I nearly dropped my hot chocolate.

Where I grew up in the U.S., we were driven everywhere. Car lines at school (there are bike lines here in the Netherlands), supervised playdates, and a mental soundtrack of *never talk to strangers, especially if they have a white van and ask if you want some candy.* My daughter is being raised in a country where you’re expected to say hello to the neighbor, and nobody has told her about the stranger thing yet; I’m not sure if I should.

My husband, the tall, blonde, level-headed Dutch man he is, regards my anxiety with the same tenderness you would a golden retriever who’s afraid of the family cat. “She’ll be fine,” he says. And she will be. The statistics are on our side, and so is the evidence of every confident, slightly smug Dutch adult I’ve ever met. My body, however, has never gotten this memo. I stand at the window and watch her wobble on her bike, and every instinct in me shouts “Go get her, you terrible mother!” But I stay, and it’s the hardest thing I do all week. 

## Holidays: two calendars, one dinner table

Then there are the holidays, but this is one place where I refuse to give in. We celebrate Halloween on Oct. 31, and Sint Maarten in November. This is basically the same as Halloween, but with little lanterns the kids make in school rather than costumes, and they have to sing a whole song. I always joke with my husband that they really make the kids work for their candy here. 

In early December, Sinterklaas arrives from Spain, but I tell my daughter he and Santa Claus are brothers. When Sinterklaas needs to cool off, he visits Santa at the North Pole, and when Santa gets cold, he takes a little vacation in Spain.

Thanksgiving is just an ordinary Thursday here, but my husband’s family has embraced this holiday. We cook an enormous turkey and put the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on the TV. I source canned pumpkin from Kelly’s Expat Shop in Amsterdam and try to explain to my daughter why we’re eating this big bird to celebrate being grateful. 

“But why?” she asked last year.

And I stood there, spatula in hand, realizing I was explaining my own country like a tour guide. She’s visiting my culture, while she belongs to her father’s.

## What I’m learning

For a while I thought my job was to make sure she stayed a little bit American, like a houseplant I was keeping alive in the wrong soil. But I’m starting to see it differently. She isn’t half of one thing and half of another; she’s the third option. She’s someone who has holidays from October to January, and she has her own version of both places. She’ll miss things I can’t imagine and take for granted, things I never stop noticing. 

My job isn’t to translate my own childhood to her. It’s to give her the pieces: the songs, the food, the stories, the accent she’ll tease me about, and let her decide what to keep. It also means being comfortable with being the translated one, which, for a woman who always had the right words in her first language, is its own education in humility.

I’ve even started asking her for help, and it’s a great confidence boost when you’re 6\. At bedtime, I try out Dutch sentences, and she grades me with the severe precision of a real Dutchie. Last night she tilted her head, considered my attempt, and said, “Een zes.”

**In the Dutch grading system, a six is a pass; barely, but a pass nonetheless. And I’ve never been prouder.**