Mom or Mum Wars

It's About Time!

2010-07-01T17:38:00.000-07:00

Bloody outrageous. I mean, what exactly have I been doing with myself this past six months since I last posted?

Added 'write blog' to my list of weekly 'Things-to-do' approx 26 times.

Updated my Facebook status at least 200 times....

Wasted around 180+ hours of my life reading celeb news on dailymail.co.uk/perezhilton.com.

Eaten Carnie Wilson's body weight in dark chocolate brownies.

Rowed with Him Downstairs 58 times.

Spent over 185 hours in my car being a Mommy-cab for Cheeky and Monkey.

Discovered at least 20 new grey hairs.

Tripped over discarded boys shoes too many bloody times to count.

Had 48 glorious hours sans kids and husband during a much-needed girlfriends only city break.

Celebrated two birthdays. One: mine (not so much cheer, as 'Dammit, I can't be knocking on forties' door already?') and the other: Monkey's. He turned four and forgot how to be civil.

Cried several bucket loads of tears over movies/TV shows/my kids/my husband/Idol Gives Back.

Written at least 12 big cheques to the local education authority in pre-school fees.

Spent more in Gap kids, J Crew kids and Mini Boden than I have in H&M, Banana Republic or Anthropologie for myself. Ever.

Removed a yeti's worth of hag/lady-bit hairs from areas it's God's idea of a very cruel joke in which to place a hair follicle.

Started having very regular wax appointments.

Had (and mostly enjoyed) sex (with Him Downstairs) approx 20 times. (Reason for such a low/high number depending on how you look at it, will become obvious...)

Purchased one ovulation kit...

Taken two pregnancy tests....

Missed six periods.....

Gone off sex completely.

Having one baby!

Yes, we are due to become a family of five in 13 weeks. Or 15 actually if my previous tardiness in delivering babies is anything to go by.

Am excited and nervous, but mostly knackered. And we haven't even got to the night-feeds stage yet. My night feeds. Usually from month eight, when only a bowl of Weetabix at 3am will do. I desperately need a vacation from my body, but this is one fat suit that won't come off. If anyone has any suggestions about how to feel fabulous whilst knocked up, please P L E A S E, will you share them with me?

photo: dreamstime.com

Santa for Hire?

2009-12-23T04:14:00.000-08:00

Santa gave me his business card today. Seriously. He slipped it into my palm as my youngest, Monkey, sat upon his knee, telling the big white beard all of his Christmas wishes.

As Monkey gazed adoringly into Mr C's eyes, I looked at the business card he managed to hand me in exchange for my son to climb upon his knee.

'Clowns, magicians, pony rides, Carnival games, train rides....' Gosh, Santa has had to branch out. And however cheeky this little maneuver was, I suppose he did have a captive audience in which to network. Guess the tough economic climate has made even the inhabitants of the North Pole feel the pinch this year eh?

Who forgot their party manners?

2009-12-13T17:56:00.000-08:00

We drew the short straw when we fell preggers with Cheeky - his birthday is right next door to Christmas. (Yes, that wasn't smart planning. But nothing about becoming a parent goes according to plan does it)?

So, this time of year is the usual craziness with Christmas shopping, but then we throw a birthday into the mix and up shoots the credit card bill.

As no-one is usually around on his actual birthday - his friends all being off visiting family for the holidays, we have his party in early December. And as snow is often on the ground, we tend to hire a venue and do a 'party package' rather than risk letting 20+ little boys loose in house.

Bowling party? Check! Indoor play centre party? Check! So this year we went for a 'Pump It Up' party. Along with nearly all the other five year old boys in his class as it turns out..

Anyway, Pump It Up is one of those inflatable party palaces. All huge slides, bounce houses, padded climbing walls and enough basketball hoops and air hockey tables to wear out a couple dozen over-excitable four and five year olds.

And due to its party venue popularity, it has also felt like my second home lately as for the last five weeks, we have attended a Pump It Up party every weekend. Despite this, Cheeky insisted that this was his venue of choice and bored of it, he was not!

So, off we trotted a couple of days ago, to do the whole fun and cake overload experience. Again.

Obviously, once the 'bounce' part has concluded, the kids' main focus is on the food, cake and the party/goody bags they will take home with them.

The whole gift bag etiquette perplexes me, coming from a childhood where we'd be genuinely excited to leave a party with anything, especially a slice of cake and a balloon. I certainly don't remember ever expecting to be given a goody bag as I waved goodbye. Or was that just me?

These days, I've heard kids exclaim, "Hope we get a good toy," upon entering the birthday party. I was gobsmacked.

When I first lived over here, I made a huge social faux pas by saying to a group of Moms, that I didn't really see the point of the goody bag. That a piece of cake to take home was OK. That surely the children should be pleased to be invited to have some fun sharing the birthday boy/girls day? That only going to get a goody bag, was, actually, rather rude....?

Cue silence.

I quickly learnt that providing a goody bag was essential when hosting a children's birthday party. And some of the ones my boys have been lucky to get, have been spectacularly packed with toys, treats, stickers, cookies etc. And what do my Cheeky and Monkey do?

They tear through the bags, tossing aside any kind of writing instrument or stickers and make for the chocolate or candy that may lurk at the bottom of the bag. And the toy? Well, it depends what it is. One recent goody bag contained Lightning McQueen from the Cars movie, thus that goody bag received the gold star seal of approval. But I've seen others barely touched and I always feel so sorry that a Mom/Mum somewhere put a lot of effort into buying those treats and filling those bags, only for some of it or all of it, to end up in the trash.

So, whenever we've had a party for Cheeky or Monkey, I've tried to chose goody bag treats that I hope will at least be used or played with a little before they end up dumped in a corner. In the summer, at Monkey's birthday party, we gave all the children a skipping/jump rope and a giant bubble stick. So, I decided to do Christmasy stuff for this party. I filled the bags with Christmas cartoon colouring books, chocolate coins, candy canes, Christmas stickers, and a chocolate Santa. No toys. Not to be rude, but the party and cake was already costing over $250 before anything was put into a flipping goody bag...

At the end of the party, I had to stop several guests stampeding the goody bag table, in their eagerness to see what loot they were receiving. Blimey! I would have just let them all at it, except I'd made some of the bags more girl-friendly and some more boy appropriate, so I wanted to ensure the little men in our group didn't go home with My Little Pony or Tinkerbell books. But jeez, if this is what it feels like to be stage-dived at, then thank goodness I'm not a rock star.

As I handed out the bags, two girls started arguing over the contents. Then, of course, they started crying. (Note to self: Give all the girls exactly the same books, unless you want to see World War III break out over who has Minnie Mouse and who has Snow White to colour in.) One boy took his bag from me, looked inside it, pulled a face and promptly gave it back saying, "I don't want this thank you." I was dumbfounded. But at least he was polite about it.

Two children came up to me and asked, "Where's the toy?" I felt like ramming the goody bag down their little necks and only half of them said 'thank you' when they got the bags or left the party.

One little boy actually got up from his seat during the food and asked me when the pizza was coming. I explained that we weren't having pizza.

"But at my party we gave everyone pizza," he said. "And are we having ice cream with the cake?" He wasn't giving up.

"No, it's cake and fruit and there's crisps too if you want them." I replied, trying to get away from this four foot menace.

And when it came to the goody bags, he had something to say about them as well. He tapped me on the arm and told me," At my party, we gave everyone lots of toys in the bags."

"How lovely," I replied. Through gritted teeth.

What I failed to tell him, but perhaps I should have, was that those toys were still rolling around in the back of my car, broken before they made it home and now are unwanted by my children. What a waste of cash that was, I wanted to say. But he was still so busy grumbling about the lack of ice cream, any explanations from me would have fallen on deaf ears. Anyway, what was I thinking, even contemplating explaining myself to a five year old?!

A little later, guests all departed, when I was alone except for the cake crumbs in the party room, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was all over for another year. Not quite the post-party feeling I had planned or hoped for...

But the reality of hosting kids parties is starting to chip away at my usually party-happy demeanour. I would be mortified if either of my boys left a do without thanking the hostess for the party and the goody bag, whatever they really thought of the whole event.

On reflection, am sure if I told the mothers of those children who spoke out to me, what their little darlings had said, they'd be mortified. At least I hope they would, but, you never seem to know these days do you?

On the plus side, at least Cheeky and Monkey had a good time and already can't wait for next years birthday party. Me? It'll take me 12 months to get over this one....

pic credit: Fotosearch

Thank You Gobble Gobble

2009-11-25T17:47:00.000-08:00

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...?

2009-10-14T18:12:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

'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

2009-08-16T18:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-29T19:44:00.000-07:00

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'?

2009-07-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-08T19:21:00.000-07:00

'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?

Long time, no blog....

2009-05-07T15:56:00.000-07:00

OK, so I haven't turned to jelly and been gobbled up. I'm alive. Just! I realise it has been a very long time since I last posted anything, and today, after more than one friend nudged me in the blog direction, I'm finally hitting the keyboard again.

First, I have to say a big thank you to the many bloggers who commented on my last post. It was comforting to know i wasn't alone in my struggles with Cheeky, and I'm pleased to report we have seen an improvement in his behaviour and love is once more, all around. Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.

So much has happened since I last posted, and that's why I haven't posted. Ironic really, that when life changes up a gear and you have more to write about, I wrote so little. However, that's my excuse.

Yes, we did make it back to the UK. I survived the 8 hour flight on my own with the two kids and journeyed my way round England, with only a few emotional upsets.

It was great to reconnect with old friends, great to see my kids connect with their kids and only to be expected that there were a few clashes - the boys did after all have to get used to a whole new house, new kids, new routines, new beds, new food, every four or five days. I applaud them for how versatile they were over those three weeks. I don't however applaud them for how jiffily there were every night I was sharing a bed with them!

So it was an utterly exhausted Mummy that flew home and embraced the comforts of home and and a bed with just me and Him Downstairs in it!

The other big change we all had to get used to was the new kitchen I came back to. I highly recommend getting the hell out when doing a home remodel. The pictures show the devastation I avoided whilst I lounged in England, scoffing M&S clotted cream rice pudding and drinking tons of Ribena. Whilst Stateside, my poor husband, struggled to find the microwave to heat his instant mash potatoes amongst the debris.

He was nervous as hell when I cam back, in case I didn't like the new kitchen. Is he mad - look at it! What's not to like? It was the best homecoming gift, ever and I blame the kitchen totally for my lack of blogging recently. For I have been cooking up a storm. It's been Nigella this and Nigella that, as I work my way through her Nigella Express cookbook. I never realised that cooking could be so enjoyable. Followers of this blog will understand what a big deal this is for me - I mean, I used to go into a cold panic at the mere thought baking something edible for Bookclub.

Now, well, maybe it's time to turn my baking into a business a la Trudie in the TV show, Mistresses. (Another lure keeping me from blogland, now it's on BBC America). Am no doubt getting carried away with myself, and thinking up another crazy Mom-Millionaire scheme, but it doesn't hurt to have dreams does it? Especially when your husband works for the doomed auto industry and every month we pray that he gets his paycheck.

Anyway, all in all, I write to say, am back. I will endeavour not to leave it so long until the next post, but I also have to confess, I've rather enjoyed my time away from the computer. I mean, crikey, I've actually talked to my husband of an evening (shock!) We've even manged to get-it-on a lot more regularly (he's currently on medication for the shock of that one!) And most unlike me, I've played a lot with my children, even though this has meant immersing myself of late into the world of Star Wars. Yawn. I mean, yeah!

But, yes, you know me, and this model wife and mother behaviour cannot possible last. I have 16 weeks of summer holidays starting soon. Being Chewbacca for that long, will no doubt have me sprinting back to bogland, as will all the BBQ marinades Him Indoors thinks I will be able to make, now I've turned into Nigella.

I have been known to act in my past, but these roles are far too much for this Mom/Mum to handle 24/7.....see you on the dark side again soon.

The Pain of Motherhood

2009-02-03T17:13:00.000-08:00

"The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness."

French novelist and playwright, Honore de Balzac.

In my last post I wrote about the overwhelming stress I feel because of all the things I have to do before I fly to England next week. I'd like to update you that am feeling much better now, but my 40 inch, 40lb firstborn, Cheeky, has done little to cheer me up.

We are told about the joys of motherhood all the time, but what about the pain? I thought motherhood was tough when he was 15 months old and he was crying as I held his screaming newborn brother in my arms. But, boy I think I was mistaken.

Cheeky and I have hit a wall in our relationship.

The 'terrible twos' have been and gone and his tantrum voice has gained strength with every year passed. Now he is four, and lately, more often than not, I am going to tread on controversial motherhood ground here and admit, that we are not the best of friends.

Honore de Balzac better be right and somewhere in my heart I will find forgiveness, but today my heart has been heavy. Cheeky's put it through the ringer.

Every little thing I've asked him to do has been met with a "NO!" From getting dressed, to brushing teeth, to eating breakfast to getting in the car, to getting out of the car. Walking across the parking lot to school was a full blown hurricane of a tantrum, culminating with me being told to "Go away!" as I tried to kiss him goodbye at the classroom door.

I hurried back to the car to have a good cry.

Even his favourite milk drink and snack I had ready for him when school ended, was met with a sullen response and shouting when I refused to play a DVD for him to watch in the car.

The tears once again pricked at my eyes.

Then there was this afternoon's playdate at his favourite indoor playcentre.

I sat there feel ashamed he was my son as he shouted at his friends, bossed them about and threw tantrum after tantrum when the games didn't go his way.

I've lost count of the times I've apologised to my friends for his behaviour and listened as they've told me, "Don't worry - all kids are like that sometimes."

But that's the point. Sometimes I feel that my eldest is becoming like that all the time. And it's breaking my heart and breaking me down.

I love him. Of course I do. But lately he is pushing me away more than he is coming to me for cuddles. Time after tantrum, day after day, I try to hold him. Try to calm him down. Kill the bad mood with kindness but again and again he throws it all back in my face.

By dinnertime tonight, I wilted and couldn't take anymore. He rejected the food I cooked. (Okay, so I'm not the best cook, but the rest of my family ate it.)He spent most of the meal on and off the naughty step and even my mild mannered husband had had enough. Cheeky was reprimanded big time for speaking badly to both of us and the evening ended with him screaming and fighting his way through bathtime and getting all his Geotrax toys taken away.

Right now, that big pile of clean laundry I've yet to put away, is looking like a great place to hide from him.

I'm sat here, blogging relieved he's finally asleep. That's not right is it? Or is this how we all feel at times?

Before the boys grew into toddlers, and I held them in my arms cooing and covering them in kisses, I couldn't ever imagine not liking them, even for a second. Today, I wonder what emotional hell tomorrow will bring and how I will get through it.

I want our relationship to work. I want that so badly, but I am worried I am messing it all up. What did I do wrong? What happened to my sweet natured little shadow? The little blondie who told me he loves me,"More than Thomas the train." (That's BIG love!)Is this what I'm in for, for the rest of our lives together?

Now, with a trip back to England on the horizon, I am so worried that he will demonstrate this terrible behaviour in front of my friends. Friends who haven't seen him in over two years. Friends who I want to like my child, not recoil in horror.

And there, sitting on the sidelines, soaking up all this drama, is his little brother, Monkey. My sweet quiet but determined 2 1/2 year old, who hangs on his brother's every word. I am praying hard he doesn't copy everything he sees.

Tell me, is it normal not to like your child all of the time?

Heeeelllllp!

2009-02-02T08:50:00.000-08:00

This is exactly how I feel today and it all started with Ikea.

We had to go there yesterday to return some of the kitchen units we purchased back in November. Normally, I love a day out at Ikea - saddo that I am. The kids get to play in the child care centre for an hour while me and Him Downstairs can browse in peace and we all get to enjoy their meatballs and fries for lunch. But yesterday, I found myself plodding round, annoyed at the crowds that got in my way, annoyed that Cheeky kept stepping in front of the stroller, annoyed that Monkey wriggled whenever I strapped him into the stroller, annoyed that I'd forgotten to put make-up on, (I actually didn't look that different to 'The Scream'. Yes. Not a good look.) But mostly, I was annoyed at how reasonable Him Downstairs was being. Am more used to the comfort zone of arguing with him all the way around Ikea.

I am officially crazy I know. But when we discussed buying new storage bins for the boys playroom, he was so bloody reasonable about it, I told him to "Drop it!" and I refused to buy them. I haven't even got the excuse that it was 'that time of the month.'

When we got home and I realised I'd forgotten to buy diapers, milk and bread I wanted to weep. I did weep.

All quite unreasonable behaviour really. But in my defense, I need to explain my current state of mind.

Next week two major things are happening:

1. I fly on my own with my two little boys back to England for three weeks.
2. My kitchen, laundry room, lounge and part of my garage are being ripped apart and re-modelled.

To get to where I need to be for these two events to go smoothly, I have so much to do that am feeling completely overwhelmed. I haven't even brushed my hair today so far, such is my angst. The idea of having your new kitchen put in while you're away is, on the one hand good planning, as God help my mood if I was to be here trying to entertain the boys while the builders rip out the heart of the house. But, on the other hand, it adds way more work for me in the run-up to my trip.

On top of the usual holiday washing, packing, shopping, etc I have to pack up three rooms in my house, shop for paint, tiles, light fixtures, appliances, doors, windows and counter tops. All in oh, the next five days.

On a regular week I struggle to get all my chores achieved by the weekend, so I'm starting on the back foot with this lot already. I feel like I did just before a big essay was due at college or a deadline loomed at work - bit my bit my brain shuts down and my body goes into slow motion. I can't seem to achieve any of the things I'm meant to do and days pass where I get nothing done. Then, the last few hours before said deadline, I pull all the stops out. Burn the midnight oil and get it done by the skin of my teeth.

I think I thrive on the adrenalin rush of being a last-minute-Lucy, but it does nothing for my complexion or my nerves.

Today, I have a huge list of 'Must-dos:'
1. Buy milk.
2. Buy diapers.
3. Buy bread.
4. Call bank.
5. Put clean clothes away (I have two overflowing baskets full on my bedroom floor)
6. Put a white wash on.
7. Change boys bedding.
8. Find out about Cheeky's passport renewal before new visa goes in it. (Might have to drag him to passport office in Victoria, London. Not a happy prospect.)
9. Confirm OBGYN appointment - time for PAP Smear. Yuk. Mustn't forget to do this.
10. Buy birthday cards. Mail birthday cards. Oh crap. Buy more stamps too.
11. Do list of dates Cheeky will be out of school for teacher.
12. Clean my bathroom. If I can find it under the dust and grime.
13. Clean kids bathroom. (Him Downstairs left all their hair and dirt clinging to the tub again after the last night's bath. V annoying.)
14. Take new jumper back to H&M because Him Downstairs said, "It's exactly like all your other jumpers."
15. Lose 7lbs so I look nice and skinny for my UK debut. (Not going well on this. I just ate banana cream pie for breakfast. Yes. No milk left.)
16. Get leg wax and pedicure because one of my friends back home says we're taking the children swimming during my stay. (The worry over exposing my hairy winter bod is keeping me awake at night.)
17. Get dressed.
18. Get the boys dressed. (Guess these last two should be top of this list.)

Oh and I can add another one to this lot too. Cheeky just said to me:

"Mummy, you have a hole in your pyjamas!"
"Yes. I do."
"Mummy I really think it's time you went and got some new ones."

If only I could find the time eh?

I want to be a motivated Mum, but sometimes it's all too much and I just don't know where to start. I've also just looked in the fridge and there's bugger all in for lunch. I am officially rubbish. I want to cry. I couldn't give my children cereal for breakfast today as I used the last of the milk for their morning drinks and my tea, and now all I can offer them for lunch is one yogurt to share, some cheese crackers and a square of Milka chocolate.

Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish Mummy and Housewife.

Hiding under the duvet and leaving all my tasks to rot into the recesses of my memory sounds like the favourable option right now.

Trouble is, I don't think the boys will let Mummy throw the towel in. I've landed myself the only job I can't quit. Someone let me go stand in a field and scream....

Photo Tag

2009-01-28T18:01:00.000-08:00

I got tagged today by the lovely 39 And Counting, so not wanting to be a spoil sport, I decided to join in and play by the rules. (For once, I haven't bent them either to suit myself.)

The rules are:
Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures
Pick the 4th picture in that folder
Explain the picture
Tag 4 people to do the same

It's a good game as behind every picture is a story to tell...

Here I am in June 2008 riding a bike for the first time in about four years. (As you can see, I obviously have no idea what the pedals are for.) Hmmm, never been one for two wheels! This picture was taken by Him Downstairs, who was huffing and puffing behind me pulling the two boys on a bike trailer. I got the 'easy job' apparently.

We are cycling around Mackinac Island during our first ever family summer vacation in the USA. (It was only about 3 or 4 miles round the whole island. As I say, I'm a fair weather cyclist!) This island is in the beautiful Northern region of Michigan. The scenery reminded us of northern France and no cars are allowed on it, so everyone gets round by horse drawn carriage or bicycles. I should have worn shorts as long flowy skirt wasn't the most practical attire, as my husband pointed out far too many blooming times. Bless him.

But I didn't end up with the sunburnt nose, now did I?

Anyway, I have to say I love this picture. It reminds me of the fun we had on that vacation and how much I'm looking forward to going there again, which we hope to do this summer, for the 4th July celebrations. (Thank goodness the fourth one in the fourth folder wasn't a picture I wouldn't share with my nearest and dearest, let alone blogland.)

To watch the boys build sancastles, splash in the water, eat ice creams and laugh at Mummy and Daddy cycling, (yes, thank you boys) was really, really lovely. That was the summer where my babies became little boys and we bonded more and watched TV less!

Must be time to buy myself a bike eh?

And now to my four tagees: Come on Confused Take That Fan, Nappy Valley Girl, Audrey at Multitude and Dave at Teach My Children Well. Dave, you can join in as long as you promise not to use the pic of you in underpants, even if it is the fourth one. OK?!

I can't wait to see all your pictures and read the stories behind them.

Someone give Veet an award!

2009-01-21T17:48:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine emailed me this newspaper cutting from one of the UK papers. I just had to share it.

Now, that's what you call great media placement isn't it?

UK Jitters

2009-01-20T20:49:00.000-08:00

I've got the fear. I feel a bit silly admitting it, but I think I am scared of visiting England.

The last few days at our place have included almost hourly discussions about our homeland. And each time, I feel panicky. The UK conversations between Him Downstairs and I have me dancing with excitement one minute and crashing to tears and anxiety the next.

You see, I haven't been back for over two years and right now, I have UK withdrawal BIG TIME. I need to smell Persil laundry detergent again, wash my hair with Timotei and eat fish and chips out of vinegar soaked paper. But, as we talk and try to plan a trip for 09, the memories of the goodbyes from the last visit awaken from their sleepy coffin and the fear grips me. I think, 'Can I go through that again?'

I'm going to have to. We have to go. Our visas have to be renewed and we're having sod all luck getting an appointment at a Canadian Embassy. Anyway, I'd rather take a holiday to London England, than Toronto or Halifax Canada, right now.

So, I've been spending hours on Northwest Airlines website, searching for flights, whilst Him Downstairs spends hours on hold with the US Embassy in London, trying to secure us appointments.

I cannot wait to see my girlfriends. I want to hug their kids and see my boys play with them. These little people who are now strangers to each other, but were once so close in utero. I know my heart will beat a little faster when I clock the lack of recognition on their faces as they fail to remember meeting me before. It will make me sad. It's one of the things I'm scared of; being a stranger to them, yet their mummies are still as important to me and my life in the US as they were to me and my life in the UK.

If my reaction to watching Last Chance Harvey - a movie set in London with scene after scene shot in some of my favourite places, is anything to go by, I definitely need a UK fix. I swooned and swooned as the film unfolded, evoking memories of my former Life in the Big City. Strolls along the Embankment, dates at Somerset House, a party at The Grosvenor - my past all mixed up in the celluloid I was lost in.

When the film finished, my movie buddy turned to me and said, "You're going to go home and book a flight now aren't you?" I would have driven straight to the airport if I'd had my passport on me!

Yes, I cannot wait to go get me a piece of England again, but I know what it will do to me. And it's not nice.

For starters, I'll cry all the way back on the plane as I clutch my Jelly Tots, Minstrels, and M&S Percy Pigs. Then for about two or three weeks after I arrive back home, I'll spend hour upon hour trawling property finder websites to see where and how much it will cost us to come live in the UK again, whilst sobbing into my Hula Hoops.

I'll mourn and mourn again The Life I Once Knew in the UK, and beat myself up about giving it all up to come to America. I hate those post-UK-visit weeks. I hate that just as I've reconnected with my friends and their children, I have to say goodbye. Most of all, I hate that there's not one darn thing I can do about it.

Well, except land myself an amazingly well-paid job in England, that will afford us all to move back and for Him Downstairs to be stay-at-home dad. And that's about as likely as me becoming the next American Idol.

Yes. You've heard me sing then?

The only good thing about post-UK blues, is that I have some close Brit girl friends over here, and we've seen each other go through this many times, so each of us knows how it feels. I will cling to their shoulders of support, until the fear and tears fade. Then, as if the trip had never happened, suddenly and without warning, life will just go back to its US normality.

Yesterday, I said to eldest prince, Cheeky, "Would you like to move back to England one day?"

" Why Mummy?" he replied. "This is my home. This is where our house is."

He has no idea of the extra fear he just put in his mummy's heart.

My Wednesday Golden Globes

2009-01-14T08:43:00.000-08:00

So I may not be getting any awards for my weight-loss over at BlogToFit, but, this morning, I got two pieces of news, that to me are as good as a Golden Globe. Firstly, I did as I should have been doing for the past several Wednesdays and got on the scales for the Wednesday Weigh In and was staggered to make a very pleasant discovery.

Starting weight: 125lbs (8 stone 9lbs)
Goal weight: 112lbs (8 stone - pre-babies weight)
Weight last week: Well, actually it’s been a month since I last weighed myself, so I’ve been a slacker, but last time on the scales was my first time on them in a very long time. And as reported, I was 8 stone 9lbs.
Weight this week: 8 stone 7lbs.
Weight lost: 2lbs! Two whole pounds! This is great news and I award myself a pat on the back. Cookies eaten in a week: One. This I am very pleased about and the only one I had was after a particularly strenuous bit of sledging with the family. I couldn’t have the hot chocolate without the shortbread. That would be like curry without naan bread. Wrong.
Exercise: Didn’t do too well with this. I went to the gym, a few times, but sat in the cafe reading my book for bookclub, while the kids went in the creche. However, me and Him Downstairs have played on the Wii A LOT since Christmas, and I really believe this is the reason behind the lack of 2lbs round my thighs and the absence of the usual January flabby blues I feel. Instead of sitting on my derrier every night, leaping about the lounge attempting to bowl or play baseball has made a difference. The proof seems to be in the scales.

I am amazed I got through the Xmas excess and came off 2lbs lighter. This has spurred me on to lose another pound for next week and I don't even need to do a breathy Kate Winslet-esque thank you speech!

Secondly, and this piece of news, is a bona fide award. NotSupermum and Confused Take That Fan have both awarded me another bit of bling bless them. I'm very, very touched by such a kind gesture, especially as I don't think I've ever been called 'charming' before. They are both estimable writers who's blogs always brighten my day. If you've not checked them out yet, I urge you to go forth and visit.

As bloggy rules require, I have to include the following text with my award:

"Blogs who receive this award are "exceedingly charming," says it's authors. This award is a fine one because it focuses not on the glory and fanfare of blogging, but in the PROXIMITY to one another through this online-world. "This blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY--nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this clever-written text into into the body of their award."

Friendships are indeed propagated through blogging, something I think is the heart of the blogosphere. And having an award going round for "aiming and finding friends" through blogging is delightful.

I'm going to be a bit of a rebel though, and pass the baton on to just two other writers who, through our comments on each others posts, I've become bloggy friends with. Nappy Valley Girl and 39 and counting. Both their blogs are exceedingly charming, and I only wish I could write as well as they do.

To celebrate my two golden globes, am off to twirl the boys round the living room to Keane's Perfect Symmetry. With any luck, I'll burn off another half pound at the same time, if I don't trip over a Hot Wheels toys first, that is.

Ready. Set. Go!

Mom/Mum's Alphabet

2009-01-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

It's been so long since I've properly updated, that here's a summary of recent life chez Mom/Mum, A-Z style...

A is for...Another expensive Holiday. Me and Him Downstairs gave ourselves a rough credit-crunch budget this year, vowing not to go overboard on the boys Christmas presents. Twenty-four hours later, I totally blew that budget by spending $400 in the grocery store getting (some!) of the food and goodies in, and then coming home to spend even more on the toy offers Amazon.com had this year. And that was all before December 13th. Whoops. We are living off bread and water for January, due to my shopping addiction.

B is for...Birthday and bowling. Cheeky turned four this Christmas. He wanted a party with his friends at the local bowling lanes. 18 little ones let loose with heavy bowling balls, pizza and ice cream, made for a fun and fraught start to my holiday season. But, he went home happy and full of sugar frosting, with even more toys and Santa hadn't even been yet. I need a bigger house now just to cope with the amount of Hot Wheels race track, Thomas rail track and GeoTrax train track that has now taken over my life. Oh and then we did the whole gift and family celebration thing again, on his actual birthday which falls on Dec 28th. Our paper mountain this time of year is out of control. As is he. And what did he want to do on his birthday, apart from eat more cake? A train ride. On a real steam train. Wish granted. Happy four year-old. Very tired and poor parents. Note to self, never get pregnant in March again.

C is for...Camping. No, we weren't foolish enough to actually put the tent outside in the snow. It went in the basement playroom so the boys could have a Christmas camp-out. (Plus it gave Grandma and Pops the opportunity to dust-off their pitching skills.) They were happy campers. Lots of fun was had, lots of sleep was not.

D is for...Drains. Blocked drains. Obviously you can't have a Christmas without one major household appliance breakdown. Our special gift from Santa this year was my father walking into my laundry room after Boxing Day lunch (26th Dec for you Americans) to discover a very wet floor and smelly dirty water bubbling up from my floor drain. Nice. This meant the dishwasher and washing machine had to be turned off instantly. Cue swearing and moaning from yours truly and the announcement from my Dad and my husband that no-one should flush the toilet, run a tap or have a bath or shower. With six of us in the house, this news wasn't greeted with any Christmas goodwill or cheer.

The blessing was, as Americans don't recognise Boxing Day as a holiday, a plumber was available and because we'd just paid our home warranty insurance (phew) this whole dirty smelly mess only cost us $75 instead of the $600 the plumber would have charged for putting his big machine down my drain pipe.

E is for... Eggnog. Now, according to Wikipedia, "Eggnog is a popular drink throughout the US, and is usually associated with winter celebrations such as Christmas and New Year. Commercially, non-alcoholic eggnog is available around Christmas time and during the winter." I also read that historically it is thought to have originated from East Anglia, England. My birthplace. Therefore, when in Rome and all, I bought some. Laite du poule it is apparently.(Literally, 'milk of hen'.) I love milk of cow. But this? No thanks. Never again. Someone add the brandy or whisky to make it more interesting.

F is for... Fire. A real one in your living room hearth. Essential it turns out when you have a power cut after a huge storm and therefore no heating or hot water on your son's birthday. We were only without power for about eight hours. 44,000 homes in our area were without it for three days. Eek. And where did Cheeky choose to de-camp to get warm before his birthday train ride? Chuck E bloody Cheese! Americans reading this, will know the horror that chilled me to my bones more than the lack of heat in my house, when he uttered those words. For you UK-ers, Chuck E Cheese is the naffest of naff 'family playgrounds'. Indoor arcade and toddler games and rubber pizza. Plus probably every germ you can imagine, just waiting to pounce on you. It has to be a special occasion for me to go there. A very special occasion!

G is for... Gavin and Stacey. A dear friend gave us the best Christmas present ever this year - a copy of the Gavin and Stacey Christmas Special. Missing out on some of the new Brit TV comedy shows (save the ones that make it onto BBC America) is one of my big gripes for not being chez UK. Me and Him Downstairs have thoroughly enjoyed our Tuesday nights cosied up together with Gavin, Stacey, Nessa and Smithy once it finally aired it over here, but we were gutted not to have seen the Xmas special. So, "At the end of the day....when all's said and done" it was "tidy" to unwrap this hilarious DVD.

H is for... Huckleberry Railroad This railroad, north of where we live, has the most magical Christmas event and is the place Cheeky chose to visit for his fourth birthday. So, with mittens scarves and plenty of layers, off we trundled. We rode a steam train which kept the birthday boy transfixed and the quietest we saw him over the whole holiday period! Result. We ate hot dogs and drank hot cocoa, rode a 1912 carousel and smiled at the charm of the Victorian houses all lit up with their twinkling lights. We also saw the naffest kids magic show, ever. He fooled all those under 4ft, but not us. But, the nicest thing was that it gave Grandma and Pops the chance to experience an old fashioned American railroad 'village,' and share their Grandson's special day with him. Only the second time this has been possible.

I is for...Insatiable appetite. Not mine. (See, I may be rubbish at posting on BlogToFit, but it is having a positive effect on my once outrageous eating habits.)No, my father is the one who turned out the be the two-legged eating machine this holiday. I thought I kept the fridge and larder constantly stocked with plenty of nibbles, breakfast, lunch and dinner options for the three, yes, THREE, weeks my parents were visiting us. But, this man, was out and about at every grocery and deli store he could find bringing home more dips and delights than my poor fridge could handle. How he didn't go to bed every night in a fog of nausea, I really don't know. How I managed to resist the temptation of some of the goodies he wafted under my nose, is worthy of a BlogToFit medal.

J is for...Jingle Bells. To hear Cheeky singing this every time Santa got mentioned was lovely. But, to hear Monkey sing along too, was enchanting. A whole verse, with all the words sung from his little heart. This from my littlest prince who, two months ago, could barely string his first sentences together. Hearing him talking so much now has taken our relationship to an even more special place. We can argue now.

K is for...Knitting. OK, so I already 'fessed up in a previous post that I have taken up a new hobby. And I've already been laughed at for it. Yes, I'm talking to you, Tara at Sticky Fingers!But, please let me explain, before you all have me down for being an OAP. You see, I come from a long line of Mom/Mum women who have knitted, crotched, sewed and quilted their little hearts out. Then along came I and the gene pool forgot to give me my quota of interest or ability in such crafts. My Nanny tried to kick start some knit-life into me and let me loose in her sewing room once. This just resulted in a painful trip to the emergency room to remove some curtain rings I got stuck on six of my fingers. And ever since I became pregnant, my mum tried to encourage me to make something for my babies, whilst she produced beautiful knitwear, quilts, tapestry nursery pictures and clothes, quicker than I had contractions.

Then the knitting revolution happened, and now, such is the metamorphosis of an ancient craft once dismissed as the preserve of doting grannies and bored housewives, knitting has been hailed as ‘the new yoga.’ When I read that celebs like Madonna, Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Cameron Diaz, Hilary Swank and Uma Thurman are all doing amazing things with two sticks and a ball of yarn, I thought, 'Maybe I will have a go.' Also, nearly all my friends here knit and I hated missing their gossipy nights out knitting at a local coffee shop. So, I'm now a knitter with L-plates, much to my mother's pleasure and my husband's amusement.

L is for...Lots of snow! Hoorah, it was a wonderful white Christmas, and the snow has continued to bathe our garden in a lovely deep white blanket. So, we got Grandma and Pops (who live in Spain, and definitely are more used to sun, sea and sand than snow) down the sledging hill as often as we could. By March I'll be tearing my hair out over the white stuff, but for now, I'll enjoy every flake.

M is for... Minivan Mom. Ever since I moved to North America, I've fought the inevitable and not got a minivan (people carrier). virtually every Mom round my way, drives on and I can see their many advantages - loads of space for kids, bikes, dogs, groceries, Dad's DIY stuff and the opportunity to carpool on the school run. However, there is nothing cool about them whatsoever. And there's no escaping looking like a middle-aged bus driver when you're behind the wheel.

But this Christmas, the opportunity arose for us to get a more family sized vehicle than the little car we've been squeezing ourselves into. So, as I held my new keys, I squeezed my eyes shut, and screamed, "Noooooooo!" as I leaped of the ledge of cool and fell into the waters of 'Minivan Mom'.

Have to admit, though, having in-built DVD players in the car is a Godsend when you have two grouchy boys as passengers. And for saddo me, that is pretty cool!

N is for... New York City. Now, I don't want to go on too much about this (as this post is turning out to be mammoth enough) but it's definitely worth mentioning that me and Him Downstairs spent four days and three whole nights away from our kids just before Christmas in this glorious city. Yeah, a big deal. And yeah, something we've been waiting for ever since we got married, when we got to move countries and have a second baby rather than go on a honeymoon.

Dinners out at cosy bistros and bustling trendy eateries, with not a kids menu in sight - yeeeehaaaa! Carriage rides round Central Park, art galleries, the Empire State at night, ferry ride round the island, all an absolute pleasure. Every last second of our trip was magical. NYC at Christmas is a twinkling, snowy wonder-city. It was impossible not to have a good time, even when I got drunk and over-emotional and picked a fight with him, for no reason whatsoever. Guess the crazy-woman in me figured, things can't be this nice, so better ruin them for a few hours! When will I learn?

But, he's lovely, so he forgave me. The romance button was once again switched on and the rest of our trip passed without a cross word. He even let me prance up and down the steps of the New York Public Library to re-enact the heartache Carrie felt when Big left her standing alone in a wedding dress, with a bird on her head.

I can't recommend NYC for a romantic get-away-from-the-kids enough. And the homecoming welcome we got from the boys was the icing on the cake.

O is for...Ola! The Spanish words the boys learnt from their grandparents over the holidays means I am now greeted with 'Ola' every morning, and thanked with 'gracias' regularly. Never before did I have my boys down for linguists.

P is for...Parents. Yes, they came and they stayed and then they went away again. Thank goodness! Not to be disrespectful, but the advantage of not living in the same country as your folks is that they obviously don't infiltrate in your everyday life very often. The disadvantage is, when they do visit, they stay for maaaanny weeks. I love having them here, I love seeing them re-bond with their grandchildren and I really love the on-site babysitting they offer. But, boy, do I love getting the house back to ourselves when they are gone.

Q is for...Lightning McQueen. Why oh why did I buy Monkey a build-it-yourself Lightning McQueen? That bloody toy has become the bain of my Christmas and New Year. Grrr.

R is for... Resolutions. New Years Resolutions. Mine are ashamedly exactly the same this year as they were last year:
1)Be more patient with the kids.
2)Play more with the kids.
3)Eat healthier.
4)Exercise more.
5)Visit England.
6)Stick to my resolutions!

S is for...Santa. Ah the white-bearded one had an amazing affect on Cheeky and Monkey this year. Usually, with one glimpse of a bespectacled man in a big red suit, the boys fly into a frenzy of fear and run in the opposite direction. But what difference a year makes. This time when we visited Santa, they went running towards him and couldn't get their Christmas wishes out quick enough. Thankfully, he complied with most of them and now they think he is almost as great as GeoTrax.

T is for...Turkey and trifle. After my Thanksgiving practise as doing a turkey dinner, I was all confident that Christmas lunch would repeat my November success. It did, kind of, except for the fact I forgot to check the bird's rear end and therefore missed the plastic bag of giblets hiding up there. Whoops. My debut trifle-making, however passed without incident and found six very comfy spots in the bottom of our stomachs.

U is for... Unwelcome visit. Ours was from the stomach flu that got 3/4 of my family over New Years. Normal healthy service was resumed on Wednesday. Does that kind of weight-loss activity count at BlogToFit I wonder?

V is for... Video game. Santa was very kind to us this year and bought our family a Wii. This was a real hit and even had my dad putting down his plate of heart-attack-inducing munchies to get up and play bowling. Grandma joined in. I got more strikes than I ever do on the real lanes and we all got beaten mercilessly by one of Cheeky's five year old friends! To say we're addicted to our Wii is an understatement...

W is for...Wall-E. The little Pixar Pictures robot who totally took over my Christmas TV viewing. Yes, the animation and effects are great and yes, the love story between him and Eve is rather sweet and the environmental warnings being sent through the story are indeed food-for-thought. But boy, it's a boring movie isn't it? Especially when you've had to watch it practically every day since December 25th. And I was the fool who purchased it in the first place...

X is for... X-cessive Xmas. X-cessive presents. X-cessive food. X-cessive costs. X-cessive snow. X-cessive excitement (from the boys.) Then x-cessive patience (needed by Mummy and Daddy when all this Xmas excitement over-whelmed them.) All in all, Xmas 08, was the a Christmas with the X factor.

Z is for... ZZZZZZZsss. Lots of them. After everything that's been going on chez Mom/Mum, I need a month load of sleep don't I?

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T09:38:00.001-08:00

OK, so this post is loooonng overdue. I've neglected my blog big style over the Christmas holidays, but with a new year comes a new blog vigour and the intention to update more regularly than I have the past three weeks.

I have good reasons why I've been so absent of late:

1. The parents arrived and completely hogged my time and my computer. Bless them.

2. Cheeky turned four and with it all the usual craziness and party organisation a birthday brings, times 10, it being at Christmastime too.

3. I've learnt to knit. It is taking me hours just to knit a few rows and is far too annoying to be called a relaxing hobby for me. So far. But I gave in to friend and mother pressure. Silly me.

4. I've been on a mini vacation. Me and Him Downstairs took our first holiday as a couple in over four years. It was actually a belated honeymoon as we never got one, and we upped and left the boys with Grandma and Pops for the first time, ever. More of that trip later.

5. Having family to stay for three weeks is pure physical exhaustion. By the time I crawl into bed alone with the laptop, I'm in the land of nod faster than you can say, blog! Between entertaining Mum and Dad, the boys, Him Indoors and shovelling the ridiculous amount of snow we're having, shaving my legs and blogging have slipped of my 'will-do' list.

However, one of my New Year resolutions is to come back to blogland. I've missed you all and missed my sessions reading all your posts.

I also have to be brave and step on the scales to see what the Christmas damage is for BlogToFit. But that shocker, I think I'll save for another day.

For now, Happy New Year to you all. I'm off to throw myself down a 55ft refridgerated toboggan run, all in the name of family fun!

Seven/sept/sette/siete/sieben is the magic number!

2008-12-05T18:33:00.001-08:00

What a lovely end to the week, when you wake up to the sound of trumpets rejoicing you and the gleam of new bling landing 'plomp!' on your blog.

OK, so the ringing in my ears was the in fact Cheeky and Monkey's usual opera for milk, but the arrival of new bling is bona fide. The lovely Nappy Valley Girl has graciously awarded me with a Superior Scribbler award. What a fantastic early Christmas present. Thank you very muchly NVG!

Plus, Nappy Valley Girl and my fellow home-improvements 'sister' Hadriana, from Hadriana's Treasures, also tagged me to write some lists of sevens. So, as I've sadly got nothing better to do with my Friday night, here they are.

(To mix it up a bit, as 'tis the season and all, I've given some of my 7s a Christmas theme. Forgive me, but I've got AOL Radio Christmas music on and my Chrissie tree lights are a-twinkling...)

7 things I plan to do before my parents arrive next week for Christmas

1. Buy their Christmas presents. (This includes remembering to collect the mugs the boys have made for them, with their own special brand of toddler artwork.)

2. Wash their bedding, dust and hoover their bedroom.

3. Empty out their closet, which is currently full of cobwebs, old files, papers and various mystery cables and leads Him Downstairs and I have no idea what they are for.

4. Wash the cushion and couch covers in the living room. They once were cream. They are now taupe.

5. Take the garden furniture into the garage. My parents will be appalled to see our summer outside toys, table, sun brolly and chairs covered in snow and rotting in the backyard. Hey - autumn kind of flew by.

6. Learn to cook. More than a roast, spag-bol, lasagna, shepherds pie and cakes. I have to feed them for three blinking weeks and both my parents battle for the title of the 'new' Nigella/Gordon in the kitchen. It's a lot to live up to.

7. Get my roots done, legs waxed and eyebrows reeled in. Currently brows look like two squirrels have left their tales above my eyes. Must revert back to the daughter they once knew and not the sweat pant clad Amy-Winehouse-in-rehab state am currently languishing in.

7 things I do now (instead of preparing for Christmas)

1. Worry constantly about how we will afford college/university fees for the boys, our retirement plus feed two extra mouths during the holidays.

2. Spend time blogging and surfing (internet, not oceans) when I should be playing with my children/learning to cook/do the laundry/clean my house/grocery shop. (I could go on...)

3. Trawl Facebook to see what my friends are up to instead of picking up the phone and calling them.

4. Stay in my dressing gown and PJs unless we have to leave the house. Even I am embarrassed for the post-lady who this week, has rung my doorbell three times after midday to deliver parcels,and found me in the same bespectacled PJ state every time. (Bless her, she thought I was sick!)

5. Constantly fight the urge to eat a cookie, every goddamn half hour. Thanks to BlogToFit, I have put myself on a treadmill of cookie deprivation. This is meant to be a good thing, right?

6. Let my children watch too much TV. So I can blog in peace. (I know. The shame. Major Bad Mummy/Mommy points.)

7. Wonder how I will find time to sneak off to blog while my parents are visiting. (And whether to confess to them that I blog. Yes, probably best not to.)

7 things I can't do this Christmas

1. Watch a gazillion hours of crap TV - My parents will want to, wait for it, TALK TO ME!

2. Have drunken sexy shenanigans with Him Downstairs on Christmas morning.

3. Have a wee with the door open. See how that will go down with the children.

4. Go outside for any sneaky celebratory Christmas ciggies. (That was a highlight of having my sister-in-law to stay last Christmas.)

5. Bring myself to take the giblets out of the turkey. That's what you have Mums for.

6. Spend Christmas just the four of us. On a beach. In the Caribbean.

7. Win Monopoly. Well, maybe there's a first time...

7 Christmas wishes

1. A new kitchen. (If I'm a good girl and the US auto industry doesn't sink, Santa might bring me this before next spring.)

2. Some cashmere lounging socks. My current ones are a disgrace. And not cashmere.

3. Zero arguments with the parents. (I'll keep you posted about if this wish comes true, seeings as I can't help but revert back to a sulky teenager in their presence.)

4. Time away from being Mum/Mom. (Hurray, this one's coming true as HD and I are off to NYC for a romantic three night break away from being parents. Thank you Mum and Dad!)

5. To be a better Mummy. This is also a New Year Resolution. I will play with them more and spend more one-on-one time with each of them next year. Honest.

6. To make HD happier. Bless him. He doesn't complain much. But apparenty I don't put out enough. He has a point.

7. Peace, love, harmony and good fortune for all whom I love. Cheesy but true.

7 things I say most often as Christmas approaches

1. Remember, Santa's watching.

2. Stop it! Do you really want me to have to phone Santa?

3. No, no more toy catalogues have arrived in the mail today.

4. Yes, Mummy and Daddy will put the fire out so Santa doesn't burn his bottom when he comes down the chimney.

5. I don't think Santa will fit quite that many toys just for you in his sack darling.

6. No, the reindeer don't live at our house.

7. Thank god: they're asleep.

7 celebrities I'd invite for Christmas dinner

1. Ruth Jones - but for added entertainment, she'd have to come as her Gavin & Stacey character, Vanessa-Shanessa wouldn't she?

2. Louis Theroux -like Nappy Valley Girl, I think he's witty and rather gorgeous.

3. Matthew Macfadyen- great British sex-on-legs actor.

4. Sarah Jessica Parker - great American actress with great shoes.

5. Maureen Lipman- good British actress, very funny and she'll always be Beattie from the British Telecom ads to me. I love the fact that she won an award for "You got an Ology ... "

6. Gary Lightbody - singer and front man with Snow Patrol. He could serenade me as I baste the turkey.

7. Victoria Beckham - just to see if she'd actually eat anything except dust.

7 favourite festive foods

(Though of course, because of my participation in BlogToFit, I'll only be indulging in these modestly this year...)

1. Roast turkey and all the trimmings
2. Cadbury's selection boxes. Hope Santa brings me one. Hint. Hint
3. Terry's Plain Chocolate Orange

4. The Boxing Day ham, mustard mash and green beans we always have

5. Chocolate Yule log

6. Leftover turkey and salad cream sandwiches (Can't get enough of these)

7. Sausage rolls (I've already scheduled my Mum in to bake her usual freezer-filling batch)

7 other bloggers who can do this too if they so wish but please don't feel obliged (I've chosen from my fellow pound-busters at BlogToFit)

1. Turf Dad
2. Deconstructing Jen
3. ThatGirl39
4. NotSuperMum
5. Dave Fowler
6. Tara Cain
7. Dave Wright

And then, not forgetting that Christmas is a time for giving, I'd like to bestow the Superior Scribbler award to the luscious Confused Take That Fan, who has me laughing and crying regularly at her blog and my favourite Auntie, the rock n roll machine that is, Auntie Gwen. I'd love an Xmas mosh with you both!

BlogToFit update

2008-12-03T07:59:00.000-08:00

OK so after feeling a little pleased with myself that I didn't go OTT at Thanksgiving (except with the G&Ts.) I made a big step for BlogToFit this week and got on the scales. I also made some big mistakes - I ate McDonald's for dinner last night. Yes, 'Ouch!' said my hips as another 2lbs of pure fast-food fat crashed onto them.

So feeling bad for my innards, I gingerly dusted down the scales this morning and decided today was the day to find out the truth about how much of a Victoria sponge my muffin top (MT) has become.

I did as all my fellow BlogToFitters advise and had a big wee (a horses wee, Dave?) before I stepped on. Plus I went an extra inch to hopefully save some inches, and shaved my legs and under my arms too. Well, all that winter fur must add to 5lbs surely?

Apparently not. Am not quite as beyond my goal weight as I thought I was, but am also a bit shocked at how the lbs have crept on since the summer, when I last weighed myself.

So, here are the stats:

Starting weight: 125lbs (8 stone 9lbs)
Goal weight: 112lbs (8 stone - pre-babies weight)
Weight last week: N/A (Didn't have the guts to get on the scales!)
Weight this week : 125lbs
Weight lost: N/A
Cookies eaten in a week: 4 (This I am very pleased about as it's usually 2 or 3 a day.)
Exercise: Didn't do so well with this. When I went to the gym, it was closed for refurbishments. (Shows I go so infrequently, that I'd missed the notices warning of impending closure.) But, I did play in the snow twice with the kids, dragging them up the sledging hill and running about, sweating in all my Thinsulate, so I figure that would have knocked some of the evil MT off its perch!

I'll update my stats every Wednesday with the others over at BlogToFit, and hopefully I'll see some improvement in the next six months. I haven't set myself a deadline, but it would be nice to feel back to pre-baby weight by next summer.

I've done it before, two years ago, when Monkey was six months old and we were going to England for Christmas to show him off. I was determined to lose all the baby fat and turn up in the UK looking a Yummy-Mummy. And I walked and walked and walked with the double stroller/pushchair until every last baby pound dropped off. (The jetlag though obviously did nada to help achieve said Yummy-Mummy look. I was more Herman blimmin' Munster's twin for the first five days.)

Plus, I piled all the weight back one with one tin of Roses and several Terry's Chocolate Oranges mind you, but, for the few hours as we flew home and kissed our family and friends hello, my muffin top (MT) took a sabbatical. On the flight back to the US though, MT decided to settle his feet nicely atop the desk again and I haven't been able to fire him since.

Until BlogToFit. And now, even though MT is putting up resistance, with the team of support behind me, I feel I might just be able to finally kick that b*stard's ass once and for all!

Turkey-tastic!

2008-11-28T21:03:00.000-08:00

As those of you who've read my blog before know, I'm not exactly Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen. (Or in the bedroom for that matter, if recent headlines are to be believed!)

Well, that all changed this week as I donned the Cath (Kidston apron) and for the first time since living in the US, hosted a Thanksgiving dinner.

Two other Brit families and the Mom/Mum household got together to celebrate this American holiday, complete with the traditional bird and all the trimmings.

I am thankful for the close friends we have made since living here - the other Brits and us who get together on days in the US calendar usually reserved for family time. With our families across the pond, we tend to search each other out and become 'family' for those days. It's really nice and means we aren't alone on these special holidays.

So this year there were 11 mouths to feed at my house for Thanksgiving. 'Eek!' said I after I offered to host. That's one big bird we need.

And one big bird I purchased, then had to Google, 'How to cook a Thanksgiving Turkey' to ensure I didn't give my guests food poisoning.

The five small people had their own little table, next to ours, which Superdad (aka Him Downstairs) duly decorated with paper hats and stickers for the kids (all boys aged 2-5) to decorate whilst the bird crisped. They were happy chappies - dinner, crafts, a movie in PJs and a sleepover beckoned. (As you can predict, five little boys in one bedroom = not much sleep and plenty of giggling!)

I must admit, I was little apprehensive about cooking this holiday meal. When you're not exactly Delia Smith/Rachael Ray in the kitchen, taking on the task of cooking for 11, can bring you out in a mild 'glow' (OK, very clammy hands and a sweaty back. Nice.)

Too many peas? Not enough brocoli? How many roasties? How many minutes per pound? All that maths had me reaching for the Merlot.

Plus, this year there was the added worry of BlogToFit. Having been inspired by the two Daves and Tara to take my eating bull by the horns and wrestle myself free of its calorie inducing ways, I wasn't sure how I was going to cope with the red wine trying to seduce me and the banoffee pie screaming, 'Eat me, NOW!' Let alone being able to refuse the dripping butter glistening atop the green beans.

Thanksgiving was fast becoming a landslide into food temptation.

There was only one thing to do.

Take a break.

Have a day off.

After all, I've been really good all week. (No exorbitance with the cookies and only fruit munched after 7pm.)

Heck - a big roast won't kill me will it?

So, with the pressure off, I relaxed and enjoyed every last mouthful of my big bird and yummy dessert. I didn't beat myself up that it was a meal of excess, but congratulated myself for not having seconds. Although the table was bursting, I didn't eat myself into a coma and felt much better than I usually do after a holiday dinner. For that I thank BlofToFit. Without their inspiration and the support from the community of fellow bloggers who, like me, are attempting to take those all important small first steps into a healthier and fitter lifestyle, my Thanksgiving day would have been a calorific food mountain.

Instead, it was more of a gentle hill. And I'll all about an amiable stroll than arduous mountaineering.

I have to confess I did indulge in a post-dinner Magherita (err and a few gin and tonics.) Yes, I had the hangover I deserved. But those calories didn't count did they?

pic: cartoon by Rebekah Failla and Artie Romero

HRH Mummy

2008-11-24T19:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight as eldest offspring, Cheeky, was getting ready for bed, he comes to me and says,

Your Majesty, please can you help me with my pyjamas?

Shock. Horror.

Hurray! My Family Hierarchy Bootcamp for Toddlers worked!

Job done.

Material Girl

2008-11-19T10:06:00.000-08:00

So, there I was last night, watching Madonna Veronice Louise Ciccone of Michigan, rock her broken heart at Ford Field, Detroit. A rare performance in her hometown. (FYI - born in Bay City, but her family home is less than a mile from my house).

A show I definitely did not want to miss.

But a show that left me feeling fat, frumpy and deeply uncool at not too far off 40.

This woman is 50. Yes, 5.0. FIFTY! And she leapt, skipped, danced, bumped and grinded around that stage for 2 1/2 hours like she had the energy of my toddlers.

Me and my friend (sat not quite in the Gods) weren't surprised at her showmanship. I mean, she is all all about theatrics. What had us digging deeper into our popcorn was the vast difference in what we've achieved body and health-wise these past 10 years, since we last saw her play live, and what Madonna's achieved.

We felt old. Much older. We have baby fat. Plenty of it. We were out of breath climbing the stairs at the parking lot. She looks younger. Fitter. And definitely skinnier.

I know all celebs are skinnier and smaller in real life than they look on the TV or an album cover. I've interviewed enough of them to realise that you rarely make the A list until you're pocket-sized. (Except of course, if you're a model.)

But this woman, The Material Girl, is Pollyanna on uppers.

I've cooked spaghetti thicker than her thighs.

We couldn't take our eyes off her thighs. And nor could all the men in the audience either. Gay or straight. Her thighs pay homage to diet, exercise and expensive body treatments.

I wonder if Kabbalah gets you great thighs too? (Join and get a free pair of spaghetti legs every time?!)

What I did observe though, to my great relief, was that she did sit down three times. Ah, see old age does affect us all. Even multi-millionaire pop icons.

She still obviously would kick all our ar*es at the gym. She certainly gave her 'teenage' dancers a run for the money in the energy stakes.

But she definitely took her looming divorce rage out on that stage. It was a show tinged with angry moves. Lots of thrashing the floor (and not just in the Spanish dancing which accompanied La Isla Bonita). And even 'fake' tears during an acoustic version of You Must Love Me (Am I the only Madonna fan, who loved her in Evita?) The old romantic in me, likes to think she was singing this to Guy in an attempt to save her marriage, but the realist says that she was singing it to us, her audience and fans, in another insecure cry for lifelong audulation. Such is the psyche of an artiste.

Whatever was going on under her costume (not much, consider how lacking in coverage those shorts were) one thing stands out from last nights show..

I have, unwillingly, become an unfit, unhealthy, lazy-arsed, 30-something, who hasn't exerted as much physical energy in the past 2 1/2 years as Madge did in those 2 1/2 hours.

I've got old without really taking note of it, acknowledging it or changing my lifestyle accordingly to accomodate this ageing process.

And as much as I try to remain hip, cool, fit and young, who am I trying to kid? I mean, me and my friends approach to last night was so 'Mumsie' it was embarassing.

We emptied our wallets of excess credit cards and pics of our kids - in case we got robbed.

We charged our phones - in case we needed to make an emergency call.

We took two maps - one in case we got lost on the roads and one in case we got lost inside the venue.

We located the bathrooms straight away - thankfully near enough our seats so we didn't miss too much of the show when our bladders gave out.

We rang home twice - to tell hubbies we'd got there without being shot (Well this is Detroit). And the second time, to tell them the car hadn't been vandalised and we hadn't been carjacked when we were leaving.

We didn't drink - alcohol.

We ate popcorn - kill me now!

We wore jumpers - enough said.

Jeez - the last time I saw her (at Earls Court, London) I smoked, boozed and danced my way through her concert. All inhibitions thrown to the wind and I did every move to Vogue. This time, I tapped my toes, not wanting to annoy the lady next to me with any invasion into her 'dance space' and got mildly annoyed at a girl two rows infront who stood up and busted dance moves that kept blocking my view of the big screen.

So, that's it. I'm done hurtling into middle age with my middle age spread. Things are going to change in Mom/Mum land. They have to.

I am, wait for it, going to get fit! I am going to put away the supersize box of cookies and opt for a smaller pack. With fruit. If Madonna can leap around at 50 like an Oompa-Loompa, then so can I.

Alright, that might be a tad overambitious, but I am going to join the loose-some-pounds party with the wonderfully inspriational blogcrew at BlogToFit.

I can't promise to step on the scales all that often, but I can promise to cut out some of the cr*p from my diet and to use my legs for something other than putting up on the couch.

And hopefully, like the two Daves and Tara, in a few months, I will be fitter and healthier than I am now. If I lose weight, that'll be a bonus. As Tara says, it's 'baby steps' and if I can do some of those steps to the soundtrack of the Material Girl then it'll be Like A Prayer answered for me.

Come on over with me and get that party started!

Manic Monday

2008-11-17T20:34:00.000-08:00

Today's list of Must-Dos read: (Yes, I really do make a list. The evil placenta zapped most of my memory. Twice).

1. Bank - sign forms.
2. Boys haircut asap.
3. Post Office - post parcel, buy stamps.
4. Send off gas bill payment.

Shouldn't be too hard to achieve, should it?

Achieving #4 went without a hitch. Even I can't mess up writing a cheque and putting a sealed envelope in the mailbox. Well, almost. I put the envelope in after the post had been collected, thus missing today's mail. Then I forgot to take the bill to the main post office when attempting #3, therefore missing my second chance at getting the bill started on its little journey.

Don't fret Big Gas Company, my payment is in the mailbox for tomorrow's collection. I promise.

#2 was priority. I figured I should get what I anticipated to be the hardest errand, over with first.

However, getting both their hair cut turned out to be not that big of a deal. Littlest boy, Monkey, went first, and granted, there was a certain amount of objection to the water spritzer and the kids coverall. (He chose the much more chic chocolate brown one to wear instead of the one emblazened with Mickey Mouse. This child has taste. My work is done!) But he sat quietly and still (most of the time) on my lap and had me gobsmacked at his co-operativeness.

I put this down to the fact that the hairdresser was extremely cute and her big brown eyes definitely worked their magic on my two year old's mini babe radar. Older boy, Cheeky, even sang along to the ABC song with her, such was her power of persuasiveness. That and the fact that she plied them with butter cookies throughout their time in her 'Magic' chair.

Anyway, Mummy paid the tip and left on a high. Proud of my boys for being so good and also chuffed that for once, their hair hadn't been butchered and it looked exactly as I'd asked for: trimmed, but not too remand centre short. I am a fan of the longer locks.

Careful not to be smug, (I run too many errands with my boys to get cocky about good behaviour in public) we left the hairdressers and went to the Post Office. Time to do errand #3.

Wish I hadn't bloody bothered. This was an unmitigated DISASTER. They burst through the doors and ran round and round the counter in the middle of the room (the place where you write your address labels, can't find a pen, lose your keys, drop your cellphone, realise you forgot your wallet etc. You know?) I attempted to control them at the same time as stuffing my package in a padded envelope.

I tried diversion tactics. Hey boys, how about you go look at those airplane posters over there? I suggested.

Whoops.

While my eyes were averted and busy helping me fill out the Customs Declaration form, they boys wrecked the US Mail historic poster display and got told off by Mummy and the postmaster.

Monkey then decided he was off. Literally. He bolted for the door declaring it was time to eat. He had a point.

I went chasing after him causing me to lose my place in line, which totally peed me off as you can imagine.

The boys big finale however was when Mummy finally got served. The following debate about parcel tape ensued:

Me: Sorry I haven't taped the parcel. Could you?
Cashier: Well, we don't usually...
Me: But I had to buy the envelope here. i'm not going to take it all the way home to tape it, then come all the way back am I?
Cashier: We are not supposed to tape customers parcels.
Me: Could you make an exception please?
Cashier: Errr, well...
Me: Pass me that tape and I'll do it then!
Cashier: Ok, I'll make an exception. But only because we already have some tape open. Really you should buy your own roll.
Me: (inwardly) Arrrrgggghhhh!

And then the boys (accidentally) pulled over the whole, let me say it again, The Whole, display of envelopes and mailing boxes. My inward 'Argghh' went stadium and before I knew it my scream was audiable in the Post Office car park.

We paid and left. Fast. And I forgot to buy the blinking stamps.

I almost abandoned errand #1, fearing a trip to the bank would just about finish me off. But the forms had to be signed and I'd promised Him Downstairs I'd do it. Today. So we drove there amid serious discussion on how to behave properly in public places.

Me: Hands in pockets or by your sides please boys! Do not touch anything!
Them: Crying because Mummy was shouting.

Anyway, they cheered up slightly when we got to the bank because there were a few toys to play with. I breathed a sigh of relief as they situated themselves on the couch with the Abacus and a Dora book.

All was going well until Mr Bank Man took FOREVER to print off the forms and fill in his paperwork. Small boys can only find so much amusement with some wooden beads and one book. Had I remembered to bring a digger/airplane/train with me, we could have hung out in the bank all day.

Then Cheeky announced he needed the potty. A diversion. Hoorah! A nice lady showed us to the bathroom and we three locked the door behind us. Confined in a small space, we couldn't get into much trouble could we?

Yeah. Riiiigggghhht.

As I'm helping Cheeky with his 'toilette' Monkey spies a cabinet by the basin and opens it. It contains what I assume are the female staff members make-up bags and hair accessories. Before I can say, Flush and wash! he's opened two of the bags and has dropped compacts and lipsticks onto the floor.

I can feel the tears prick at the back of my eyes.

Why Me? I ask no-one in particular.

That's it. I'm so done running errands. So I scoop up the spilt make-up, hand it all in at the front desk, apologising profusely and I take the boys out to the car.

The forms can wait.

The glass of wine and the tears can't.

I think I failed the Teach My Children To Behave Well in Public lesson. Big time.

Share and Share alike..

2008-11-14T14:16:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by two bloggers I totally adore, Tarte Tartan and A Confused Take That Fan to share seven random facts about myself. So here goes...

1. I am a leftie. Left-handed that is. I've been told all the best people are, but hey I know some pretty lush righties too.

2. I once slow-danced with Sophie Dahl at an after-hours lock-in at a swanky London celeb hangout. Not that I had romantic inclinations towards her, or her to me, but she asked and as I'd had one too many cocktails, who was I to refuse an A-lister? We looked utterly ridiculous. She is 5' 11". I am 5' 2"....

3. I have never been able to finish a copy of Watership Down or watch the movie to the end. It has me in floods of tears. Every. Single. Time.

4. My parents live in Spain. Up a mountain. So I don't have a 'home' to go to in the UK anymore. Sniff.

5. My first pet that I was solely responsible for (aged 6) was a goldfish named, 'Goldie.' Not very inventive, but he was actually named after a Blue Peter dog. I manged to kill him by over-feeding him. Luckily, I've had more success at raising children and they are both alive and well you'll be pleased to know.

6. When I was 13 I purchased a bottle of Sun-In from Boots in an attempt to lighten up (in so many more ways than one)! I didn't bother with the instructions, poured the lot on and blasted my mane with a hairdryer. My hair turned orange and I was the laughing stock of the school for the rest of that year, especially as I then permed my mop to try and disguise the bad dye job. The result was an uncanny resemble to orphan Annie.

7. (This one's included especially for A Confused Take That Fan)

Once, after getting invited to a prestigious UK music awards VIP after-show party, I rocked up in my bad jeans and and The Office Jumper, worn inside-out (probably to conceal the coffee stains). The jumper was a manky grey hoody promoting 1998 James Van Der Beek's terrible movie, Varsity Blues. Not being a slave to fashion, I merely looked like a slave to homelessness. It was not a fashion highlight and even my editor looked like he was ashamed to talk to me. (Were you ashamed of me too ACTTF)? I sooo should have gone for the Karen Millen frock and a pair of heels. No wonder I didn't pull Liam Gallagher....I still have the jumper. I still wear the jumper. It still rates 10/10 for comfort and doesn't look quite so out of place with PJs.

And to pass the baton on, I'm tagging Tara at her new blog-home,
Sticky Fingers and one of my favourite Daddy bloggers, Clark Kent's Lunchbox

There's A Baby In My Belly?

2008-11-05T18:00:00.000-08:00

Smelling of shampoo and baby soap, Cheeky and Monkey were tucked up in bed for stories. Tonight I was on bedtime duty as Him Downstairs was off throwing himself round a soccer pitch in an attempt to keep fit.

I read them a book called Mommies Are For Counting Stars which is all about all the lovely things Mommies/Mummies do for their children. Lots of…

’A mommy knows how to kiss a boo-boo…’

’If you need an audience for your puppet show, a mommy will watch.’

’A mommy reminds you to say “thank you”..’

Then I turned the page and read…

’A mommy can look like a rose. A mommy can have a baby inside her.’

This one is accompanied by a drawing of the mommy in a maternity dress and a hat adorned with roses. (Personally, I have never whether ‘up the duff’ or not, worn a hat with a load of dead flowers on it, but each to their own.)

Anyway, Cheeky and Monkey who have been paying close attention (for once) to my words, stop me from turning the page.

Cheeky looks closely at the picture of the mommy’s swollen belly and asks, “Mummy, why is there a baby in her tummy?”

(Maybe this book was a bad idea. That’ll teach me to purchase before thoroughly reading every page.)

“Because that’s where babies grow darling” I say. (Am crossing my fingers no more questions will follow, but who am I trying to kid?)

Meanwhile, his brother, Monkey, is looking down his pyjama top and saying, ”Baby. Baby. Baby? This?”

“Yes boys, that mommy has a baby in her tummy, that's where babies grow.”

Cheeky looks at me in exasperation. “Don’t be silly mummy, babies don't go in our bellies. We don’t eat babies, do we Monkey?”

And his brother looks at me and says, “No eat baby Mama. No. No. Me baby?”

I can’t help smiling. “Yes, you’re right. We don’t eat babies.”

They wouldn’t taste good would they? I don’t want a baby in my tummy Mummy,” says Cheeky.

And with that, I wrap my babies in a bear hug, cover them in night-night kisses and assure them that in no way, will they ever have babies in their bellies. (Well, obviously not unless medical science gets that advanced in their reproductive lifetime, but that's not a conversation to get into with a 2 and 3 year old, is it?)

On the way out of the door, I dump Mommies Are For Counting Stars in the back of the closet. That was quite enough 'Where do babies come from?' talk for one night. I think I cleared it up quite well for them, don't you?

Not a VW Bonnet In Sight!

2008-11-04T17:14:00.001-08:00

So, unsurprisingly since I last wrote, it’s been Halloween–a–go-go round our way. As my last post testified, the Mom/Mum household's schedule the last few weeks, has been full of parties to celebrate the ghouls and goblins in our lives. We’ve had a blast and it will be a Halloween we will always remember.

But, now it’s all over and today as the citizens of America were voting, we were using our day off to take down our gravestones, pumpkin lights and skeleton bones that Him Downstairs had buried in my flower-beds and to sweep up the invading leaves.

As Obama and McCain slogged it out, we sat on the front steps drinking tea and marveling at the 20oC sunshine.

But I digress, what I want to tell you is that, the biggest event on our street Friday night, wasn’t the little Batmen and Doras that came Trick or Treating for candy, it was the appearance of Camel Toe Mom, without her Camel Toe!

I wrote this post Camel Toe Ted about how a neighbour of mine insisted on wearing her Halloween costume too small, giving us all a good glimpse of her lady pocket. But now, with her VW Bonnet not making an appearance this Halloween. I have to report, the night wasn’t quite the same.

However, I was also relieved that I could make small talk with her and not blush in the shadows of the pumpkin light; this year’s Witch costume was far more appropriate for her than last years Teddy Bear.

The night was also a special one for me this year because one of my best friends from the UK was here to share in the Halloween fun. And for all you UK readers who marvel at the American’s penchant for an OTT Halloween, she totally reveled in it.

Our visit together was too short (she’s currently shopped out in Chicago and trying to squeeze through the crowds to get a glimpse of Obama at Grant Park) but it was a very special 48 hrs together that has left me yearning for a trip to the UK.

Most of the time I cope quite well being so very far from my closest girlfriends, but then I have a long phonecall with one of them, or a luxury face-to-face visit and my heart breaks all over again and once more I am a weeping in an airport saying ‘Goodbye’.

Some friendships fall by the wayside when you move abroad, like a snake sheds its skin, I’ve shed some friends (not for the want of trying to maintain regular contact I hasten to add.) But then you have your Golden Oldies. The friends that no matter what continent you live on and how infrequently you see one another, they will always have a place in your heart and you in theirs. To those friends, I say a silent thank you every day. Because it is them that keep me smiling and keep me sane in this crazy world of parenting, in this crazy country I now call ‘home.’

It also helps to keep the fires of friendship burning when they bring you over a job lot of Minstrels, Cadbury's Shots, Curly Wurlies, PG Tips, Branston Pickle and M&S Percy Pigs!

Now that’s what I call a Treat. Wake me up from my sugar coma at the weekend will you?

Pumpkined Out

2008-10-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

Phew, I’m pooped and I mean really done in. All this Halloween schmarky is totally wiping me out. Apart from the usual school run and play dates, my weeks are now jammed with pumpkin and Halloween events galore too. My feet have and will barely touch the ground in October.

I swear, autumn in England wasn’t this exhausting. But here? It’s one social event for the kiddos after another. Here’s a snapshot of how my calendar looks:

• Saturday 11 Oct Pumpkin carving and pumpkin bowling at local farm. Plus a nature trail and pony rides if you weren’t already stressed and knackered from arguing with the kids over your pumpkin designs, and chasing after them and their escaping pumpkins.

• Sunday 12 Oct Cider Mill visit. More soaking up of fresh air by walking through the wooded glades with the promising reward of some hot doughnuts (donuts – tsk!) and apple cider afterwards. (Why oh why is the cider non-alcoholic over here? Call it apple juice please.)

• Saturday 18 Oct We go here, Blakes Farm, another Cider Mill, to pick pumpkins for the children to carve at home. (See the size of those things?) Plus we spend a lovely half day racing round the Barnyard fun – a 3-level haunted barn, a hayride through the apple orchards, and a train ride through the same apple orchards, more pony rides, and a pumpkin shaped bouncy house. Then we climb the biggest haystack I’ve ever seen, get lost in a corn maze giving any parent a heart attack as their little ones run off out of sight, feed the chickens and the goats and eat more doughnuts.

• Sunday 19 Oct Neighbour’s Halloween party. Ten little ones 5 yrs and under all running around in their Halloween costumes and screaming at the fake eyeballs lurking in the bowls of spaghetti and sauce.

• Wednesday 22 Oct Me and the boys pile in the car and head to a local mall to watch Boogah and Hoogah’s Halloween Houseparty! A cute Halloween themed mini musical show with Bippety Boolarina, (a twirling pixie ballerina) that impressed Monkey so much, he was straight down the front into the toddler mosh-pit twirling his little jean-clad legs like he was in the Bolshoi Ballet. Had to come home and have a nap after all that excitement.

• Saturday 25 Oct Straight from Cheeky’s swimming lesson he’s off to a Spooktacular party at RARA (a community centre that runs toddler classes.) He will don his Halloween costume (he’s a Storm Trooper) for the 4th time this month, and spend a couple of hours sans parents making a pumpkin craft, eating pumpkin shaped cookies and playing pumpkin themed games. (Just as well he likes pumpkins.)

Meanwhile, his parents will be running his brother across town to a 2nd birthday party. This one, thank goodness, has nothing to do with pumpkins and is themed ‘Space Camp’. A rocket ship would be very handy at this point, as five minutes into that party I have to go get Cheeky from the Spooktacular party, de-robe him from planet Halloween and dock him back at Space Camp.

And the day of fun doesn’t end there. Oh no.

At 6.20pm we have to charge to yet another location and go to a local Nature preserve for a Halloween Hoot. This involves taking a 45-minute candlelit walk, to meet fairytale characters and watch short skits. The evening includes cider and doughnuts (Of course. Everything you do in America includes food) and a campfire with entertainment.

• Sunday 26 Oct No lie-in for us! Today we’re off to Hess-Hathaway Park, a farm park for a hayride with friends. We won’t be partaking in the cross-country skiing (the snow’s not here just yet) but am sure we’ll be feeding the animals, walking the hiking trails, checking out the playground and bumping around on bails of hay as the tractor pulls us along through the woods. Oh and no doubt, cider and bloody doughnuts will be served!

• Tuesday 28 Oct Halloween costume party at Monkey’s toddler class. Bet we have to carve another pumpkin! (He’s dressing up as a monkey too by the way) but if I’m offered another cup of cider and a doughnut comes anywhere near me, am jumping on that plane and heading back home!

• Thursday 30 Oct Cheeky’s school Halloween party. Will have lost count of the number of times he’s worn his costume by this point. Then it’s a quick dash to the airport to collect one of my best friends from the UK who is flying in for some trick or treating. I will need the job lot of PG Tips tea she is bringing; to stay awake for the next 24 hrs of catching up we are looking forward to doing.

• Friday 31 Oct Halloween is here!!!! And we’re starting our family celebrations with a drive along Tilson Street Halloween Haunt . Apparently the decorations are astonishing and it’s like driving through a Halloween movie set.

Then, back to our house to light the pumpkins on our front steps for the neighbourhood trick or treating. The boys will be in heaven and are sure to be on candy-overload for the rest of the weekend. Great!

• Saturday 1 November SLEEP, SLEEP and hopefully more SLEEP!

They say it’s tough to keep up with the ‘Jones’, I say it’s tougher to keep up with the Americans at this time of year. Tell me, how are you celebrating Halloween?

The Queen speaks!

2008-10-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

As it's Monday and am sure we could all do with a smile to start the week, I really couldn't resist sharing this with you all. Bear in mind, you need to have a good sense of humour (not HUMOR) when reading....

To: the citizens of the United States of America
From: Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

In light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. (You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary.)

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas , which she does not fancy). Your new Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a Governor forAmerica without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1. The letter "U" will be reinstated in words such as "colour," "favour," "labour" and "neighbour." Likewise, you will learn to spell "doughnut" without skipping half the letters, and the suffix "-ize" will be replaced by the suffix "-ise." Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (Look up "vocabulary").

2.Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as '"like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as U. S. English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take into account the reinstated letter "u"' and the elimination of "-ize."

3. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

4. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not quite ready to be independent. Guns should only be used for shooting grouse. If you can't sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist, then you're not ready to shoot grouse.

5. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler, although a permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

6. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

7. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10/US gallon. Get used to it.

8. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

9. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. Australian beer is also acceptable, as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of the British Commonwealth - see what it did for them. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

10. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors t o play English characters. Watching Andie MacDowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

11. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full Kevlar body amour like a bunch of nannies).

12. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America Since only 2.1% of you are aware there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the Australians first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

13. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

14. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

15. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 p.m. with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.

God Save the Queen!

Time Flies...

2008-10-16T08:26:00.000-07:00

When you’re having fun doesn’t it? It also seems to fly when you’re juggling your children, the laundry, the housework, the grocery shop, the swim class, the soccer tournament, the doctor’s appointment, the school run, paying the bills, shopping for birthday gifts, the mom & tot class, the meetings with the builders and the weekend away.

For, I see that since I’ve been blogging, this is the longest I’ve gone between posts. A whole nine days. It’s been so busy in Mom/Mum land that I’ve not had five minutes to check in with my blog, let alone read all my favourite blogs. Sorry!

I did carve out time to write a little something for Tara over at From Dawn Till Rusk after she kindly asked me to do a guest post on her fantastic blog. (Thank you Tara.) So if you want to read more of my ramblings, you’ll find me having a cuppa over at her place.

Most of the reason why I’ve been absent from t’internet has just been that we changed gears to a frenzy of activity in the normal hum-drum routine. But for three of those days, I’ve had a very good excuse for leaving you.

I left home. Without my children and without my husband. But I did have a little suitcase of clothes, a stash of gossipy magazines and a few bottles of wine.

Last weekend I had my annual spa weekend away with seven friends from my mom/mum’s group. You could barely see us for dust, as we all zoomed away from our families for a couple of days in a luxurious Mountain log cabin up in North Michigan.

Lots of bloggers have been writing about sunny autumn (fall) days and my four hour drive up to Boyne Mountain was no exception. The colour of the trees was breathtaking. The car was even nicer (my friend’s cream puff car – a VW convertible Beetle) and we went topless - it was a freakishly hot weekend.

Getting away from it all is a luxury I rarely afford. Something I truly miss from those LBC days (Life before Children) so the annual October trip up North has been something of a highlight in my calendar.

It’s not necessarily always exactly the same women that go each year, but there are a few of us who have become the regulars. And the newbies mix it up a bit - we need the new sex/dating stories.

For the main event of the weekend (apart from the half a day in the spa) seems to be the Saturday Night Sex Stories.

It makes me laugh how under normal ‘at home’ conditions we are almost prudish with each other’s personal lives. We don’t get too intimate with our tales and I’ve been known to struggle for something to say to some of these women. I mean it’s not like I’m going on a mini break with seven close girlfriends. There’s usually one very close friend of mine that goes too, but that leaves six others that I sit with at playgroups and book club, but I’d never normally confess to them where I lost my virginity.

Yet, once we’re back from our day spent being massaged and scrubbed and we put on our PJs and open up the wine, then all inhibitions vanish. The stories that come out could make even Jenna Jameson blush.

Don’t get me wrong, I love girly bonding moments like this. (Me and my bed-pal for the weekend stayed up past 2am chatting both nights like a pair of teenagers on a sleepover.) But I think there’s something remarkable about how some of these women barely speak to me the rest of the year, yet tell me the most intimate of stories when we’re stuck in the woods by a roaring fire.

We go by the unsaid rule of ‘What goes on up North, stays up North.’ We’d never bring up some of the things that are confessed whilst we’re chatting at the kids Halloween party, but I always wonder how much of what you reveal about yourself really changes a person’s perception of you?

This is some of what I learnt about my ‘roommates’ this weekend:

One lady, a slim and attractive brunette I always thought was an exercise addict hence why she was so slim. Turns out it’s because she doesn’t eat. Except fruit and a little porridge.

One used to date my sons pediatrician when he was in medical school. Although she confessed they never slept together, apparently he is “very big down there.” I will obviously never be able to go look this doctor in the eye again. Literally.

One (who I always thought was nice but a bit holier than thou) was a right go-er during her high school and college days. I lost count of the number of drunken sex stories she told.

One seduced her boss and now he’s her husband.

One has a brother who’s sterile and has asked her husband to father his and his wife’s much longed for baby.

One has time for sex three times a week with her husband (but no kissing on the mouth! Odd, yes?) and she has three kids and a home business to run. Lucky her. Lucky husband!

And there was more, but am still reeling at how much I’d misjudged some of these women. I thought I was a pretty perceptive judge of character. I think this is what happens when becoming friends with woman post childbirth. We are all a little guilty of forgetting that they too had a fun and carefree past before they swapped gears into family life. I am no prude and I’ll confess all after a few glasses of Merlot, but I was most shocked at how shocked I was.

Did I really think that because most of these women present an indefectible life where I can feel such an inadequate Mummy at times (not at all deliberately I must add) that they really were so flawless?

Hmmm. Not sure. Because even though I’ve been a Mummy longer in the land of Mommies than Mummies, I’m used to the UK parenting ways, i.e. seeing kids being screamed at for misbehaving in the street. It’s normal for my British friends and me to talk very openly about our low points along the path of parenthood. I feel no shame in confessing that sometimes shouting like a fishwife at the boys is what need to do to release that moment of tension and anger. But I have found with some American Moms that it’s all about the appearances. The pressure over here to maintain a calm and controlled façade at all time with your kids is suffocating. I mean it’s taken me nearly three years to confess to a US friend that I’ve raised my voice to my children.

Not that I’m tarnishing all Moms with the same brush. Please don’t think that. I’m just talking about the very small group I know.

So, to hear some of them to divulge such secrets of recklessness and capricious behaviour threw me off balance somewhat. But you know what, I’m glad they told those stories. It makes them more human, more vulnerable and means we’re all from the same playing field. It’s just how we play the game that differs.

Bet they scream at their kids too. But behind their closed doors eh?

Can't Cook, Won't Cook?

2008-10-07T17:22:00.000-07:00

So, it’s that time of the month again – Book Club and thus today I’ve found myself in a position mostly alien to me; knee deep in cookie dough.

I rarely don the apron (Cath Kidston btw) and I’m more Carlos Solis in the baking department than Bree Van De Kamp. But for Book Club, I have to make the effort and face my kitchen fears.

I’ve mentioned before on this blog that I’d get thrown out if I turned up with boxed cookies, and that’s really not far from the truth. And this I learnt from bitter experience.

Three years ago, after living here for a couple of months, I joined my local chapter of the national moms organisation, Mothers & More. It’s a great group to be part of and gave me the gateway to meeting most of the women I now call friends. But there are unspoken rules to our gatherings. Rules that don’t appear on the mission statement.

Food etiquette.

One of the first evening events I went to was their Book Club. (I hadn’t read the book, but was assured that didn’t matter, as gossip and eating were the main order of the night.) All I had to do was bring a dessert or appetizer to share and show up. Not knowing what kind of treat to bring, I went to a local gourmet market and picked out a sugar laden box of Christmas cookies. (Twas the season n all.)

When I arrived at the host’s house and went into the kitchen, I saw the counter was bursting with edible delights. There was spinach dip and crackers (home-made) brownies (home-made) Molten chocolate cakes (home-made) peanut butter cream pie (home-made) mini meatloaves (home-made) cheese n ham spirals (home-made) oatmeal raisin cookies (home-made) and chocolate chip muffins (home-made).

My heart sank as I sheepishly added my boxed cookies to the mix.

Conversation flowed and everyone started to fill their plates and the wine was poured. I starred in awe as the host laid out little Christmas themed napkins, plates and knives and forks. Even the spoons had Santa on them. Clearly, coming from the UK where a gathering means you are lucky to get a plain white paper plate and a plastic fork, this scene left me gob smacked. (I have since come to realise that this sort of spread complete with holiday themed cutlery (silverware) and matching napkins is completely normal in a US home.)

I thought I had come to her party-of-the-year, not an informal discussion on the Bronte sisters.

The women made me feel really welcome and we to-ed and fro-ed from the kitchen refilling throughout the evening. I quickly realised my mistake in having dinner beforehand.

However, every time I went into the kitchen, I noticed my lurid green Christmas tree cookies remained untouched. I didn’t fancy their chances against this gourmet feast. Three hours passed and the oatmeal raisin cookies were devoured. The spinach dip was all gone and the molten cakes left us with gooey fingers.

Still my cookies remained sealed.

At the end of the night, everyone takes home what’s left of the dishes they bring. I was the only one to bring home exactly what I’d entered the house with. I was crestfallen. I’d failed in the bring-a-dish-to-pass department.

So Him Downstairs had a Christmas cookie in his lunchbox every day after, until they eventually ran out around Chinese New Year! (He reported, that they were, “OK-ish.”)

My lesson was learnt. Though shall never bring store-bought goods to Book Club.

And so the monthly book meetings leave me all of a tizzy in two ways. First, I have to finish the blooming book on time (this is fine when I enjoy it and can race through it, but when we’re doing some sleep-inducing American historical ‘masterpiece’ I barely open the front cover.) And secondly, it means I have to get the Cath out.

The Cath (my apron) and I have become better friends since that first Book Club. And actually she always brings a smile to my face when I wear her, because one of my best friends in the UK sent it to me when I moved Stateside. She said I needed something to wear whilst I baked all the apple pie I was surely going to, now I was a desperate housewife! She was right. Sort of.

So here’s this month’s finished product, hot off the pan so to speak. My very own chocolate chip cookies, Mom/Mum style. (Not exactly all round and perfect, but they're home-made!) No so impressive to all you culinary queens out there, granted. But to me and my little family, they are a miracle worth photographing. Plus they’ll keep me in Book Club for the next month at least.

And Valley Girl I have a tip for you. If you do move to America, whatever you do, make sure you have a decent oven!

Now, who wants a cookie?

Are you the next Survivor?

2008-10-03T11:23:00.000-07:00

My friend sent me this and it gave me such a laugh I thought I'd share it with you. After the the week I've had battling with my bedtime Monkey, a giggle couldn't come too soon.

(Little update from previous two posts: I've taken a harsher line on the going-to-bed front thanks to all your advice and last night, he was asleep, in his own bed, by 9.15pm. So, fingers crossed, the tables have turned..)

PITCH FOR THE NEXT SERIES OF SURVIVOR

Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks.

Each kid will play:
Two sports
And either take music or dance classes.

There is no fast food.

Each man must:
Take care of his 3 kids.
Keep his assigned house clean.
Correct all homework.
And complete science projects, cook and do laundry.
And pay a list of 'pretend' bills.
With not enough money.

In addition, each man:
Will have to budget in money for groceries each week.
Must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives.
And send cards out on time - no emailing.

Each man must also:
Take each child to a doctor's appointment.
A dentist appointment.
And a haircut appointment.

He must make:
One unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the A & E.
Bake cookies or cakes for a social function.

Each man will be responsible for:
Decorating his own assigned house.
Planting flowers outside.
Keep it presentable.
At all times.

The men will only:
Have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.

The men must:
Shave their legs.
Wear makeup daily.
Adorn himself with jewellery.
Wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes.
Keep fingernails polished.
And eyebrows groomed.

During one of the six weeks..
The men will have to endure severeabdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties.

They must attend:
Weekly school meetings and church.
Find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.

They will need to:
Read a book to the kids each night and in the morning.
Feed them, dress them.
Brush their teeth.
Comb their hair by 8:00 am.

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information:
Each child's birthday.
Height, weight.
Shoe size, clothes size.
And doctor's name.
Also the child's weight at birth.
Length, time of birth.
And length of labour.
Each child's favourite colour.
Middle name.
Favourite snack.
Favourite song.
Favourite drink.
Favourite toy.
Biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up.

The kids vote them off the island based on performance.

The last man wins only if:
He still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice.

If the last man does win:
He can play the game over and over.
And over again for the next 18-25 years.
Eventually earning the right to be called *Mum!

* Of course, we need to insert the word, 'Dad' for all those stay-at-home Daddies amongst us..

Locks of Love

2008-10-01T22:08:00.000-07:00

For the umpteenth night in row, my evening went something like this…

Me: "Come on boys, bath-time, bed-time!”

Monkey: “No night night.”

Me: "Yes night night. It’s late.”

HD: “I’ll run the bath for them.”

Monkey:” No! Mama!”

Me:” Come on darling, Mummy’s tired. Go have some fun with Daddy.”

Monkey:” No. Mama bath.”

Me: (with, oh zero enthusiasm in my voice) "Alright then."

HD is resigned to standing on the sidelines, crossing his fingers he’ll be brought on for the second half, while both boys splash more water over me than the tiles.

HD: "Time to get out. Who wants to get cosy in their towel with me?”

Cheeky and Monkey: (in unison) “No! Mama/Mummy.”

Mummy sneaks off, pretending she needs a wee, just to escape their jaws of love for five whole minutes. (Must add earplugs to the shopping list; I can hear their cries for me through the walls.)

Me: “Here I am. Jammies on. Pick a story for Daddy to read.”

Monkey: “No! Mama book.”

HD: ”I’ll read. Mummy will stay though.”

(Thanks darling. My eye is on the clock. It’s now nearer eight-thirty than eight and all the good TV starts at nine.)

Monkey: “No. Mama book! Mama book! MAMA BOOK!”

Me: “Oh pass me the blinking book then!”

HD sneaks off in search of a warmer reception from the football (soccer) news on the internet.

After we’ve done Noddy’s Super Busy Day, The Curious Little Dolphin, and Harry and the Dinosaurs Make a Splash, cosied up under Monkey’s covers, we begin the hell that has become getting him to stay in his bed.

Kisses and cuddles are dispensed to Cheeky and he trots off up his wooden hill to the top bunk. Monkey makes a dash for the ladder, grabbing as many trains and small diggers as his two-year-old hands can fit.

Me: ”Oh nooooo, this is your bed.”

Monkey: “No. Up! Up!”

Cheeky: ”No! Your bed is down there. This bed is for bigger boys. You can’t come up here!

Me: “Yes. Come back down here.”

I bang my bloody head on the bloody bed for the billionth time this week, as I scramble off lower bunk to retrieve escaping Monkey.

Monkey: “Noooo! Humph.” (He’s got that toddler folding of arms and pouting bottom lip thing off-pat.)

HD reappears as back-up. Ha ha.

HD: ”Come on. Night-night time. Let’s get tucked in.”

Monkey: “No! Mama.”

Here we go again…

HD: “Mummy will stay, but only if you get back in your bed.”

(Thanks again darling.)

Monkey: (now smiling) ”Mama!”

Me: “Come on then. Snuggles.” And we get under the covers together again.

I will skip the next 45 minutes of conversation. Suffice to say, it involved mass over-use of the words ‘Mama,’ ‘bus,’ ‘whooow’ and ‘raaah’ as Monkey rallied against going to sleep with a repetitive on and off the bed re-enactment of plastic school-bus crashing into plastic passengers and tumbling over plastic Stegosaurus.

At 10 O’clock (!) as I was contemplating tying him down and gaffer-taping his gob, Cheeky piped up: ”Be quiet. You are both too noisy!”

I’d barely said a word, but apparently, my under-the-covers shussshh-ing was enough to offend and have me down as co-disturber of bedtime peace.

As Monkey’s eyelids finally started to look a little heavy and his plastic passengers bruised, I tried to creep out. But with one shuffle of the duvet, he sat bolt upright and said,“No Mama!”

Oh the price we pay for popularity eh?

Twenty minute later (at practically 10-frigging-30 PM) he is finally asleep deep enough (and still in his bed) that I can escape his locks of love. But, yet again, bang went my evening. So, all tips for getting little ones to go to bed without Mama, will be gratefully received. I am desperate to reclaim nights as my own…

Bedlam

2008-09-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

Places Monkey has chosen to sleep at bedtime over the past two weeks:
• In the car
• On the floor in the guest room, beside the spare bed
• In the spare bed
• Under the spare bed
• On the rocking chair in the nursery
• At the end of his brother's bed
• On the floor beside his brother’s bed
• In Mummy and Daddy’s bed (numerous times)
• On the big couch in the living room
• On the small couch in the living room
• On the floor in the living room
• On the couch in the playroom
• Under the Thomas train table in the playroom

Places Monkey has refused to go to sleep:
• His own bloody new big boy bed!

No nights lounging in front of the TV soaking up all the fab new fall shows for me. Oh no. Every night I’ve been playing a new game with my second born: musical beds. And so far I’m totally losing. Or should that be, I'm a total loser?

Give me strength for the week ahead....

You've Got Mail

2008-09-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

Opening up my email inbox today, I was excited to see 13 new messages. “Ohhh what gossip from friends?” I thought as I clicked on mousey.
Nada. None. Nope. Not one. Nothing. Not ONE email was from a living, breathing friend. It was all junk mail landing with a big fat ‘splat!’ in my inbox.

How did these companies get my email address? Isn’t it enough that I’m plagued by advertising interrupting my TV shows every five minutes with their in-yer-face commercials? (Thank the lordy for DVR) My mailbox over-flows daily with flyers for this grocer and pamphlets for that car dealer and coupons for goodness knows what. (Tsk, think of the paper wastage advertisers!) I can’t even enjoy the radio in the car without some booming voice yelling at me to ‘buy’ 'buy’ 'buy'! (Plug in the ipod.)

And now this. Despite me setting my junk mail filters, somehow these advertisers have broken in and are ready to pounce. These guys either have mummy-cams set up in my home and think they know me well, or they randomly hacked into my life anyway. Whatever, I’ve got some stuff to say back to my intruders….

· From: Tri Slim
Subject: Lose up to 30 pounds in 30 days
Have you been spying on me and my late night snacking?

· From: Acai Cleanse
Subject: Oprah’s Superfood of the year
Ever since the James Frey book debacle, like I’m going to ever trust what Oprah rates!

· From: Tesco.com
Subject: Spend Less with New Discount brand Products
Will you deliver to the USA? Didn’t think so.

· From: High Success
Subject: Quit your boring job and become a google millionaire!
Don’t think HD and boys would accept my resignation if I tried to quit. And it’s not boring. Well, not much. Though the housework part, I’d happily swap for googling any day.

· From: Michael Vincent
Subject: I found you a new job
Err, stop stalking me Michael. You infiltrate my inbox every day. Get a new job yourself!

· From: Finally Here
Subject: Better for weight loss than any other anti-oxidant! How the French eat lots of fat, but stay skinny and live longer than anyone!
Finally here? Like I’ve been waiting for this email ALL MY LIFE! Based on what research is this statement about the French true I ask? Maybe blogger friends, Petite Anglaise and Tarte Tartan can shed some light on this for me?

· From: HealthcareBilling
Subject: A brighter future starts with a Medical Billing Degree!
Excuse me? Are you seriously implying you have to get a DEGREE to send out bills for doctor visits??? Is this an April fool?

· From: Acai Free Trial Kit
Subject: Lose 20lbs instantly the Brangelina Way!
Is this a free pair of fingers for sticking down my throat then?

· From: Saks Fifth Avenue
Subject: Louboutin: More Fall Styles
Oh sigh. In another life, with another budget, I’d love to be sashaying about in my new fall Louboutins. Sorry Saks, think you’ll find you have more success targeting this customer with Uggs.

· From: Quality Kitchen Remodeling
Subject: Transform Your Kitchen with Sears
Ok, so this one caught me eye, as we are planning a new kitchen. But, right now, my kitchen would be transformed with a mop, bucket and some bleach. Oh and a spare pair of hands to pick up all the cheerios and rice krispies that have become embedded between the tiles.

· From: Janie and Jack
Subject: Up to 50% off! An autumn sale Not to be missed!
Ahh, now I love this children’s clothes store. But even at 50% off, they’ll still have me paying $30 for a sweater. Email me again after payday…

· From: VistaBusi8nessCards
Subject: 250 Full Color Business cards
Hmm. Lack of actual business ownership is a problem here. Though I could get a card for my line of work.
It might read, “SUPERMUM/MOM FOR HIRE” Available 24/7. Great rates! Specialises in: Thomas the Tank Engine, Cadbury’s, Greys Anatomy, GeoTrax, Fireman Sam, Jay Jay the Jet Plane, getting boys to aim in the bowl, wiping bottoms, chopping melon, cooking pasta, playing hide and seek and floor wrestling. (Note: the last one I charge extra for)

· From: First National
Subject: Your spending power has been increased!
Oh great. But, more importantly, what about my net worth?

Camel Toe Ted

2008-09-21T19:27:00.000-07:00

It’s only 40 days to go until THE BIG event: Halloween. The children have been buzzing about what costume they will wear since, err, August (!) and some of my neighbourhood Moms have been talking about what their kids will be wearing since, err, August. Not this Mum though. I was still looking at swim shorts.

However, as all the shops have been full of all things Halloween since, err, August, recently it has been hard to avoid the impending dive into costume choices and sweet treats. So, this weekend, I caved in. Leaving it until the last minute (as some Moms round here would believe) we took Cheeky and Monkey off to Target (sort of a cross between Woolies and BHS) to purchase their ghoulish threads before they all sold out.

Cheeky had his eye on a Storm Trooper costume. He’s been carrying round a costume catalogue since, err, August (he’s gotten sooo American – it’s all about which ‘holiday’ we’ll be celebrating next.) Anyway, the Trooper costume he picked out was $50. Fifty bucks? I don’t think so. And as I skipped the sewing gene, we looked for a cheaper alternative to buy.

The Trooper costume in Target was $19.99. Still plenty, but I wouldn’t mind as much if he only wore it once, or worse still and more likely, refuses to wear it at all on the BIG night.

With younger son, Monkey, the costume thing is more of an issue. Last year he was still so little we could put him in anything and he wouldn’t complain. (He was a very cute Tigger.) This year, at two, he has an opinion and can say the word, ‘No!’ Ironically, or aptly, he chose a monkey costume. And after some wrangling, I got him in it and he looked so sweet I couldn’t stop kissing him.

Halloween is one of the holidays here that I really enjoy. (Nothing to do with the fact it means a stash more chocolate in the house, honest.) I love it because it’s just so American and it makes me so happy to be in America on that night. They really go for it, so much more than I ever experienced living in England.

Last year, Halloween on our street was just like that scene in ET where he’s dressed up as a ghost and all the costumed kids are running up and down driveways, shouting ‘Trick or Treat?’ Except, as far as I was aware, we had no extra terrestrials or cameramen floating about.

My point is, it was so magical I felt like I was in a movie. House after house had carved lit pumpkins glowing on their porches, some pumped out ghostly tunes. Houses were decorated with spider webs, (I actually didn’t have to buy any fake ones, seeings as we have a pesky arachnid who weaves enormous webs over my front windows.) Some put fake grave stones on their front grass; others string little pumpkin shaped lights over their garages. There were purple path lights, fake spiders on the brickwork and plastic skeletons hanging out from upstairs windows.

It looked like a film set. It looked brilliant.

But most of all, Trick or Treat Night brings a smile to my face because of one Mom who, I shall forever refer to as Camel Toe. She’s an All American Mom of four and she takes this costume business very seriously. She joins in too. Her disguise of choice? A teddy bear. A very authentic teddy bear. She has brown paws, a soft and fluffy belly and a shiny black nose.

So authentic, there must be a tiny, naked, shivering teddy bear somewhere in her house, crying for his lost fur. Because her costume is about 10 sizes too small for her. Worse still, it rides up in that place where, lady or man, you just don’t want your clothes drawing attention.

'Camel toe' or 'camel balls', you've heard of it, right? Some people call it 'moose knuckle', other synonyms are 'cats paw' or 'deer hoof'. (US TV host Conan O'Brien even has a character called 'Cameltoe Annie' on his show.) Whatever you call it, one thing is for certain: it's not a good look!

I find it hard to maintain eye contact with Camel Toe Ted on Halloween. The urge to stare in horror right at her squashed lady pocket is overwhelming. Never mind the ghouls and gravestones, she's definitely the scariest thing on the street. Am hoping 2008 will be the year that she treats herself to a bigger costume. Or buys herself a mirror. I’ll be sure keep you posted…

Photo credit: Travisleebutton, FreakingNews.com

Is it Me?

2008-09-16T18:51:00.000-07:00

Or do I have,'LOONS ARE WELCOME HERE' tattooed upon my forehead? I've been staring in the mirror, exfoliating vigorously (I even dared to get really close. With my contacts in.) But I just can't see the words that surely must be etched above my brows, else why would another one have popped by to ruin my day? (Note to self: Book a brow wax. Urgently.)

I find it disconcerting that I seem to have more loons (lunatics) in my life of late than I have diamonds. Recently, I have blogged how these very special people have taken centre stage in my life during, Act One: Scene Five:
Lovin' The Loons and Act Three: Scene Two: God's Good Work?

To me, the lights were down, the applause long gone and the theatre had been shut up for the night. Silly me for trying to leave the show early. The Loons did an encore. Today. At the school drop-off.

Naturally, the car park (parking lot) is always busy at drop-off and pick-up. Cars line up with Moms/Mums looking left and right for their chance to pounce upon a space. I joined the line of shiny automobiles and waited my turn.

I noticed a car ahead of me pulled in to the side. The driver was gazing away from the parking spaces and looking towards the school doors. She didn't have her warning lights on. She wasn't indicating for the space about to become available to us, either. She looked 'parked.' I pulled past her and swung in.

"Ohh, we're nice and close to my classroom this time Mummy. Are we in those yellow lines?" Cheeky asks from his position as Backseat Driver. (Clearly, he'd been paying attention when, on his first day last week, the teacher had given us a mini lecture entitled, How To Park Safely at School'.)

How stupid can parents be?

Very, apparently. Because, as I'm getting Cheeky and Monkey out of the car, the Mom unloading her offspring next to me says," I hate to comment," 'But you're clearly going to aren't you?' I think. "But did you not see me sitting there waiting for that space?" She asks. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were," I said, all smiles. I'm thinking, 'Why is she bothering to voice this? She got another space, right next to me!'

But she wasn't going to let this go. Oh no. Of course she wasn't. She was another fully paid-up member of the chorus line of Loons that seem to be attracted to me, like a toddler to tantrums.

"But I was right there!" She is now gesticulating furiously at the place where I had passed her. "I was clearly waiting for this spot. I mean, come on!"

Cheeky and Monkey are looking up at us, confused as to what is going on. I wanted to kneel down with them, become pint-sized and say with inappropriate toddler honesty, 'Why are you shouting at me? And why do you have a big fat black hair coming out of that BIG ROUND HORRIBLE black spot on your face?'

But instead, I said, "Well I'm really sorry. You weren't indicating for the space. I didn't know you were waiting." "I was right there!" she continues to unlease her tirade upon me, enjoying her moment in the limelight. "It's just not necessary to do that to me," she says, shuffling her children towards the school.

I hang back, not wanting the other Moms to think I am a fully-paid up member of The Loon Association of Dramatics. But she's not going to give up, this one.

"You really are out of line!" She is shouting over her shoulder at me now. Someone pass the straight jacket.

Not wanting to cause anymore of a scene (a British philosophy I've noticed many Americans don't seem to share) I apologise AGAIN and repeat the fact that I didn't realise that she was waiting, "You got a good space after all, no big deal."

She stops in her tracks and swivels round in her Crocs," No big deal to you but, THAT WAS MY SPACE!" (Am guessing by this outburst, she won't be inviting me to join her Knit Night anytime soon.)

I have lost the will to live, so I don't bother to answer back. Instead, I march Cheeky to his classroom, kiss him goodbye and get the hell out of Loonsville (carefully avoiding not to ram her car in anger as I reverse.)

When I get back home, there is a message on the answerphone telling me we've won a free home security system. Am all smiles again. We never win anything! Can't wait to get it installed, then I can lock myself inside, safe in the knowledge that if any more Loons come knocking, the alarm bells will definitely ring.

Photo Credit: Fototsearch.com

God's Good Work?

2008-09-15T12:48:00.000-07:00

Sunday was Him Downstairs’ birthday. An event Cheeky and Monkey have been looking forward to since the last family birthday was over back in June. For the obvious reason that the chance to eat birthday cake again couldn't come to soon.

HD had requested his first birthday present take up at least three hours of his morning (a lie in). So when the sound of little feet stampeding towards our bedroom came at the ungodly hour of 6.26am, he took a dive under the duvet and yours truly stumbled around in the dark.

6.34am: “Can we give daddy his cake now?” “No darling," Yawn. "Let Daddy sleep for a bit longer.”

7.00am: “I want to give Daddy his present now! And can we have the cake yet?”
7.15am: “I don’t want bran flakes. I want cake!”

And so it went on, me on clock watch, them on cake watch. At 10 to 10 I thought, ‘Sod this.’ We lit the candles, grabbed the presents and filled a breakfast tray full of tea and Frosties (HD’s favourite). He was woken by a rousting chorus of ‘Happy Birthday!’ and two small background singers chanting; “Cake! Cake!"

I tell you, the man had it made. The boys clamored onto the bed, thrusting their cards and gifts under his nose and Cheeky proceeded to feed Daddy his cereal and plaster him with kisses. He’s smart that boy. I had him sussed: 1) Feed Daddy the sugar-laden cereal and I’ll be able to sneak in a few spoonfuls for myself and 2) He’ll be so chuffed with kisses and gifts he’ll let me eat cake!

It was a sweet morning (except for the bags under my eyes and the yawning threatening to make appear bored with the whole event). The boys had made Daddy his very own tea cup to take to work and covered it with their handprints and messages of love. (Ok, I ‘fess up: I did the writing bit). Daddy was thrilled and sufficiently elated to let us all eat cake in bed.

The second birthday request was to go out for brunch. It was here we ran into Sin City.

Happily seated in our little booth enjoying eggs (mine poached, the boys' scrambled and HD’s absent: he doesn’t do eggs) we noticed a cute elderly couple sat opposite, smiling and nodding at the boys as they threw crayons round the table and bacon off the table. (The boys, not the seniors.) We were not-so happily engaged in the business of eating out with toddlers that later, I didn’t notice the blue-haired lady approach my side.

“Excuse me," she said grabbing my elbow as my eggs were midway into my mouth. “ Let me give you this.” She thrust a piece of paper under my nose and on top of my plate. Caught too off-balance to take in all the words printed on her paper, I merely noticed the Ariel rounded MT bold ones at the top that read, ‘Lord hear Our Prayer’.

Oh no.

There was I foolishly thinking she’d come over to pay me a compliment on my parenting skills.

"Will you join us?” she asked, a little too close for my comfort.

My brain, as scrambled as the children’s eggs, spontaneously combusted and I plumped for the first Get Out Of Jail card I could muster. “I’m sorry," I said. "We don’t believe in God."

Strictly speaking, this isn’t true. I do believe. In something. My firstborn was christened in a lovely Oxfordshire church in England. HD and I sang ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’ under God’s gaze on our wedding day. But since we moved Stateside, I have struggled to find the right place for us to worship Him Above. Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, Episcopal, Christian, Methodist, Pentecost there are so very many churches in our city, I am totally confused as to which one is closest to The Church of England that I know and err, (sorry Mum, sorry God) tolerate.

So, I’ve gone and avoided the issue. The lack of religious education in the local state school system does bother me, but mainly because I miss not going to the school Nativity play at Christmas. And Christmas? That really bothers me. Do the children round here realise 25th December represents more than mountains of plastic tat? I just can’t get into the swing of being politically correct and saying, ‘Happy Holidays’. It’s still, ‘Merry Christmas,’ that spills from my lips as the snow falls. Michiganders forgive me because to them I’m just ‘the crazy English woman with her funny ways.’

Anyway, Granny is truly shocked at my response. I’m hoping it hasn’t sent her pacemaker into overdrive (if she has one). She leans right into our booth and very loudly proclaims, “You’ll be very sorry!” And with that she’s already got God on the Cell Phone and telling him to refuse my family entrance at the Pearly Gates.

HD is baffled, but not defenseless. "Our religious choices are our business!” he calls after Granny. “Tsk,” he tuts. “Talk about trying to ruin a nice birthday breakfast!"

And with that we finish up our eggs and walk straight out into Sin City.

Photo Credit: Fotosearch.com

Lovin' The Loons!

2008-09-11T19:24:00.000-07:00

I wasn't planning on this being the next subject for a post, (you'll be pleased to hear btw, that HD has finally taken of his Daddy Day Care Crown to mop his poor exhausted brow.) However, yesterday I got an email from one of my fellow Brit Sunday Brunch Gang (SBG) friends that made me laugh so much I almost had to reach for a Maxima Underpad.

The subject line read: Craigslist Looney!

This was going to be good.

You see, this friend and I have spent much of our Mid-West summer selling anything that's not nailed down in our homes on Craigslist. Tired of being Desperate-For-Our-Own-Cash-Housewives, we wanted to make a little financial contribution to our households, plus buy ourselves some bloody nice shoes!

So, we rooted round our respective homes grabbing any old junk we hadn't used in five minutes, photographed it, uploaded it onto the 'For Sale' classifieds on Craigslist and a few emails and knocks on the door later, there we were, dollars in our hands.

"Boys! You haven't played with that tractor since yesterday. Can Mummy sell it?"

I'm telling you, it was addictive. HD feared he'd come home to an empty house, literally, I was so into the swing of clearing-out-the clutter. People will buy any old crap. But they were buying our old crap!

Obviously buying and selling this way means you might encounter the odd loon (lunatic) ringing your doorbell. But we took precautions. Both my girlfriend and I were careful never to be home alone if it was a man coming to pick up the item. We both used to tell each other if we had a 'Craigslister' on the way over, and we called a little later to make sure we had not been murdered or our homes ransacked. (Not that either of us had much left in our houses now to be honest!)

Anyway, my favourite Craigslist Loons as I have dubbed them, were:

1) The 50-something lady that drove 15 miles to come look at my living room ceramic-based, cream-shaded lamps (which had photos and measurements on the advert) only to declare, "I was really after smaller pink bedroom ones in a Regency style." She then went on to ask my advice on a range of topics, including posting personal ads."I put an advert in my local paper asking for an exercise buddy," she said. "But all I got was calls from strange men. Do you think I should try the personals in Craigslist?" "Errr no!" I replied, wanting to add, 'Do I look like someone who has expertise in the field of pimping?

2) The 30-something man that wanted my $4 'coffee-for-one' Cafetiere so much that he was prepared to pay $10 for because I couldn't find any change. He beamed: "Am just so pleased to find one this small! Clearly, he needs to get himself some friends.

3) The heavily pregnant and tattooed 20-something who hoisted my old solid wood coffee table onto the back of her pick-up truck, point blank refusing my help. I wasn't going to argue. She may have been eight months pregnant, but she was six feet tall and as we say in England, 'built like a brick shithouse'.

However, my trysts with Craigslist Loons paled into insignificance when I read my girlfriend's email. Here it is for you all to enjoy:

"OK - I've had my first craigslist nutter! I had a few emails from a lady wanting to buy my cat carrier box. She seemed very reasonable. Within seconds of sending her my phone number for directions she was on the phone - half an hour later I managed to get rid of her. Needless to say I arranged to be out when she was coming to look at the carrier, but left it on the porch for her. Yes, I was willing to risk her running off with the carrier without paying - she was that bad.
This is the email she sent after she had been and found (no doubt to her huge disappointment) that I was not here. She did actually buy the carrier so I guess there was a silver lining."

Sent: Wednesday, September 10, 2008 3:27 PM
Subject: Re: Airline Approved Pet Carrier

HI,

I LEFT THE MONEY UNDER YOUR SNAIL ON THE PORCH. CUTE LITTLE SNAIL.

I left you some websites for the pandemic that is looming. Those are government websites of disaster planners. They are talking worldwide in different languages on one of the sites. The websites inform military families how to ready themselves for the disaster. Even some disaster planners from the UK are discussing their plans. I thought you might find it interesting and helpful.

The government has warned about 4 million people in the USA to get ready for the 18 month disaster, but they have no intention of letting the general public know when it will start, not in the USA or the UK. And there is a media blackout.

The USA expects to lose 25% of the population, and the UK 30%, Russia and Norway expect 50% losses. It is so sad.

I like the cat carrier. It is just the right size for my medium sized cat. I have 3 cats. One small, one medium and 1 very large. They are fun. My 2 children are grown now, so I have time again for kitties.

Have a great fall season!

You see, even in our sleepy little suburban corner of the USA there's a Loon just waiting to make you wet your pants! I think we should invite her to join our Sunday Brunch Gang. She sounds like a right laugh.

Go on - share your Garage Sale/ Classified Ads/ Car Boot Sale loon stories. You know you want to...

Tagged!

2008-09-10T11:20:00.000-07:00

Today I've been tagged by A Confused Take That Fan. So I have to answer these 7 questions then pass the taggie on to someone else. Not wanting to be a spoil sport, here goes..

1. Where were you ten years ago?
Living in Norf Laandon (Willesden Green) with ex-boyfriend and working on a teen mag. It was a big year for me as I got made redundant and dumped on the same day. Nice! But on the up-side, it was the year I got to be a VIP at Glastonbury and report from backstage. Having a bacon butty (bacon sandwich Brit-style) with my crush at the time, Pulp's Jarvis Cocker, is forever etched on my heart.

2. What's on your To-Do list today?
Forgetful mummy that I am, I actually really did make a 'To-do' list this morning. It reads:
* Book Cheeky's storytime class at the library. (Check, I achieved this by 9.30am. Get me.)
* Email / call Mum (Will do that after I've done this.)
* Buy Him Downstairs' birthday present (Almost done this one. Have been to the clay & paint studio where the boys made a special treat for Daddy.)
* Wash kitchen floor. (Didn't really need to write this one down as our feet are sticking to it, so the sound is constant reminder.)
* Do my blog. (Check. Well done me.)
* Defrost sausages. (I just got them out of the freezer. So that's an almost done.)
* Something yellow for pre-school. (Mustn't let Cheeky be the only child without a yellow object at school tomorrow. I'll grab a bag-tie later.)
* Cookies. (Ah, this one is a whole other blog. Suffice to say, I have my Bookclub meeting tonight and I have to bake something fresh to take along. Boxed cookies will get me thrown out. Seriously.)
Clearly if I am going to cross more off this list I need to move away from the computer!

3. What if you were a Billionaire?
Gosh I just can't imagine never having to worry about money. I do wonder though if we were billionaires, would me and Him Downstairs cease arguing? Or would we just row about who left the biggest pile of cash lying about? The sensible side of me says that if I became that rich I would obviously pay off all our debts and mortgage debts of our families and loved ones. The shopaholic side of me says we would go on several wonderful family holidays, employ a cleaner and part-time nanny and me and HD would go for some decadent weekends away, full of designer shopping and 5* food! Oh and I'd buy a nice country house in England for us to stay in when we visit, so we don't have to squash all four of us into my in laws house.

4. Five places you have lived?
UK: Norfolk, South London, North London, Henley-On-Thames. USA: South West Michigan.

5. Three bad habits?
Only three?!
* A bit too potty-mouthed at times. It's been tough giving up that kind of vocabulary in front of the little people.
* Late night snacking. This has got to stop because my Muffin Top is more like a Gateaux Gut right now.
* Too stubborn. It would take a personality bypass to sort that one out.

6. Snacks you like?
Oh go on, pass me the Cadbury's. If you must...

7. Who will you tag?
I will tag two of my favourite fellow Expat bloggers, A Brit Different (because she makes me laugh and very generously bestowed another award on me today) and Expat Mum because she's as harried as the rest of us and hopefully this will be little light relief for her.

Time Out

2008-09-07T20:52:00.000-07:00

Today I put myself in time out. And not just a lousy minute for every year I’ve graced this earth (that’d be, err, cough cough, 21 minutes then, yes?) No, I put myself in five; let me say that with as much accentuation as I can, FIVE hours of glorious, wonderful, child-free, husband disengagement, Time Out!

I got a Sunday off. A rare and special treat, but one I thoroughly deserved. A little reward for surviving another season as my family's Chief Entertainment Director. So the Sunday Brunch Gang (a mixture of my Mum and Mom friends who I coerced into my little scheme) fled our respective homes whooping with joy at the prospect of spending time with each other where we could:

1) Actually finish a story without being interrupted by a small person’s request or breaking up a fight. (I guess we could've had a brawl just for laughs, but it was lunchtime and we couldn’t drink and drive and we didn’t want to mess up our ‘best clothes.’ We don’t get to wear them that often!)

2) Eat a whole meal, sitting throughout, whilst it was still warm and not have to share it with a family member.

3) Be in a restaurant without having crayons, paper and half of Toys R Us at the table.

4) Go to the bathroom, alone and with the door shut.

5) Not have to hear, 'Mummy/Mommy/Muuuummmeee/Moooommmeee!!!'

6) Leave a table without their being a ton of food under it and sticky finger marks all over the chairs and our clothes.

7) Drink a coke and not have to hide it.

8) And most importantly, order a dessert and not have to share it.

You get the picture. We were all desperate for a Time Out. So the husbands were given their orders and off we went to enjoy what the Americans do best: a big full fat caffeine loaded breakfast.

Him Downstairs was far too cocksure about manning the Entertainment Ship with no first mate. So confident, he even offered to watch my friend’s son too as her husband was having a midlife crisis and taking his Motorbike license test leaving her without babysitter.

She dropped her son off at ours...

“You sure you’re going to be OK?” we ask HD. Her son is Cheeky’s BF, thus we’ll be leaving my beloved with two rambunctious three year olds and Monkey, who is right in the middle of The Terrible Twos.

“We’re going to have a blast, aren’t we boys?” he says, getting out all the craft supplies. “Yeahhh, ye-hah!” the boys shriek in excitement, like he’s Disney World reincarnated.

“Do they do that for you when you get the paints out?” my friend asks me as we get into the car.

“No,” I reply. “They don’t even bloody notice!”

The brunch is lovely. Seven Mom/Mums let loose in dining and retail heaven with not a stroller at the end of our fingers or a toddler dragging at our heels. During breakfast (half of us on the eggs benedict & bacon, half of us on the French toast with fresh berries) phone calls from various husbands pepper our conversations. “He couldn’t find Aerial!” “He left the diaper-bag at Wal-Mart!” “He wants to know how much longer I’m going to be!”

My phone remained silent.

We paid our bill and went for a spot of retail therapy. We touched lovely knits in H&M. We tried on Fedora hats in For Love 21 (like Accessorize for UK chums) and we laughed over lipsticks in Nordstrom (Selfridges).

Still my phone didn’t ring.

Four o’clock came and most of out happy band of shoppers drifted back to their families.

“I’m calling him,” I said. A mild case of redundancy was starting to set in.

“Hi you,” he answers and I can hear the squeals of joy in the background.

“Everything OK?” I ask.

“What? Hang on. Yes, I am coming boys. Just talking to mummy. Yeah, we’re fine. Having a blast. No need to rush back. Stay out. Enjoy yourself.” Click. Brrrr...

“Alright?” my friend asks, seeing my jaw hit the ground.

“Yes. They’re fine,” I say. “Having a whale of a time apparently!”

And with that, I’m not having quite as much fun anymore. Obviously I totally commend HD on his ability to spend five hours straight with three toddlers and still be smiling at the end of it. But I am, let’s be honest, a bit put out. After all, I’m the Chief Entertainment Director in our family, aren’t I?

When I arrive home with two lovely purchases swinging from my arms, (I plumped for one of the lovely knits in H&M and a bottle of Eau Dynamisante) I am greeted by the sight of HD galloping round the garden riding the mop, with five other Knights of the Mom/Mum Household in his wake. (He’s acquired a couple of the neighbourhood kids such is his magnetism.) They are charging towards a homemade cardboard castle complete with working drawbridge and fully decorated with a rainbow’s worth of finger paints!

No-one’s noticed Mummy’s home...

“Hello!” I wave and am virtually thrown off balance by my firstborn (Cheeky) who’s making a stampede for the drawbridge on his very speedy broom.

“Watch out mummy. You’re in the way!” he shouts.

“Lovely to see you too,” I mutter.

HD spots me and canters over full of excitement at the wonderful day he’s had and very proud of the practically life-size second home they’ve built together. (He’s even got video footage for me to watch and 48 digi pics to mark said funtastic day.)

“Isn’t it great mummy?” Cheeky tethers his ‘horse’ to a turret. Yes, daddy’s even built them bloody turrets! “We’ve had so much fun!”

I know I should be pleased as punch. And I am. Sort of. I love the fact I’m married to a hands-on daddy. I love the fact that daddy loves craft because if I’m honest, even as a child, I’ve never been a ‘crafty’ kind of gal. But, I am definitely put out that the children appear to have had a far better time hanging out with daddy for five hours than they've had hanging out with me for four years! I feel demoted.

HD senses my woe. “We did miss you,” he says, giving me a kiss and a squeeze. Cheeky and Monkey reappear between turrets.

“Mummy,” says Cheeky. “Now you’re home, can you go and make us tea?”

!!!

I think it’s time I put Him Downstairs in Time Out don’t you?!

Why, Merci Buckets!

2008-09-05T14:31:00.000-07:00

Imagine my surprise and delight this morning when I logged on and found that one of my favourite bloggers, Tara, at From Dawn Till Rusk has very generously given me my first ever blogging award! I hardly feel worthy being a newbie 'n' all. I wept with joy (well it is Friday and it's been an emotionally challenging week.) So, I've popped on my best bejewelled taffeta gown and a good shoe to graciously accept. Thank you very much!

I'm passing this award on to other bloggers I love, who leave me smiling and speechless at the sheer brilliance of their words. Go forth and let them brighten up your day.

A Brit Out of Water
Flower Fairies and Fairy Cakes
Auntie Gwen's Diary
Nappy Valley
The Potty Diaries
Not Enough Mud
A Confused Take That Fan

As usual there are bloggy rules to follow

1. Link to the giver.
2. Nominate up to seven other fab blogs and link to them.
3. Leave messages announcing their rise to greatness.

Mummy Guilt

2008-09-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

This morning didn’t start well.

“I don’t want to go to Jay-Jay camp, mummy.” said son #1 (Cheeky)
“But you love Jay-Jay,” I said. “I bet you’re going to make some cool airplanes.” “But I just want to stay here with you!” he pleaded, eyes starting to fill up.

Oh gawd. I didn’t chose my words wisely when I replied that he was going to have to go to Jay Jay camp because mummy had paid for it already and that it was surely going to be much more fun than hanging out with me at home.

You see, the thing is, he is obsessed with two things in his little 3 and ¾ yrs life: planes and trains. And Jay Jay The Jet Plane is one of his favourite shows on TV. (Not that he watches much TV mind. Well, not that much. Ok then, he’s bloody obsessed with TV and it’s all I can do to drag him away and get him out of the house!)

Back at the beginning of June, with the 12 week summer holiday looming, I did as all my US Mom friends seem to do and booked my square-eyed boy in for numerous camps. When in Rome after all...

So Cheeky has done ‘Stretch n Grow’ Camp and came out telling us where his biceps, triceps and abba-dabba-dominals were. He did ‘Pre-School Camp’ and made a fishing rod, a drum and a rather malnourished looking T-Rex. He went to 'Tumble Camp' and thankfully didn’t break his neck or arms learning to somersault and cartwheel.‘Buzz Camp?’ Yep – he was there! Though I’m not so sure how successful this one was, because when I picked him up, all the kids were sat watching Toy Story. And then there was ‘Zoo Train Camp’ which we did as a family - minus Him Downstairs. Someone has to go out to work to pay for all these camps after all.

In Zoo Train – a musical themed camp, me and the boys sang our way through the American version of Ally-Ally O (theirs is about a train, not a ship, which totally threw me.) We banged glockenspiels together and jingled bells bonding over our love for a good tune.

Actually, I have to pause here and be honest with you about Zoo Train. It was a bit of a disaster doing a class with both boys. Littlest boy (Monkey, aged 2 ¼) clung to my hip like a Monkey through every class. All this dancing and parading round the room with drums, maracas etc was near damn impossible as Monkey wouldn’t let go of me or his bells which he kept bashing me round the head with, whilst in my other hand I held a clacker I was trying to play and Cheeky, who decided if his brother was going to get a ride around the room, he sure as hell was too.

As usual I was the only Brit in the room (totally obvious because I kept singing about the Good Ship Ally Ally O and not a bloody train, I mean, since when has it been a train?) and all the other Moms were skipping along with their little ones totally in time and in tune with Mrs Andrew Lloyd Webber who was swinging her hips and rousing her class like we were in some terrible am-dram version of Cats.

There I was dragging my two dead weights around the room, dropping instruments and growling under my breath at them that we were here to enjoy ourselves, meet new friends and not stick like glue to mummy’s legs!

The Moms were glaring at me right from their perfectly manicured nails down to their perfectly pedicured toes. (Damn, I’d put shorts on and forgotten to shave my legs again!)

Anyway, back to this morning.

After Zoo Train, I decided to change tactic and be all upbeat and positive about this last camp before school starts next week. But this morning we were running late (as always) and I kind of forgot to put on the nicety-nice line. Forgive me; I didn’t have time for my usual caffeine induced kick start to the morning.

So I ran round the house throwing toast in their mouths and flinging arms into T-shirts.

“But I don’t want to go…” wailed Cheeky.

“It’ll be fun. Come on. You’re going!” I barked (I know, I know). I strapped them into the car, with barely a chance to swallow their breakfast.

Cheeky is complaining about this camp all the way there, into the room and at the little table they’ve set out for the kids to do their make-an-airplane-craft.

Meanwhile, other son, Monkey, is chirping, “Jay Jay. Me Jay-Jay!” Then, crying, “ME JAY JAY!” as I drag him away from the camp. (Thankfully one of the camp leaders has engaged Monkey in the craft-making with cotton wool balls and he finally seems to be enjoying himself so I can leave.)

“You want to do Jay Jay camp?” I say to Monkey as we get back indoors.

“Yes, me Jay-Jay.”

“Right then. Jay Jay camp home-style for you then,” I reply. And I switch on the TV…

How many bad mummy points did I just accumulate?

The snip

2008-09-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend was Labour Day over here. I mean Labor Day. Nothing to do with midwifes or the colour red, the first Monday in September is a federal holiday celebrated by most Americans as the symbolic end of the summer. A holiday sought to create "a day off for the working citizens" had me deciding to have a night off from my Mom/Mum job, book a babysitter and drag Him Downstairs (HD) out.

We went to see stand-up comedian Chelsea Handler. For those of you untouched by Ms Handler, she has a late night show, Chelsea Lately on the E! Channel, which is full of hilarious commentary on life and celebrities. She’s basically the lady responsible for the decline in our sex life as we’re too busy chortling (giggling for my American friends) at her in bed.

Anyhow, off we went, picnic blanket in hand, to the ‘lawn seats’ area. That means at the back. We’re far too cheap to take on full-price tickets. HD went to the bar and returned with two nice plastic glasses of beer and we felt just like we were at Glastonbury (minus the mud, bands and tents, obviously). We actually felt youthful again too. (Though am sure the many students in the audience could spot the ‘PARENTS ON A NIGHT OUT!’ signs a mile off – drunk after one beer, sensible jumpers in case we got cold, knowing laughter at all the parenting/pregnancy jokes she made etc)

Anyway, particularly amusing to us was her take on dating an Englishman and his un-circumcised manhood.

“Why do all the men in your country refuse to get circumcised? she asks the Englishman. ”It’s repulsive. They look like (f*bleep*ing) aardvarks, and I really don’t appreciate it,” she rants.

We chortled on, remembering all the hospital papers we had to sign here when Monkey was born to prevent him from getting the automatic US snip. ”Don’t forget to tick the ‘No circumcision box’ our Brit friends warned us, “Else they’ll cut him before you can say ‘ouch’. This was obviously serious stuff.

After the show, we decided to line up to get our copy of her book, Are You There Chelsea? It’s me, Vodka’ autographed. A touch excited at the thought of meeting the lady who spends every night in our bedroom, I took my place in line. HD stood to the side, camera at the ready.

“Are you an English?” Chelsea said after I said hello.

“Yes, what gave it away haha?” I replied, (trying and failing to be witty with a professional comedian) A sweat formed in my palms because I kind of new what was coming next…

‘So, you’re a fan of the circumcised?” she said. Eyebrows around us rose.

“Err, umm yesss” I said all British and mortifyingly embarrassed.

“Well gimmie a high–five for the snip sister!” she yelled.

I found myself whooping and high-fiving with her. People had stopped exiting the area and were now looking at us. “Where’s your husband?” she continues. I, (sorry HD) pointed to him. “So, sir, you haven’t been circumcised?” she shouts to him, “and you bought your aardvark over here?”

At least 50+ people are now witnessing this exchange. “Shame on you sir!” Chelsea laughs. Although the light is fading, I can literally feel HD’s cheeks burning.

“Someone’s got to like it though eh?” Chelsea winks at me and the crowd laughs. I babble an unheard “Yes, err, of course, it’s lovely,” response (no-one’s interested in what I’m saying obviously) grab my signed book and make for HD as Chelsea turns her attentions to the next fan in line.

As we walk away, a stranger who’s been witness to this exchange about my husband’s pride and joy, gives HD a look as if to say, ‘you poor unclean Brit.’

“He does shower you know!” I snap in his defense.

Later, when we were tucked up in bed, HD says, “You don’t think it looks like an aardvark do you?” I didn’t have the heart to say I thought Chelsea had a point actually, so for marital harmony instead I plumped for, “I like aardvarks.”

Five Star Birth?

2008-08-29T18:10:00.001-07:00

Seeings as lovely Tara at From Dawn Till Rusk is asking us for our birthing stories, let me share how having son #1 in the UK versus having son #2 in the USA went...

BIRTH #1 UK

• First call to midwife at local Berkshire NHS hospital, "She's screaming in agony, contracting every 8 minutes, can we come in?" “No, we haven’t got any spare beds. Get her in a nice warm bath and pop on the TENS.”
• Second call to hospital, “She’s wailing. She bit me.” “Has she had a show?” “She’s putting on a bloody show!”
• Fifteenth call to hospital, “She’s in the car. Contracting every five minutes. Is the birthing pool available?” “Not sure. But we might have the ‘Feels Like Home’ room, if you get a move on. It’s Christmas.” Click…burr.
• 9pm: Wave off maternal grandparents and drive the 6 miles in our Peugot 206 via back roads to avoid the traffic (what traffic it’s Sunday night). In between contractions am texting my BF to say, “This is it!”
• 10pm: We’re back home because the maternity ward sister said, if I could walk into the place, I wasn’t ready to be admitted yet.I texted all the way back in outrage!
• 10.20pm: My mum makes us all egg and chips to keep us busy (!)
• 10.35pm: Am back in the Peugot, am sure this IS IT as I can’t even bring myself to text.
• 11pm: Him Downstairs (HD) and the hospital security guard are arguing over parking spaces as I pant, “I don’t give a s**t if you get towed, I’m having a baby!”
• Midnight: We’re back home (again) because although I was wheeled into the maternity ward and crying more than Gwyneth at an Oscar speech, the midwife had announced I was still only 2cm dilated and I couldn’t be admitted until I was 3cm. Grrrr.
• 1.30am: Here we are again. This time I really can’t take it and pure contractual exhaustion has set in. A wonderful midwife takes one look at me and whips me on the pethadine so I can get some sleep. “You’re just in time love,” she says, “I have a lovely bed for you and you can get some rest, else you’ll never push this baby out!” (HD btw is busy counting his change to see if he has enough for the meter).
• 2.30am: Hurrah we reached 3cms! We can stay in. The pethadine was grrreat.
• 3.50pm: After some lovely massages from midwife, some wooziness on the birthing ball and some delightful gas and air, my beautiful firstborn finally waved hello to me daddy and midwife. (Well actually he looked like he’d been 10 rounds with frank Bruno. Bless.) We’re moved away from the sounds of someone else’s labour pains next door and into the ward.
• 4.45pm: A nurse finally offered me a bloody cup of tea!
• 8am: We’re kicked out because they need my bed. We've been clamped.

BIRTH #2 USA
• First prenatal (as they call it here) appointment at my OB’s office: “You can come into the hospital as soon as you start contracting. We’ll be calling you anyhow to see how you’re doing. We can schedule it with the hospital, if you want. Get you booked in for induction in case?” Can I get you anything? Water? Juice?
• !!
• At almost 41 weeks preggers I went in to see my lovely OB and was gutted to discover I was barely effaced and still only 1cm dilated. An induction was booked. “You’re all set!” he said. “I’ll be there, don’t worry” Still not used to idea that the doc I’d seen throughout whole pregnancy would actually see it through to the end.
• 1pm: Come home from doc’s office. Feel crap. Can’t text anyone. (It’s just not that popular round here it seems). Parents are due to go back to UK in 3 days. What if second born doesn’t arrive in time for them to meet him?
• 9pm: Eat pizza. Feel a bit odd. Go to bed.
• 7am: Wake up HD. Say, “Think I’m having a few contractions. Don’t go to work in case.” “Right,” he says. “I’ll just go mow the lawn as this’ll go on for hours won’t it?”
• 9am: Me and my mum are sitting in my bed holding hands as I do my whooshy breathing. HD is nowhere to be found. Couldn’t find my TENS. Anyway my OB’d looked totally blank at me when I asked if I could use one in his hospital.
• 11am: Contractions feel more intense, but I am handling it so feel no need to panic. After all, last time this went on for days.
• Midday: Suggest to HD we call my doctor. “But you’re not even in that much pain yet are you?” he says. Me and my mum refrain from punching him.
• 2pm: Take a shower to relieve back labour and tell HD I really think we can call the doctor because I’m contracting every 4 mins and it’s lunchtime rush hour.
• 2.30pm: “She’s at 4 minutes? You should have bought her in hours ago. We’ll meet you at the hospital.”
• 2.40pm: I throw up. This sent HD into panic mode because I’d thrown up right before I needed to push with son # 1.
• 3pm: I can’t climb up into his ridiculously huge 4x4. My whole family hoist me in. Am seriously feeling like am about to give birth in the back of the car.
• 3.40pm: Arrive at huge and gleaming hospital and a porter brings a wheelchair to the car door (!) and another guy valet parks the car (!!)
• 3.50pm: Receptionist at maternity ward fires all sorts of insurance and identification questions at us (“We have to have this for our paperwork Sir”) until a passing doc takes one look at me panting and heaving and shouts, “Somebody get this lady into Triage!” (I would have felt like I had a starring role in Greys Anatomy if I wasn’t in so much pain)
• 3.55pm: We didn’t really know or care what Triage was, I just knew it was a step in the right direction. I’m wheeled into an assessment room where at least four nurses fuss over me, whip my clothes off, put me in a lovely gown and announce, “She’s 7.5cms. You’re having this baby honey!”
• I remember screaming for drugs. Over here they’ll give you whatever you want. None of this the anesthetist’s gone home nonsense. Although I’d been all for the natural no-drug birth thing, I quickly decided drugs were the way to go. I was gutted when told, “You’re too far for an epidural. You’ve done good so far. You don’t need drugs.”
• !!!
• 4.24pm My beautiful son #2 arrives with not a bruise in sight. He literally flew into my doctor’s arms. And he was surrounded by daddy, mummy, three nurses, a resident,and a pediatric specialist (in case). What an audience. And we were in a private room.
• 4.30pm: A tray full of coffee, water, juice, cookies, bagels and cream cheese magically appears.
• 5pm: Two nurses wheeled us into our recovery suite (complete with bed for mummy, bed for daddy and bed for baby plus en suite bathroom and view). A porter wheels our bags. Another nurse comes in and gives me her personal phone number, “If you need me when I’m not outside your room.”
• 5.15pm: Another nurse comes in and shows me that everything I need for baby is right in the drawers under the cot: combs, nappies, nappy cream, onesies, mittens, hats, sheets etc. It was all mine. “Take it all home!” she says. “And all your feminine needs are right there for you in the bathroom. Oh, and right across the hall is the refreshment suite. Help yourself to coffee muffins and brownies as often as you want, and if there’s anything you want we don’t stock there, call this number on speed dial,” (points to high tech phone by my bed) “and someone from the restaurant will bring it up to you. No need to rush home. Stay as long as you want.”
• !!!!!!!!!!!!
• When it came to us leaving (actually only 24 hrs later because I missed son #1) the valet guy came and bought our car round to the front door for us.

Personally I can’t wait to check in there again. It was the best hotel I’ve ever stayed in!

Whirly update

2008-08-29T07:32:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday I took my new rotary airer and a funny spade-like contraption I found amongst Him Downstairs' tools and banged it into my lawn.

An hour and a half later I was admiring my whites basking in the 70 degree sunshine,(l actually lost myself for a mo in a reminisce with Persil commercials from life-in-the-UK). Feeling all eco-warrior, I waved a 'hello' to one of my neighbours who was approaching my back garden with a sweat-on.

Not having fenced gardens in my locale means one can tramp through one's neighbours gardens (yards) with alarming regularity.

Anyway, he says to me, "Just thought I should let you know, it's against sub-division (neighbourhood) rules to have these kind of laundry airer's visible in our yards. We don't wanna have to call the cops on ya haha."

Ha-bloody-ha indeed. He was serious.

So, later am taking the kids on a trip to buy an indoor clothes horse.

I foresee the charade this will be! Wish me luck.

Where's my translator?

2008-08-27T19:13:00.000-07:00

It was a simple enough question.

"Where are your washing lines?"

The blank stare got even blanker. Then, "Excuse me?"

"Do you sell washing lines," I tried.

"You mean, like for the tub? The tubs are at the back of the store," she replied.

"No, no, sorry," I said. "I don't want to buy a bath-tub."

'Here we go again', I thought.

I was in my local hardware shop, Home Depot - one of our favourite US shops because it looks just like B&Q inside and out! Even has the same logo (are the two stores sisters?) Anyway, the Mom/Mum household often find ourselves here on a Sunday if we're feeling homesick and want some comfort from a bag of nails.

But today wasn't Sunday and it wasn't DIY that brought me, Cheeky and Monkey through their doors.

"I'm looking for a clothes dryer," I continued, though I might as well have been speaking Russian for all the sense I seemed to be making.

"Well Ma'am," she said. (I still love how I get called ma'am over here) "The dryers will be right next to the tubs and the washers. In the home appliance section."

This wasn't going well. And I thought it would be such a quick and simple trip out to the shops. Silly me.

We'd decided to Go Green you see. The guilt of how much our little corner of the US is contributing to global warming finally got to us. Kitchen towels individually wrapped in plastic then put in their big multi-pack cellophane wrapping. No fines for over-stuffing your wheelie-bin in my neighbourhood. No. Garden sprinklers going even when it's raining, minimal public transport, four-car families a-plenty, Hummers all over the road. It had finally brought me out in a not-very-Eco-friendly sweat. I decided our family were going to do our bit for the environment (an our electricity bill) and STOP USING OUR TUMBLE DRYER!

Which brings me to why I was having yet another getting-me-nowhere conversation with an American shop assistant.

I wanted to buy a whirly gig. Clothes line/outdoor clothes dryer/retractable washing line/laundry line - whatever you call it I think in the UK they all amount to the same understandable contraption for drying ones smalls outside.

Not Stateside though.

So I got descriptive and with some GCSE Drama improv and mime, the shop assistant's beffudlement finally faded and she said,

"Oh you mean you want a rotary airer?! Aisle seven."

Hallelujah!

I didn't dare ask her if they sold pegs too. Just as well, because when we got to the washing lines, there was a bin next to them full of lovely pastel coloured pegs and it was marked, 'Laundry Pins.'

Isn't the English language just marvellous?!

Gina's fault

2008-08-26T08:15:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me last night that Gina Ford www.contentedbaby.com has a lot to answer for.

I have been a GF fan since I found myself with a newborn in my arms and an almost 17 month-old hanging off my trouser (pants) leg. Her 'New Contented Little Baby Book' and routines for the first year became like an addiction to me as I stumbled through those first sleep-deprived months. I worked as hard at getting both my boys to the 11.45/12 noon - 2/2.30pm nap as Him Downstairs does at getting me to have sex with him. Predictably, both are exhausting.

My mum thought my contented baby dedication would turn out like my sports phase at school - a few valiant attempts, then I'd give up and declare, "It's just not for me." But no. This time it was different. I followed HD's game plan and never gave up.

Well, not until that is, until Gina got to the bit about second stage weaning and strict feeding plans at six to nine months. I'd been cooped (stuck) indoors with Cheeky and Monkey for too long and it was high time to get out and get a bit more acquainted with my American neighbourhood. Spending precious spare daylight hours pureeing pears one week, then courgettes (Zucchini. Imagine the blank stares I got in the supermarket when I asked for courgettes) wasn't in my feeding plan.

So Contented Baby was put back on the bookshelf. Or so I thought.

I must need new contact lenses because whilst I thought HD was lost in yet another military battle with Dale Brown, he must have in fact been reading routines from said famous maternity nurse. For that's exactly how he's honed his customary get-the-wife-to-sleep-with-me act. It goes something like this:

Routine for a mum-of-two at day one

6pm Come in from work and give her a gentle squeeze of her bottom and a lop-sided sparkly-eyed smile.

6.30pm Grab her arse and try to squeeze left boob as she's loading the dishwasher.

6.31pm Suggest they put a DVD on for the kids and nip upstairs for a quickie.

Do not force the issue if wife throws you her 'Don't-be-ridiculous-it's-bath time-and-I-need these-kids-quiet-and-sleeping-before-I-throttle-one-of-them' stare.

Advancing to the day two to three routine

By the end of the first night of trying to gently persuade wife to indulge in a bit of marital intimacy with you, wife should be at least lukewarmly receptive to your advances. Unless of course, Greys Anatomy is on the TV. Advance swiftly onto the day three-to-four routine.

Routine for a harassed mum-of-two at day three

6pm Come in from work and give her a firm squeeze on both butt cheeks, and a lop-sided desperate-eyed smile.

6.3opm Grab her as she's got her arms full of dirty plates, mash potato in her hair and tell her 'You look hot!"

6.31pm Tell her you really need some sex.

7.00pm Suggest the kids skip bath & story time

In no way force the issue if wife throws you her 'Are-you-mad?' look

The following signs will help you decide whether you can advance onto the four-to-six day routine:

Your wife has kissed you back a few times without looking past you to what the children are doing.

She has told you that she will sleep with you. At some point. Later. Next week. Maybe.

She comes to bed just in pants (underwear) and not her pyjamas.

Routine for a now irritated mum-of-two at day four to six

5.45pm Call wife from mobile (cellphone) on way home and say, "Am 10 minutes away. I've had the horn all day. Get naked."

6pm Walk in the door, ignore the children who are throwing food around the kitchen and are refusing to eat their tea (dinner). Grab wife's buttocks and attempt a firm fondle.

6.31pm Ask, "Are we ever going to have sex again?"

6.32pm Move swiftly away and over to the children if wife throws you her 'I'm going to throttle you' look.

10/10.30pm Dim the lights and with no talking move in for a cuddle. This cuddle should last no more than five minutes because wife is happily snoring in your arms.

Changes to be made during the day four to six routine

The daily buttock squeezing should be reduced to a strict gentle touch and replaced with a hug and a fondle of breasts. Saying, 'please' should be added to your sentence when asking for sex straight out. The phone calls on the way home for work have to stop. If your wife is still very resistant to the idea of sex with you, try making her a cup of tea and bringing her a chocolate biccie (cookie) after the kids have gone down. It should now take less time to get laid.

Routine for a totally frazzled mum-of-two at day six to ten

6pm Come home and make a cup of tea. Don't even bother with the fondling.

6.30pm Sit on the couch and look sorry for yourself whilst the kids use you as a trampoline.

6.35pm Let the wife's kiss linger as she takes pity on you and offers to do bath time.

7.3opm It is very important for you to go upstairs and offer to take over the kids bedtime routine if you want your wife awake and naked at 10.30pm.

10/10.30pm Dim the lights and with a gentle kiss turn off the E! channel your wife is watching. Give her 10 minutes to take her lenses out, brush her teeth, pick a few blackheads, have a wee (go potty) and put on her anti-wrinkle night cream. Then, when she comes back to bed and says, "OK, if it'll shut you up!" get in there.

This sex should last no longer than 15 minutes.

What's in a name?

2008-08-25T11:14:00.000-07:00

You would not believe the change in me today! I know I can't.

My floors are sparkling, I've scrubbed the stainless steel in the kitchen. I found the hoover (vacuum) buried in the back of the laundry room and actually used it. All the bathrooms are gleaming. The beds are made, there's laundry in the machine and I dusted the bookcases in the family room, even the high ones. Cheeky, Monkey and I enjoyed a game of Chutes & Ladders (Snakes & Ladders) albeit by their unconventional toddler rules, plus I have also taken them for a run round the local park. (Like four-legged tail-wagging friends, the boys need their daily exercise). All this before nap time. And I've actually enjoyed it all.

Now what has bought on this sudden burst of domesticity and mummy euphoria in my usually muddled and dusty house?

One word: 'Mama'

He said it! At last.

At 6.38am this morning, my 2 1/4 yr old toddled into my bedroom saying, "Mama. Mama."

I am usually a drooling haystack-haired, sleep-coma, non-communicative mummy at that hour. but with these two words, these two very special words I've been waiting to hear from him for the last 9 months (!) I was suddenly very wide awake.

My love for son number two blossomed into an even bigger flower and I scooped him up into bed with as many kisses as I could muster. Then he frowned at me and said, "pooh."

Ah. Morning breath. He knows the word for that alright.

We'll see how long this smile stays on my face, but for right now am enjoying every minute of it. It only left briefly when I logged on for my daily dose of celeb news and read that Gwen Stefani has named her second born Zuma. Now really. Really?

Wow. It really is all in a name isn't it?

Family fun?

2008-08-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

OK so once in a blue moon we actually make the effort and get the heck out of Motor City suburbia to go do a family activity. The kids bless them had been excited all week about the weekend visit to A Day Out With Thomas (mainly I think, because it was the only exciting thing to be happening to them in week 10, day 70, hour 1680, (not that am counting or anything) of the summer hols - sorry, summer va-kay-shon.

So, there the four of us were this morning, cramming ourselves into our ridiculously small family car (the only thing we own now that's the same size as it was in the UK, thanks to gas prices, but is impractical for us and all the bags I seem to have to take everywhere theses days. Am fighting becoming a minivan-mom, but will obviously have to give in soon. Hmph,)

Anyway, our family days out are far from the chocolate box, Disney movie scenario of all smiles and words of joy as the lunch boxes are put in the car, the juice boxes are pierced open and the ipod loaded up ready for the off.

It always goes like this:

Him Downstairs (HD) gets up first and is meant to have the kids dressed and breakfasted while I fight with my contact lenses and run round stuffing diaper-nappies (for Monkey), wipes, spare underwear (for Cheeky) sippy cups, Goldfish crackers, raisins and whatever else I can find in the back of the larder to keep the little ones quiet in the car.
HD is still in his PJs and SO ARE THE KIDS! when we are meant to leave the house, despite him getting up first.
I snap commands at him and we argue over who has picked up the Mapquest directions printout up off the computer.
He mutters under his breath that there's no need to shout at him. (Often, he has a point. But I'm a stay-at-home mum (or mom) of a 2 and 3 yr old, so marital courtesy went out of the window when the little blue lines appeared on that white stick just over four years ago.)
The kids get shuffled from one parent to the other whilst toothbrushes fly and I always re-dress them because daddy has put them in something ridiculous (usually each others clothes, which really annoys me as it's quite obvious one of the boys is 37lbs and the other a mere 23lbs. The little one looks like he's in a dress when he has one of his brother's shirts on!
We are all four in the car. Me: not talking to HD. Cheeky and Monkey: throwing Cheerios at each other. HD: turning up the ipod, whilst trying to read the mapquest printout and doing a Michigan left (a crazy road maneuver special of the State we live in).

Today, was no different to all the other family road trips we've attempted in our 3 short years we've lived in America. Usually, and today followed our family pattern,by the time we reach our destination, we're all smiling and looking forward to the fun ahead. This is because three of us have had a jolly good nap and HD has finally got the peace and quiet he craves. No family sing-songs and games of I-Spy in our automobile! Just that perfect, calm after the storm. Hmm. It's the other way around isn't it?

The storm: that'll be our family day out then! One excuse could be that it was 91oF and humid as hell (hooray for Michigan summers) or another could be, that we just don't DO family activities that well.

The ride on Thomas was fun. No dramas (well, a minor one over which of my sons sat where) but as the train puffed along Cheeky and Monkey were all animated smiles and our camera clicked away. "This is lovely," I thought. "We should do days out together more often".

Half and hour after we got off the train and I was fighting my way through the makeshift eating area with the double buggy (I mean, stroller) to buy over-priced hot dogs and warm juice for lunch, I told HD that, "Am leaving if we don't get served soon. The kids are driving me nuts!"

The organisers had in their wisdom, put the gift shop right next to the dining area. And apparently all the staff were in the gift shop serving the hundreds of sweaty parents pandering to their little Thomas fans every toy need. there was barely a server in the food hall. Just a veeerrry long line of grumpy parents, with their even grumpier toddlers.

How I managed to keep Cheeky and Monkey from breaking free and making a run for the Thomas stash within their view, was only accomplished by several time outs during our 43 mins wait for food.

I hate family days out. I hate other families.

Am struggling with the double buggy on my way out of the food hall (HD has helpfully disappeared to the bathroom) when a family with no buggy lets the door slam straight on my front wheels. Thanks! A helpful father behind me sees me struggling with the bus long contraption Cheeky and Monkey are strapped into and offers to get the door for me. Relief. But only for a moment because as I turn my head to thank him, the blind spot that is my front wheel bumps into another family's beloved small person and quick as a flash am accused of off-roading and crushing little Chuck's toes. "Watch it Lady!" the Mom says. (For the gazillionth time since I moved here, I remind myself that am not in some US flick, they really do say this stuff) and I (all British) say, "I'm sorry. I'm struggling here. I didn't see him" and I continue along in the mosh pit that has became the entrance/exit to the 'food.'

"Damn Australians!" I hear her say as I depart.

Yes, the day didn't get much better. So we did as all sensible Michiganders do in August, headed for the air-conditioning sanity restoring (fingers crossed) power of home.

p.s. Lovely drive home. All of us in our comfy place - Napland. All that is except for HD. He knows his place and that's behind the wheel.

Missing

2008-08-22T20:38:00.000-07:00

OTHER THINGS I MISS FROM 'HOME'

Marks and Spencer
Waitrose
Tesco
Sainsbury's
Boots
Channel 4
Bangers and mash
Fish and chips
Organix baby foods
Family ie regular, reliable, free babysitters!
Topshop
Obviously, girlfriends
Fenced gardens

THINGS I DON'T MISS FROM 'HOME'

Rain
EastEnders (surprisingly, since I was a fan)
the M4
the M25
No parking spaces
Traffic
The London Tube
Paddington Station
Portion size (am far too happy with giant American platefuls)
Fenced gardens

Him Downstairs

2008-08-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

Him Downstairs has now left me alone for 1 1/2 hours without a single interruption. Am obviously very relieved.. It's Friday night in the land of Date Night and HD hasn't once popped upstairs to the office to see what I'm doing (thank goodness) or if I'd like a drink. Of course I want a drink! It's Friday. I've had 5 whole days on my tod (alone) with Cheeky and Monkey and I need a bloody vat of wine, let alone a glass.

This is when I miss England the most. England and LBC (Life Before Children). In LBC we'd have been down the local with our mates knocking back the Kronenbourg (him) and the Voddie tonics (me) before giggling over to the chippy on the way home for some late night Channel 4 to fall asleep in front of.

Nowadays (only 2 1/2 yrs later) I feel about 20 years older as we spend our Friday nights apart - me going goggled-eyed in front of the computer upstairs and him going square-eyed in front of the baseball (he's that desperate for footie (soccer) on the TV he'll now watch anything with a ball in it!) downstairs. We only run into each other over the toothpaste as we floss before lights out.

This would never happen in the UK - we tripped over each other all the time in less than 1500 sq ft of house! So our much larger, but no McMansion American home has a lot to answer for. It might not have a pub round the corner, but it's a great place if you want to avoid HD all night. I just wish the wine bottle wasn't so far away right now!