Thank You Gobble Gobble

It's Thanksgiving, one of the big American holidays our family has adopted since we moved Stateside. Families all over the country, hop on a plane or do the traditional road-trip to go eat turkey and Pumpkin Pie with their rellies.

We have no rellies here, so we gather with our adoptive families - other local Brits - and split a big bird. The kids have spent the week doing all sorts of Thanksgiving activities and projects at school. The annual Cheeky or Monkey hand print decorated as a turkey comes home and is proudly displayed. Always endorsed with what they are thankful for.

This year, Cheeky's read:

"I am thankful for pizza, my friends, my toys, ice cream. And my family."

We had to laugh. Talk about priorities!

But, it made me think, what am I thankful for? Here's my Top Ten:

1. Him Downstairs. Despite me being a whinging old grot-bags so much of the time, he's still there to give me a hug and the end of the night. Sometimes, I don't deserve him. Sometimes, he doesn't deserve me. His armour doesn't shine, but he's still my Knight.

2. Cheeky and Monkey. They are the love of my life and the challenge of my day.

3. Wine. More specifically, Merlot. (Any brand'll do. I'm classy that way.) My Mare-LOOW. Without it, numbers one and two would be a darn sight harder to cope with and I'd be a fully-paid up member of the Pi**ed Off Parents Club.

4. Chocolate. Chocolate cake. Chocolate bars. (Green & Blacks, Dairy Milk. DefinitelyNot Hershey's. The horror!) Hot chocolate. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate sauce. Chocolate butter cream icing. Even my favourite throw, to get cosy under is, chocolate coloured. I am an addict and no, I have no intention of getting any therapy.

5. BBC America. Without it, my Televisual recreations would be an overload of over-produced, high gloss, so-called dramas with excess car-chases, guns, and stick-thin women. This doesn't stop me watching them of course. My DVR is full of shows such as Glee, Desperate Housewives, Bones, Brothers & Sisters, The Hills and The City . But not missing out on a touch of fabulous British TV like Mary Queen of Shops, Top Gear, Mistresses, Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, Don't Tell The Bride, How Clean Is Your House and Graham Norton, gives us a slice of home and reminds us just how bl**dy good the Brits are at making TV. (Recently we watched ITV's Doc Martin series 1-3 on DVD back to back. Left me and Him Downstairs yearning for the UK and the chance to take the boys crab fishing at the seaside...)

5. My friends. I don't want to go all Gorgonzola here, but my friends maketh me. The initial strong hold on many UK chums that I had when we first moved here has waned. In some cases this makes me sad, but it is nevertheless, inevitable and understandable. I am thankful that Facebook enables us to keep in contact, but sad that my phone rarely rings with a voice from England on the other end. I try. I phone. But I slack sometimes too. The time difference and the general business of raising one's family does make it hard to have a long chat, so thank gawd I have made some incredible girlfriends in the US. Without these strong, inspiring women in my day-to-day life, I'd be an even grumpier cow!

6. Lululemon athletica yoga pants. http://www.lululemon.com/ After getting majorly fed-up of wearing jeans all the time, my friend introduced me to Lululemon and well, my life hasn't been the same since. Never before has my chocolate inflated derriere looked so toned. And to think, I didn't even have to step inside the gym!

7. Tea. I used to be a PGTips only kinda girl, but moving away from home and not be willing to try alternatives abroad, would have left me gasping for a cuppa. Yes, the day I discovered my nectar of choice in the British section of the supermarket, I practically wept with joy. (Cue the usual strange looks from the locals, because I dared to express my true feelings in public) But tea and the right blend of English Breakfast, is the thing that gets the blood pumping round my veins. I buy it in bulk whenever I go back to England, and when I run out, well, there are other more available brands that I also really enjoy popping in my teapot.

8. Bed socks. I live in Michigan, North America. We get an average of 30-150 inches of snow between November and March. Failing to have thick cosy socks in your drawer is really not an option. I do take them off for sex. Sometimes. In England they'd have been a passion killer. Over here, Him Downstairs is trying to get inside them too.

9. Yola. OMG I have a new BF! She's come into my life very recently and has shaken the dust off and turned my home into a sparkling palace. Yes, after cleaning my own house ever since I left home nearly 18 years ago, I have finally readjusted the family budget to allow Yola into our lives. We couldn't possibly afford to have her every week, but once a month is enough for me. Her idea of clean house is waaay more thorough than mine. This week, I came home to find her washing down the dining room blinds. Something I've been meaning to do for three years. I think I am in love!

10. The 99 cents shirt. I hope you don't think I am a lazy housewife, but I've never been a fan of the iron. Think this has something to do with the fact that one of my part-time jobs during University was to iron for a local family. Daddy was something 'important' in the city and had very specific requests where starch was concerned. Mummy was an astrophysicist and had a fondness for pleated skirts and tea-party collared blouses. Children, one, two and three went to a very posh private school where the uniform trousers had to have a crease down the front and the skirts were kilt style. I hated ironing those flipping skirts.

The one plus of this job was that at least they had a fancy ironing board with a seat, so I could sit and watch TV while tried to avoid burning their clothes. I worked for them twice a week for two years. I came to have a love-hate relationship with the job; I loved the family, but I hated the ironing. So, when Him Downstairs and I began co-habitating I made it clear that he shouldn't expect me to iron anything. Especially shirts. And bless him, seven years on, he knows I wasn't joking. Until about a month ago, he was regularly heard swearing when, just as he was climbing into bed, he realised he hadn't got any ironed work clothes. Then, up he'd get up and crash and bang about downstairs with the ironing board.

I was starting to feel a teeny-weensy bit sorry for him, when I discovered that I could get his shirts laundered and ironed for less than $1 at a local cleaners. Result! It's not even worth switching on the iron for that price. So now, my Prince has a closet full of beautifully ironed and starched shirts and I feel less of a rubbish wife.

Happy Thanksgiving!

To Shout or Not to Shout...?

I had to laugh. The two scenarios couldn't have been more different...

SCENE ONE took place yesterday afternoon.

I'm in the local 'healthy' grocery store with Monkey (son no.2) topping up our meat supplies. I physically recoiled in horror at the price of four measly organic chicken breasts (I've been on budget brand meat lately to economise, but today am all free-range after reading organic propaganda in Good Housekeeping).

I know, WTF am I doing reading Good Housekeeping?

Anyway, this particular store (Trader Joe's for those Stateside) has mini shopping carts (trolleys for those who normally use Tescos) and for that reason, plus they give the kids balloons, have free coffee and nibbles, is why it's the one supermarket you'll often find many Moms/Mums in with their kids. At the same time. Shopping together. Crazy huh?

My little Monkey is a delight to shop there with. He grabs his mini-me trolley and off he goes. All smiles and, "Yes Mummy! Sure Mummy! Let me help Mummy!"

No tantrums. No running off out of sight. No pulling things off displays. And no Mummy whispering punishment threats every two seconds along every aisle.

This is the only store they are allowed to come into with me. Seriously, all other forms of shopping with them leave me frazzled with a munting moustache sweat on my upper lip. Not a good look.

So, with all the free food to placate the little ones, it's rare to see a kid acting up in Trader Joe's. But today, little Cameron was his name and little devil was his game.

My guess is he was about four or five years old. He pushed his little trolley into his Mom's and I saw him try and throw the bananas onto the floor and kick over a display of bread rolls (wholewheat). Hardly lock-him-up-officer behaviour, but obviously his Mom wasn't happy about it.

Instead of the hushed-but-threatening reprimanding I do to my kids, before I break out into fish-wife shouting mode when the behaviour really tips me over the edge, this Mom, (for she truly was a MOM, not a MUM) was all smiles and gentle placation to her tiny terror.

In exactly the voice my pediatrician told me I should use with my children, ie all sweetness, light, positivity and an octave higher than most sane mothers talk, she told her son to, "Honeeey, quit doing that."

He didn't.

She asked him a few more times, smiling and cooing at him all through her saccharin-coated admonishment. She mentioned a 'Time Out'(when he got home). Her son didn't seem to have his listening ears on and still she remained calm. Super Nanny would be proud. The American one. The British one (Jo Frost) definitely would have removed the boy from the store, gone down to his eye level and talked to him in a lot firmer voice.

She's British. We don't do sugar. Except in our tea...

But this Mom was practising the American parenting philosophy of talk-to-them-as-you-would-liked-to-be-spoken-to-yourself. And boy, she was good.

It didn't work though. And I bet she though the vocal sugar bowl out of the window when she was home, behind closed doors.

And therein lies the difference.

Over here, all the tongue-lashing is done in private. I don't believe for a second, these Moms never raise their voices to their kids.

In good old Blighty, you can't move through the shopping centres for Mums shouting at their kids.

I'm not saying I always agree with bawling out your children in public, but boy, it's kind of refreshing to see that you're not alone in the fact that you have shouted at 'darling Timmy'. More than once.

Which makes SCENE TWO all the more gob smacking for me, for the opposite reasons...

A few weeks ago, while I was visiting my family in Spain (yes, it was the best holiday I've had since becoming a Mum. Lots of sun. Lots of sunbathing. Lots of swimming. And, most importantly, lots of babysitting done by the Grandparents).

Anyway, with the kids in tow, Dad and I stopped off at his local supermarket. As Cheeky and Monkey were all sleepy after a hard day building sandcastles, I volunteered to stay in the car with them, while Dad ran into the store.

Sitting in the car park (parking lot) I noticed the Spanish family next to us, loading their groceries into their car.

The Mama, was throwing carrier bags into the boot (trunk) with one hand, while in her other arm was her newborn, whom she was nursing all the while she was unpacking her trolley. She wasn't hiding under a nursing blanket, like the Moms do in America, no. Her breast was out and abut for all to see.

Not so surprising, seeings as everyone in Spain walks around practically naked on the beach, whatever the size of their bikini! I've obviously been living in the States too long, as I found myself offended by some of the sights I saw on the sand.

Then the Papa appears with two other little bambinos, who I'd guess were under six. He's got a fag on. I did have to laugh. The scene hadn't even got going yet, and I was thinking of how many Mom/Mums I know who would have had a corony at the exposed breast and cigarette within 100 miles of the children.

By now, I'm completed hooked on this family and don't care if they can see me gawping at them. The parents get into a row (oh good, it's not just me and Him Downstairs that argue on the food run then). Although I don't speak Spanish, am sure their language is far from biblical. Their kids don't seem to care, they're too busy pushing and shoving each other inside the car.

Mama spots what the kids are doing, comes round to their door and starts yelling at them, presumably to, 'Stop It!' She's whipped the baby off her breast now, and as our cars are parked closer than the US super-size parking spaces I'm used to, I recoil somewhat, as I can practically touch her nipple.

She's oblivious. Good for her. Her concern is her fighting kids, her now screaming baby and her smoking husband, who appears to be engrossed in a magazine he's leaning on the other side of the car reading. (Probably porn eh? So European).

This is getting good.

She plugs the baby onto the other breast. (Oh my, is that a flash of BOTH boobs)?
Then she uses her spare hand to clip both her kids round their heads, whilst she yells at the husband. And the children.

He gets into the car, still smoking. Neither child in the backseat appears to be in a 5point harness car seat. He joins in the yelling. At his wife. And at his kids who are still pulling each others hair in the backseat. And at anyone who'll listen!

Mama, slams all the doors shut, gets into the front passenger seat. Still nursing the baby, still yelling at her family. And they all drive off. Baby on her breat. I may be wrong here, but I didn't notice any seatblets being fastened.

She doesn't care 'what-the-neighbours-might-say' and good for her! Her main concern was what was going on with her family. And she chose to deal with them, her way, regardless of what onlookers might witness, regardless of what 'we' might think.

This may be completely normal parenting in Spain, but you'd never see a scene like that where I live.

And you know what I did? I laughed and I smiled and I thought, 'Good for you Mama!' I may not agree with her approach to safety in the car, but it was so refreshing to see real parenting emotions played out before me, rather than the fake doctor-scripted admonishments that have become all too normal in my world.

I mean really, yelling at your kids in public is hardly parenting crime of the century now is it? And in a world full of strangers, why are we so concerned with what they might think of us?

Why my husband is not on my Christmas card list this year...

'Him Downstairs and I have reached a big milestone..,' I blogged in my last post. Me writing away as I was. All on a high after our roamntic interlude.
Didn't bloody last.
Was an unexpected milestone as it turns out.
A milestone surely we're not due to reach for another ten years.
A milestone that has left me peed off.
And upset.
Plus a bit hurt.
And downright surprised actually.
I didn't think he was the sort.

He forgot our anniversary.

We woke up on 'the day' and it was all a little unusually hectic.
I was packing for my trip Spain with Cheeky and Monkey to visit my parents.
Leaving that night. On our anniversary.
Yes, I know.
But, we were having the day together and we'd had the night away the previous weekend, my early anniversary gift to him. So I'd done my bit to make it up.
Anyway, over a cup of tea in the morning sun, together we opened the anniversary cards that'd come in the mail.
Truthfully, I opened them. Oohed and ahhed at the comments, while he gave them his usual mere cursory glance.
Typical bloke.
I didn't give him my card yet.
He didn't give me his card. Yet.

The day wore on and somewhere in it, he said, "Happy anniversary. Got time for a quickie?"
I glanced around me at the bombsite of almost packed suitcases and bottles of suncream and suggested he take his kids to the park instead.
When they got back, I waited for the bunch of flowers and card that would surely appear.
He's bought me flowers every anniversary after all.
No blooms arrived.
I went upstairs, removed his card from its hiding place and wrote a slushy note inside before sealing it and leaving it on his nightstand.
Leaving our room, I noticed a stray receipt on the carpet.
It was for the two Star Wars sticker books he'd got the boys for our journey and a Hallmark card.
'Ah' I thought. 'He did get me a card. Wonder where he's hidden it?'

We bundled the cases and the kids in the car and stopped en route to the airport to have a nice family dinner.
I waited for him to order us a glass of champagne to toast our four long years of marriage.
He ordered coke.
I grumbled about him being as romantic as a fist in your face and ordered two glasses of Prosecco.
For myself.

At the airport, he pulled up to the no-waiting departures drop-off and dumped me, two toddlers, a stroller and three suitcases on the pavement.
"I'm off to park the car. I'll see you in there," he said.
Not a luggage trolley in sight.
He'd completely refused to drop his parents and sister there when they'd left us last month. He chaperoned them all the way to security. And got them a bloody luggage trolley.
By now, he really wasn't up for Husband Of The Year.
But, not wanting to leave my one and only on bad terms, we kissed and hugged goodbye (after I struggled my way through check-in. Solo.)
He gave the boys $20 each for ice creams and I resisted the urge to go off on one about how the dollar wouldn't be much good in Spain and couldn't Daddy have at least got them the right currency as their holiday pocket money...blah, blah, blah.

Fourteen hours, two plane rides, several elevators, a couple of escalators and a car journey later, I plonked my suitcase down in my new bedroom in Spain.
I was excited to unpack it.
'It' was surely nestling somewhere inside.
Under my T-shirts?
Wrapped in my beach towel?
Tucked into the pages of my new Jodi Picoult?
Er.
Hmmm.
Strange.
Hang on.
WTF is my anniversary card?
The entire contents of my big suitcase and the kids two mini cases was by now strewn across my Mum's spare room.
No envelope to be found.
I tried to push the prickles at the back of my jet lagged eyes away.
It didn't work.
I sat on the edge of the bed and cried. And cried.
It hit me. The light bulb moment.
This year has become the first anniversary where Him Downstairs got me a big, fat, ugly, Nada. Nowt. NOTHING.

"Thanks for the lovely card," he said, somewhat sheepishly when I phoned to say we'd arrived En Espana safely.
"Glad you liked it. I couldn't find mine..." I said trying not to cry.
"Ah yeah. Sorry about that. I, err, forgot."
" Oh. I saw a receipt though, for a card you bought the day before I flew. The day before our anniversary."
"Oh right, yeah," he says. "I noticed on facebook that it was my cousin Dave's birthday, so I got him a card when I was buying the boys their books."

I almost hung up.

But...

"That's the cousin who never sends you birthday or Christmas cards? I asked, wanting to throw the phone off the hillside in a SATC post dumped-at-the-alter-Carrie Bradshaw moment. " Guess they didn't have anniversary cards in that shop for your wife? Who. NEVER. Forgets. To. Give. You. A. Card. Ever?"

Words failed him at this point.
Me too.
I hung-up.

I'm not 100% on this, but I'm pretty sure I can feel his embarrassment all away across the Atlantic as it laps at my dipped-in-the-Med toes.

What an arse.

Tell me, why are some men so blindingly useless?





pic credit: www.thorntons.co.uk

Parental Playcation

August. August is wedding anniversary month.

Him Downstairs and I have reached a big milestone. Kind of. It's been four years. (We've moved countries and had two kids in that time. It feels muuucccch longer!) What's the traditional gift for year four? Oh yes. Four years is Fruit or flowers. He'll be pleased. He always buys me flowers anyway on our anniversary, so for the first year ever, he'll have hit the traditional gift nail right on the head. He'll get double points if he throws in a bag of Granny Smith too eh?

We survived our First (Paper) without much of a hitch. He gave me a card, so technically he also hit the jackpot with that one. He got me flowers too. I got him a photo of our boys blown up into a nice frame. I was following the paper trail.

The Second (Cotton) didn't come with sexy cotton undies for either of us. I got flowers again, but that year he took heed and didn't dare get me a crappy bunch from the 7-Eleven. Can't remember now what I got him. Whoops. Dinner out probably.

Third: Leather. I'd totally forgotten about traditional pressies by this point and believe it was a last minute dash to Borders to get him a book token. Terrible I know. And what did he go and get me? He bloody well pulled all the stops out and made me a wedding album on blurb.com that is the most beautiful picture album I own. He even scanned all the messages from our guest book into it in a very arty fashion. I felt dreadful when I opened it. My gift to him looked supersizededly crap.

But our main tradition with wedding anniversaries is my leaking eyes. You see, as the 19 August dawns, I usually wake up so melancholy that Him Downstairs (HD) is visibly offended. The supposed happiest day of our lives together has me bawling by breakfast and finishing off a box of Kleenex for tea.

I can't help it. I've tried to be chipper, but so far, smiles have been infrequent on that day.

Before you all think I'm madder than a box of frogs, let me explain.

When we got married it was a month before we left the UK. Therefore our wedding was the last big get-together of all our family and friends we would have for, like, ever. It was a great wedding (except for the British summer weather we had: the rain and the more rain that came). But every year when I reflect on that day, I just get all weepy, not because I married HD (though I understand his growing paranoia) but because it makes me think of all my girlfriends back home and our families and how much fun we used to all have together. And how much I miss them all.

I don't help myself. I usually rig up our old portable British TV and whack on the wedding video, so I can feel utterly depressed before bedtime. While I'm sobbing in front of the TV, HD goes and hides the laptop, so I can't then book myself a one way ticket back to England. Our bedroom is hardly a passion palace on anniversary night. More, soggy sheets for all the wrong reasons.

However, for this anniversary, the big t-adaa f o u r t h (!) I am/have turned over a new leaf. Kind of. I have to be honest here. I am actually flying away from him on our wedding anniversary. And taking his children. To Spain. To see their grandparents for three weeks. Ouch. Happy anniversary darling!

Yes, that was his reaction too when I told him what dates I was going away.

But it was so much more expensive to fly the next day, truly. So really, I'm doing him a favour and saving him money by leaving him that particular day. And he loves to save his pennies...

Anyway, to redeem myself and to make up for the past three teary anniversaries, I went all out this weekend to surprise him with a fabulous early anniversary gift.

I took him away.

Without the kids.

To a very fancy hotel.

He waved the boys off at lunchtime on Saturday and spent a while pottering round the house, before I called him. I was outside the beauty salon, where I'd just had my first bikini wax in about five years.

"So, you're still alive then?" he quips down the phone.
"Just. But am not sure it should be as red as it is. It bloody hurt."
"Come home and show me..."

This is exactly the response I was expecting. He's all about wax this, wax that. On me. Wave a bit of wax at his back hair and he runs a mile. He's still babbling on down the phone about did I go for the 'Brazilian' or the 'Playboy,' when I inform him I did neither. Just the 'bare minimum' needed for three weeks in a swimsuit, and, if I could get a word in edge ways I'd like to tell him to pack his bags as I will be home in 20 mins (after the obligatory quick solo jaunt round Gap, J Crew and Banana Republic) to take him off for the night at the swanky Royal Park hotel in town.

What was his response to my surprise announcement?

"Oh right. Cool."

'C o o l'???!!!

I was more speechless than during my bikini wax.

If he'd phoned to tell me he was taking me away to a beautiful hotel for the night, I'd have been jumping up and down, shrieking with excitement. (I don't get out much and HD has never surprised me with an impromptu treat, but if he did, the first thing I'd actually really do is, faint.) But, my point is, for a second there, I wished I hadn't bothered.

The wax had even been booked that particular morning so he had a little extra anniversary present. I would've normally left it until the day before I fly.

Anyway, "Don't sound too excited," I said to him.
"No no," he replies. "I am. I just wasn't expecting it."

Fair point. He was, after all, expecting the anniversary tears. And probably a row. They often go hand in hand when we're meant to be having a highly romantic time together without our children.

So I limped home with red eyebrows (also freshly waxed) to match my red bits and bless him, he'd already packed his tidy whites (FCUK boxers) and had a smile on his face.

Our first stop on the way to the hotel, was a romantic trip to Home Depot (B&Q) to chose paint colours. See, he does know how to show me a good time, doesn't he? He announced he will paint our bedroom while I'm away. I'm a very lucky lady.

Surprisingly, this passed an enjoyable half hour. We held hands and shocker, didn't have a cross word or a moody silence.(Normally part of the course of any shopping trip together.) We also didn't have to chase two small people round the store constantly. Bonus.

There was a minor leak in our love bubble when we then decided to stop off for a sunbathe and swim at the pool. The kids and I are members, HD is not and due to overcrowding, they were not letting any guests in this weekend. Bang went our romantic child-free dip in the pool together.

I was in a grump about this. He was madly suggesting alternative ideas to try and cheer me up (trip to Target aka posh TK Max, anyone?) and avoid any potential arguments lurking around the corner.

But after a tiny moan about the swimming pool, I got over myself and we decided to go check into the hotel early instead.

Wow. Big love bubble of loveliness restored.

What a room.

What bedlinen. I don't think I've ever (knowingly) slept on Egyptian cotton before, but now I am forever converted. "Oh God, I suppose you'll want to go and buy some of these now won't you?" he said. Such a bloke response to the female cooing over sheets.

The heat and humidity had exhausted us, so we made use of the bathroom's amazing shower and fluffy bathrobes, before we settled down to read our books and have an afternoon snooze.

Come on. This is our fourth anniversary, not our honeymoon.

After a couple of hours, where, OK, I did give in to his advances, despite the unattractive post-waxing blotches surrounding my thighs, we felt majorly decadent and ordered chocolate cake on room service.

Trying to look exactly like we'd never ever touched each other when the waiter arrived, I positioned myself with my book and attempted a scholarly rather than slutty expression.

Don't think my ruse worked. The smalltalk the waiter made was cringe worthy, though am sure he has walked into worse than a stray sock leering at him on the floor.

We dressed up for dinner. No splodges of ketchup on our collars. No. We even ironed our outfits.

HD ordered a mangotini and I an Irish coffee on the terrace bar and we savoured every last moment of it being sipped in peace. It was almost like LBC (Life Before Children).

Then I remembered I hadn't told my friend to make sure she got Cheeky up for a midnight wee, so I phoned.

My heart ached for a moment when I heard them giggling and saying, 'Night night' to me in the background, but then the waitress appeared and my need to be me for the evening and not Mummy, overtook me.

We wandered into town, again hand in hand, (it was all getting a bit Mills & Boon) and sat at a pavement cafe, watching the world go by and enjoying our meal. No crayons at the table. No booster seats needed.

We drank Mojitos. The drink we always drank together during Life In London. The drink that got us together. The drink we shared at our wedding breakfast.

It was all going well, and I think my Hubs finally relaxed in the knowledge that this could be the first anniversary with his wife, where she wasn't blowing her nose constantly.


Well oiled by now, we wobbled onto another bar for a couple more retro drinks (Malibu and Orange. Me. Lager. Him) before those Egyptian cotton sheets were a-calling and we made our way back to the hotel. I was up for doing shots back at the bar by now. My drinking glasses well and truly on.

We could hear live music when we got back, so thinking there might be a disco, and what the heck, wasn't it about time we forgot we were mid-thirties and strutted our circa 1991 moves, we followed the music into the bar.

It was more lounge singer than DJ, but still, it'd have been rude to walk straight back out, so we sat down and ordered a drink. The most expensive Baileys we've ever had. (Couldn't afford shots. I had been planning more along the lines of the price of a shot of Mad Dog in Wolverhampton, not a Marc Jacobs keyring.)

Anyway, the end of our evening out was made all the more enjoyable by a newly engaged couple looking like a comedy Anna Nicole Smith and Steve Carrell who slow-danced their way around the bar. HD and I were hoping for a bit of Oasis and Blur, what we got was an earful of the singer's Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston set-list.

I don't think we did a very good job of hiding our laughter at the mismatched couple. Hopefully they thought we were just very happy for them. Ahem.

"She's obviously marrying him for his money," I was blithering on, when HD said, possibly a bit loudly, "And he's marrying her for her tits!"

Taxi for two anyone?

We were pathetically drunk, by now doing our best Mariah sing-alongs at our table. And truly, I didn't care who saw us. I think there was also a very teenage snog somewhere between the bar and the elevator. But, thank God, at least we didn't get up and dance.

We had fun. Loads of fun.

And when we snuggled up in our posh sheets at the end of the night, I knew how lucky I was to have found Him Downstairs, and for once, I wasn't crying about it.

The next morning Mr and Mrs Hangover joined us, but it was worth every Advil. We ordered breakfast in bed (Eggs Benedict and a pot of tea) because we didn't dare face the restaurant in case Big Boobs and her Small Fry were there. We laid-in until 11am and wore our sunglasses as we checked out.

But the biggest surprise of our anniversary weekend ended up being on me, when we got back home. I opened our case to find we'd acquired a few extra 'gifts'. HD had packed us:

2 pairs of towelling hotel slippers
1 toilet roll
1 box of Kleenex
3 hotel monogrammed envelopes
6 sheets of hotel writing paper
1 hotel monogrammed pen
1 mini bottle of L'Occitane shampoo
1 mini bottle of L'Occitane conditioner

He hadn't got me the posh sheets though had he? No. He'd gone for the loo roll. Loo roll! When I scolded him for being so pikey, he said,

"Between you jetting off to Spain and that hotel bill, we can't bloody afford bog roll now can we? Happy anniversary!"

Ahh. Back to reality. Happy anniversary my love. Happy anniversary.

Remind me again, where on those traditional anniversary gift lists, does it say, 'Toilet Paper'?

The Invisible Fence

Fences.

They can be picket, stockade, basket weave, ranch, lattice or tongue and groove. They can be made from brick, wood, concrete or stone. They can be living. If you chose green Arborvitae as your screening, it becomes your hedge. But whatever you plump for, one thing's a dead cert: fences have style, form and function.

They keep your bl**dy neighbours out!

To fence or not to fence, seems to be the most personal of homeowning choices in my locale. If you live downtown (i.e in one of the super-charming but super-expensive Desperate Housewives style homes near the 'high street') you will have a fenced in yard. (Garden). If you live in one of our sub-divison neighbourhoods (i.e. a posh estate) you tend to only have a fenced in yard if you have a swimming pool. You don't want your neighbours stumbling onto your property and drowning after all. No-one can afford that lawsuit.

Or, like us, you live in a sub-division where some people fence parts of their back yards, with the more subtle Arborvitaes (Leylandii) hedging (!) their bets as to whether their privacy is restored and it'll stop next doors bl**dy kids from running through their yard, on their way to catching the schoolbus.

Believe me, it doesn't.

I think we even have a sub-division law about fences. But I've lost that paperwork. Oh dear.

What a load of tosh.

And now I'm getting really steamed up, because I am in the midst of a fence-craving. I am going to say it out loud, shout it from my rooftop. (Okay, from my laptop then.) "I miss my English fences!"

Why?

Because, one of the joys of my street has also become a curse.

I live with kids similar age to my boys, either side of my house and across the street. This is, most, of the time a real joy. The neighbourhood is safe and they all run from one house to another playing in the back yards and generally having a great time. I like the fact Cheeky and Monkey have friends on our street. I like my neighbours. It's just some of their kids that annoy me. And their lack of fences.

Because we're all open plan, the little boy on one side of us, can just wander into our yard, whenever he hears my boys' voices. Even if he doesn't hear them actually, as soon as I unlock my back door, most mornings, I can hear him calling their names in a desperate bid for playtime.

We never come downstairs all washed and dressed, so I have to usher my kids away from the kitchen, so they don't hear him calling, and I don't get caught in my skanky undies. When all I really want to do is have my morning cuppa outside and let the kids run in the fresh air.

This charade is really starting to pee me off.

Take last weekend. No major plans. Nice family time at home enjoying the sunshine. I'm pouring the milk on my Weetabix, standing in my bra and pants, when the little boy next door, waltzes into my kitchen and says he's going to play in the basement with my kids. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Er, morning.

The weekend continued with me constantly either watching him or dragging my kids back from his house, when all I wanted, was for the four of us to spend some quality alone time on our own property. Turns out, we had to leave the house to have alone time.

This wouldn't have happened if we had a fence.

Then there's the little girl on the other side of us. Let me just call her The Terror. Ok, TT for short. Sounds nicer. She is only 6 after all.

She and my eldest really like each other. (Personally, I wish he could've picked more of a looker to be infatuated with, but there, I am that shallow.) Needless to say, they play really nicely together. She's even more bossy and ballsy than him.

But again, I can be happily pushing the boys on our swingset, enjoying quality Mom/Mum-Sons time, and suddenly, there she is, swishing down our slide and tempting the boys away with promises of a ride in her Barbie Jeep.

Or, we'll be enjoying our tea al fresco on the patio and I can see her hovering, right on our boarder, waiting for the boys last mouthful to go in, so she can leer them away for a game of tag or a princess tea-party.

It's got me so riled, that the other week, I took action. I went straight to the garden centre at Home Depot (B&Q) and spent too much on 25 Arborvitae and promplty got Him Downstairs to plant us a hedge to keep TT out.

It worked. Except now she just hovers behind the trees, waiting to pounce. In three years, when the trees will have grown, we won't be able to see her. I am watering them like mad.

Wish we could do the same on the other side of the house, but it's not so condusive to do a hedge there.

Not that most people take notice of our new hedge anyhow. TT's grandfather, who own the house next door, just pushes his way through the leaves to get round and into his bit of our front yard, and the other day, a guy turned up at his house to do some yard work. As he walked across my yard, I asked him if I could help him. He said he was here to see my neighbour. Because I hadn't had enough caffeine yet, I said, " But you're in my yard! You need to go round to his house."

He looked at me as if I was mental. (Maybe I am.) Hopped over one of my baby trees, and announced, " Well, now I'm not in your yard!"

I was dumbfounded.

This whole lack of fences round here, sent one of my expat Brit friends so crazy, she upped and moved. To one of the posh downtown fenced-in houses. I sometimes wish I had her budget to escape.

Maybe I'm just being a cranky ole thing, and I should embrace this quirky, free-land for all suburban US-style of living but, for fences sake, whatever happened to knocking on a front door and asking if you can play?

Summer Lovin'?

Summer's over according to the stores. All the beach brollies are on sale, the swimsuits have 50% off and the shelves are full of long-sleeve Tees and back-to-college room accessories. Purple beanbag and orange desklamp anyone?

Personally, our summer's just getting going.

And by getting going, I mean, summer in the context of that time of year when you're meant to have the time to lounge about in your back garden, catching up on gossip mags or watching the Katie Price/Piers Morgan interview on YouTube (because secretly you're gutted you don't live in England and could have seen it on British TV.) Your kids can run around in their underpants splashing each other in the paddling pool, before popping in for an popsicle and you don't have to live by a schedule. Summer. God love it. Well, who knows if he/she does? Maybe not so much by the amount of rain the almighty has drizzled on us of late.

Suffice to say, I am enjoying not having to chase the boys round the house, waving toothbrushes and pants at them, screaming, "We're late for school. Get dressed!" Or trudging round the supermarket every Thursday morning as I do in term time, as it's the only time in the week I only have one little Monkey with me to deal with, rather than two pulling copious amounts of candy off the shelves.

Not that school's just out for us. No blooming way. Cheeky finished pre-school in May. Yes, M A Y. So we've already done 10 weeks of vacation. And there's 6 1/2 more to go. Not that I'm counting.

But we've packed so much into the first half of the holidays, that I've barely had time to unfold my sunlounger and kick off my Havainas.

We've done, swimming classes twice a week. Cheeky can now:

• Hold breath underwater


• Float unassisted on his front


• Float unassisted on his back


• Kick 15ft with face in water


• Paddle 25ft on back


• Log roll unassisted. (? Exactly, but this has nothing to do with floating turds or branches apparently.)


• Swim 25ft on front with face in water

I'm very proud and am swiftly trying to get him into the next class up so he can master Breaststroke and Whip kicks. What is a 'whip' kick by the way? Totally selfishly, the better he can swim, the more I can sit by the pool watching and cheering him, rather than get in myself and be dive-bombed by him, his brother and the other 30 kids all enjoying the often freezing water.

Other summer activities so far have also included Pre-school camp. He came home clutching:

• A cardboard pizza (" We did cooking today Mummy!")


• A touch and feel textures book ("Look, this is as squishy as you Mummy.") Cheers!


• A 3D self portrait. (" I wasn't sure if I had a black hat Mummy, so I made it brown.") He has neither. Bless.


• A necklace. (" It matches my T-Shirt!") Ahh, a stylish man-accessory. I've taught him well.

We did 'Safety Town' mainly because it was only $45 for eight days and a mere bonus that he'd get to learn all about safety in the park, home, on the bus, road, in the car and stranger danger. He came out of each class waving certificates congratulating him that he can now:

• Call 911 in an emergency. When he wanted to practise this at home, I said we can only call that number if we were in danger or Mummy had collapsed from too much Merlot (joke). He asked, " Is not being able to find Boba Fett's Slave 1 spaceship an emergency?"


• Know his own phone number and address. Hmm. Not sure he totally deserves that certificate as clearly the teacher filled in his phone number for him and he can only write the numbers 4 and 5. Obviously we dont have a two digit phone number. But he can rattle off his address. Though he sings it like the bad rap his Mummy has taught him, to help him remember it. Hey, I live near Detroit - it's all about the music here.


• Spot poisons. He had a little stick with what looked like a hedgehog on it, that he ran around the house waving at the bleach, dish-soap, fly spray, mozzie repellant and.... Mummy's perfume. Charming.


• Stop, look and listen before he crosses the road. At last, he finally pays attention to traffic.


• Knows red means 'stop' and green means 'go'. This is all very well, except in Michigan you can turn right on some red lights. So now, when I do such a turn I have Mr Traffic Safety in the back, yelling, "But it was red Mummy, you can't go. No!" Plus they teach the kids safe ways to drive (come on, they're only 4 and 5). So now it's like driving with my Mum in the car; "Two hands on the wheel please!" Oh make an exception Officer.

They had a graduation ceremony at the end of camp. Yes, we are in America after all. It was actually very cute and all the kids from the two classes did songs with safety themes and demonstrations, like how to drop and roll if you're caught in a fire. He's very proud of his prowess at that maneouver. My video camera whirred and many snaps were taken and duly sent back to the grandparents in Europe.

No sooner was Safety Town over and we were madly cleaning house for the imminent arrival of Grandparents and Aunty from the UK.

The boys were mostly excited at the prospect of plane-spotting at the airport and raiding Nanna and Grandad's luggage for the much-hoped for arrival of a Millennium Falcon and an At-At. Yes, we're in full Star Wars obsessed mode. But the joy on their little faces when their rellies arrived was priceless.

With the family safely back home with us, I went into full Housewife/Short-order Cook/Entertainment Director mode and their two weeks with us passed in a happy blur of beach trips, ice cream and picnics in the park. We also managed a family en masse vacation to Northern Michigan, where despite them bringing over their pesky rainy English weather, we managed to enjoy lots of nature trails, boat trips, bug-hunting and the spectacular that is the 4th of July celebrations. No, we didn't wave our Union Jack. Thought that might be a tad inappropriate.

Having family to stay is always bittersweet. Sweet because obviously we miss them, but also they always bring a stash load of UK yummies for us to enjoy. This visit we got extra lucky because apart from the usual PG Tips teabags and Colgate Smiles toothpaste (I'm no fan of US fruity kids toothpaste) we got:

• Custard Creams (Bit like the white Oreos for you US readers)


• Birds Dream Topping (A de-lish kind of British Miracle Whip)


• Hula Hoops (Hoop shaped chips)


• Mint Club biscuits (Mint and chocolate cookie bars)


• Walkers French Fries, salt and vinegar flavour (Fry shaped chips) Him Downstairs has seriously hidden these under our bed, so the kids don't snaffle them!


• Minstrels (Chocolate candy - bit like a huge M&M)


• Revels (Little milk chocolates with different flavours inside like, orange, toffee, raisin, coffee. The orange ones are all mine. You hear?!)


• Mint Viscounts (Err, I love a bit of mint and dark chocolate in a cookie bar format.)


• Paracetamol (Like Advil. Does the best job for Menstrual cramps in my book.)


• Covonia cough medicine. (Looks like blacktop tar, but 'tis the best cough elixir I've ever found.)


• M&S Percy Pigs (Seriously the nicest chewy fruity candy in the world. Ever. Fact.)


• Cadbury's Buttons (Little disc shaped milk chocolates. A kid winner.)

So now our treat box is over-flowing and we shall be rationing them out until the next lot arrive.

The visit went well. Better than expected if I'm honest. I'm not the easiest of daughter-in-laws and one wrong step and I'm about to strike you off my Christmas card list. When I went back to England earlier this year, theirs was the house I was least looking forward to visiting. And whoops, I probably made that abundently clear. However, life is too short to hold grudges, especially when you only get to see your family for a fortnight once or twice (if you're lucky) a year. So, I shock off my niggles and welcomed them with a good daughter-in-law smile.

You could probably feel their relief all the way back in the UK!

Anyway, the boys thought three new playmates in the house was the best summer present ever and they duly set about completely exhausting their relatives. Nanna was heard to say she needed another holiday after spending two weeks running round being Luke Skywalker or Obi-Wan on demand.

But with them now safely back in England, despite their horrific 7 hour delay at Detroit airport(It's no Heathrow. Once you've done one gift shop and bar, you've kind of done them all. But hey, they didn't lose their luggage) we can finally relax and enjoy the rest of a schedule-free summer.

Of course, next week, the boys will have driven me mad and they'll be back in summer classes and day camps, but for now, I'll just try and live the Stay-at-home and play with my children 24/7 dream. Cue TV on for them and bottle of wine opening and eyes down for a dose of Hello magazine for me!

No, summer's not over. It's only just begun....

Does size matter?

'If only I'd put on a mere 3lbs in ONE year!' I grumbled to myself today in the pediatrician's office. Three pounds!

I was there with Cheeky and Monkey for Monkey's 3 yr check up. Him having just had a birthday 'n' all. And bless his very little cotton socks, it seems Mum/Mom's double cream added to the macaroni cheese, hasn't done much for his weight gain, but jeez-Louise, it's not done me any favours either.

I blame the kitchen.

No, I blame Him Downstairs.

For giving me the kitchen.

Ha! If he'd not surrendered to my incessant whinging about my crap-to-cook-in-former-kitchen, (perfect for opening up a bag of salad greens and tossing a baby carrot on top) then I wouldn't be in the Nigella mess I'm in with my waistline right now, would I?

Anyway, that's another beat-myself-up-about-my-crazy-lack-of-willpower where desserts are concerned dialogue, that, frankly, am closing my ears to right now. For the record, since the 3rd birthday party, and the last crumb of fattening ice cream cake I will taste for a while, (sigh) I've put the Nigella cookbook to the back of the cupboard and it's been fruit and salad overload for me. Yawn. I mean, yum! Raw food all the way. Does uncooked brownie mix count as diet food too?

But, back to the doctors. My pint size second born has gone from 23lbs to 26lbs in 12 months. He's also grown a 'whopping' 1 1/12 inches. I fear a future for him as a jockey and not a quarterback. And him, an American boy. Tiny Tim in a world of the supersized.

However, from the way he battles with his big brother, I think he'll be able to hold his own in the playground somehow.

"How does he eat?" asks the doctor.

"With his mouth and a fork!" Am tempted to quip back, but instead I plump for the more acceptive, " Well. For a toddler. He loves his meat, fruit and veggies." Was I reading a script?

I fail to mention his penchant for all things chocolate and candy related, as am not in the mood for a lecture of the cavity inducing nature. I've already been in the exam room for an hour and the boys are starting to climb the walls. Literally.

So, we proceed to let the doctor poke and prod him and Monkey is given a clean bill of health despite his total refusal to pee in a cup for the doctor. We have enough challenges trying to get him interested in peeing in the potty, let alone a tiny plastic recepticle, thank you very much.

"And you stopped the bottle a long time ago didn't you?" The doctor asks.

I avoid looking at him as I nod enthusiastically, whilst keeping my fingers crossed behind my back.

Oh! Another Suri Cruise I hear you cry. Always dragging that bottle around. But, no, we're not that bad. Quite. I did try and take the bottle away. Honestly. We did the whole 'Now you are three, the bottle fairy's come to take your bottles away to babies that really need them' routine. And he looked me in the eye and burst into tears. Well, being a total softie Mum/Mom, I couldn't take it and promptly told him the fairy said he could have his morning milk in it for a few more days, until they pop by for it at the weekend!

I know! How many good Mummy points did that cost me then?

You see, he's my baby and I guess and there's some little things I'm finding hard to let go of as he grows bigger. When he does perform on the potty, on the outside I'm cheering him. On the inside I am crying, 'Don't grow up yet!'

The fact he is so small and looks like a 2 year old doesn't help.

Again, I blame Him Downstairs. He's the one with the skinny genes/jeans afer all.

This is my last summer with Monkey by my side full-time. Pre-school and a whole world of other outside influences beckons. Plus, hopefully a few more pounds. So, what the heck if he's tiny and I baby him a leetle too much? I want to enjoy every last second I have with him cuddling me and cosing up together, before he goes all Darth Vadar on me. It's not going to last forever. He eats. He sleeps. He grows (a bit). He's fine.

After all, they say the best things come in small packages don't they?