OK, You Win Christmas.

Warning: contains gross generalizations about whole countries of people, hear-say, humor, exaggeration, and things based solely on my experience.

I have to declare, after my first Christmas "at home" in England, that the British really do Christmas far better than we do in America (with the exception of not containing all my beloved family, my friends, good guacamole, coffee cake, nor TraderJoe's). Let me explain...and note that if you're not a Christmas celebrator, for whatever reason, on that front the UK doesn't really offer much relief. Sorry.

Christmas music begins in early December, not November, and it is just a smattering of tunes until about the 20th and then it is still by no means non-stop. There is a daily radio reminder of how many days there are until Christmas and countdown clocks in many places as well as decorations and sales of Christmas things all around. But that incessant drone of every cheesy tune recorded and recorded a hundred times, that inability to turn on a radio or shop in store without being bombarded by MariahCarey, the pain of going into any waiting room - it just doesn't happen here. I know! I see you plotting your UK visa application as we speak. Sweet relief!

A brief post-script to the music thing - they don't seem to do the novelty songs here at all. No Adam Sandler song's to nod at Chanukah, no Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Nada. Though some of their native tunes (songs recorded by British artists over the years that never made it to the US for good reason) border on inadvertent humor tunes.

In a few years time I'll probably regret this, but the fact that virtually every event, service, informal gathering, shopping center, party, road-side stand, Christmas tree farm, historic house, garden shop, Santa's Grotto (see below), end of term parent meetings, YOU NAME IT offers you a mince pie and mulled wine (or non-alcoholic hot cider) is kind of adorable. The average Brit consumes about 27 mince pies every Christmas (7 million are left out on Xmas Eve for Santa along with liquor, not milk) and as far as I can tell only a handful of those are eaten at home. The rest are being handed out, sold for charity, or bought at a ridiculous mark-up in tea shops and cafes all over the country. The mulled wine too flows everywhere. Alcohol consumption in the UK rises by about 40% over the holidays and I'm guessing the mulled wine pushers on every corner are at least partly responsible.

Ok, you waited patiently, a "Santa's Grotto" is like the mall Santa thing in America. And just like in the States there is a great variety and quality to these spots. It seems where I am that every "garden center" (that's garden/home store to y'all) has one of these. We went to one at the "rural life center" nearby that had a steam train drive you out to a small village with displays, animals, elves working in a workshop, and a Santa that knew the kids' names and gave them a present. No photo packages were offered. The gifts were not sponsored by Coca-cola. Of course, the Santa was also just kind of OK (fake beard, pillow substituting for mince pie fed bowl full of jelly). You can do more commercial Grottos but they're not the only or most popular options.

What I am told is a more recent tradition here, is my favorite. The churches here do an afternoon service on Christmas Eve (and since the sun goes down at 3:30, it is dark at 5 for it!) wherein the kids are all invited to dress up! You can come as any character from the Nativity story. Then when they do the readings, the kids participate. The angels lead the shepherds, the stars lead the wise men, and all the Mary's, Joseph's, and barnyard beasts hang out in the barn. It is nothing short of adorable.

Someone here commented to me that they felt Christmas in the UK was more commercial than in the US. They said this because the US has a reputation here for being more non-secular. Funnily, I find it almost the opposite. Christmas is a bigger deal, a larger celebration in the UK. Though is isn't necessarily in-your-face-Jesus here, I think it is hard to avoid and would be hard to participate in other celebrations at or near Christmas as they are definitely over-looked. Whereas in America, it can feel SO commercial. SO you MUST be MERRY. And in both places there is pressure to give lots of presents, to almost give more than you can or should "because it's Christmas." Maybe I am seeing it differently as a first timer, maybe I'm looking back at America with skewed vision too. But I have enjoyed the Christmas season here in the UK. There are literally hundred of activities and events centered around the holiday, some secular and some not, all fairly cool and fun. Want to ice skate? Want to shop in an out-door Christmas market? Want to ride a carousel and eat hot chestnuts? Want to see a group of reenactors make a Tudor Christmas dinner? Want a sleigh ride? Want to watch a farcical version of fairy tale (aka a Pantomine*)? There's one on every day in December. No really. Every day.

One last tiny thing I learned that I found fascinating. The last day of work (for most middle class people) before the "hols" is a huge party day. The amount of alcohol purchased nation-wide on this day is higher than Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. That's a lot of office party hangovers!

Thanks for reading and I wish you a new year filled with love and light plus a little pain and darkness so you can be extra thankful for the good stuff.

PS - Love Actually film fans, the whole "Christmas Number One" song thing is actually really a thing! But sadly, there were no lobsters in any nativity plays I saw.

*I haven't been to a live Pantomine. I will go one day. But until then, if you don't know what I mean and you live in Raleigh, it is like Ira's A Christmas Carol but more crass. Everyone else, it is like the Three Stooges meets Disney meets South Park (with less cursing).

An Honest Holiday Newsletter

WARNING: contains totally made up things and real things and exaggerated things. 

Holiday Greetings from the whole Oslott-Joseph Family?!?!

Merry Christmas, nearly, and Happy Hanukkah and, well, there are just so many options. Whatever yours is, I hope you have a great time or at least get a few nice naps in so you're refreshed!

Our year has been just spectacular. Little Joey has become a real problem eater; he just screams at most every meal until the rest of us can't stand it. So his diet is largely made up of yogurt, fig newtons, and goldfish crackers. It's not the best, but it works for us! He's also having a great time in daycare a few days a week while I look for work (gotta pay for Marsha's piano lessons somehow!). I'm told he likes to bite the other children and occasionally steals pacifiers with fresh drool to use for himself. This explains the multiple rounds of stomach flu and regular flu we've had in the house for the past six months. He is still awfully cute though and has taken to calling Daddy "poop, poop."

Speaking of Marsha, she's growing up so fast and makes us laugh every day. She's started kindergarden this year and has surprised us all by being sent to the principal's office twice for stealing another girl's lunch box. It's a Bratz lunch box like the one we wouldn't buy her. She keeps taking it and trying to make the other girl keep her Dora the Explorer box. Still, Marsha has also been learning to read and write. We're so proud of her letter to Santa this year. She wrote quite clearly that she'd like a "bicycle, shoes, and a new mama." Our proudest moment though came during the school Christmas play, just yesterday. While sitting on stage in her adorable donkey costume, she began to chew her toenails. With her mouth. While center stage. I have photos!

Billy, our oldest, started third grade this year and with the exception of his math teacher telling us that he's at least a year behind all his peers, it has been a stellar first semester. We would tutor him, but we don't understand the new math. So perhaps those piano lesson will have to wait as we find the money for a math coach. Oh well, at least he's enjoying playing football. His dad says little Billy has become quite the bench warmer! Billy's greatest skill though is his kindness, he's the sweetest big brother he could be, for which I am extremely thankful.

But how are Jeff and I you ask? Well, between his long hours at work, financial pressures, my exhaustion, and our oppressively judgmental in-laws, I'm not sure we know. We had to stop having a once a month date-night after my mother scared the kids with a bed time story involving Wall Street "pirates" pillaging the "99%" and leaving us all "homeless and abandoned by the state." When we do get a few minutes together, we both agree our kids are nuts but may come by it naturally. We day dream about when the kids are older and start ignoring us so we can get to know each other again. Then we stop and look at each other's photos and videos of them and try not to cry about how lucky we are to have them and our crazy little life.

From our family to yours, dear friends and family, we wish for you a year like ours filled with mistakes, shenanigans, laughter, tears, fights, make-ups, winning, losing, togetherness, and all the things you'd like to ask Santa for and more (except for a new mama. y'all are stuck with me and I love you.)

Cross-cultural Exchange: Put on your sweats and bodge it.

I recently watched an episode of Castle wherein one of the lead characters used one of my favorite British-ism, knackered (meaning really tired), and calling redheads "ginger" is definitely being used more widely. I've seen a few articles saying that British slang words are on the rise in America thanks to Harry Potter, Doctor Who and Downton Abbey. Overall, I think this is a good thing but I believe we can learn from each other on both sides of the pond. Here are but a few examples of words I think the Brits might want to adopt, plus a few things the Americans might enjoy championing the use of over there.

First and foremost, "sidewalk." I cannot tell you how difficult it is as a parent to attempt to retrain my brain and mouth to say "pavement" instead of sidewalk. In America, the pavement is the road! So imagine telling your child, "Please stay on the road!" Which is what it feels like to me to say pavement. Honestly, doesn't sidewalk just make sense? It is the walking area beside the road. And yes, I know it is also known as a "footpath" but so is a muddy track as is the stone path in my back garden (garden sounds prettier than yard, I'm good with this one). Let's just accept the Americans have the better idea here.

Next, please call them "sweats" instead of "tracksuit bottoms." Such a mouthful for what are essentially trousers one wears to do something strenuous or, alternatively, lay around the house. Let's just call them what they are for rather trying imply we are all going for a run around a mythical track in a dream of fitness glory. I've heard people call them "trackies" but that's really not better and for me evokes an image of people addicted to dog racing, gripping betting forms and smoking half crumpled cigarettes.

As the temperatures begin to fall, can we drop the pretense and just say "sweater"? Even you don't know why you call a sweater a "jumper." I've seen several children's first words books label various things jumpers including one-piece dresses, sweaters, and overalls - I'm sorry, they can't ALL be a jumper. Sweater is evocative of what it is and we can agree that it is just for knitwear worn on the top of the body, generally over another shirt. Thanks. Wasn't that easy?

Now to the naming of types of schools. The British really just need to scrap their terms and start again because it makes no sense whatsoever. A "public school" is what Americans know as "private school", which makes the phrase "public school kid" into a classist insult in the UK. A "state school" is known as "public school" in America whereas a "state school" is usually just one of perhaps several American state-sponsored universities and colleges. I am sure the British system is rooted in tradition and history but so was beheading and nowadays we find that repulsive too.

In the interest of equal time here are four British words I think Americans would enjoy using.

I love the word "bodge." It means to put together quickly just so the thing will work. Honestly, this is the American way. Why don't we use this word already?

The word shambolic, while not disused in the US, deserves a renaissance. It means chaotic, disorganized, or muddled. Can anyone say American politics? Also, this is an excellent alternative to the not always socially acceptable "cluster fuck."

Say this one with me, "He got quite shirty with me!" It can mean rude but mostly it means pompous or perhaps flustered. For some reason this one really paints a picture for me. I imagine someone doing up their top buttons on their shirt or pulling a sweater in at the collar harshly while lecturing me on something inconsequential.

This last one I am less sure of because it is overused in Britain, especially with children - cheeky. I like it because it portrays well the playful nature of misbehavior, in particular with kids, but I've also heard it used to excuse sexist comments from men as humorous. I leave this one to you America, you bunch of cheeky monkeys. (see, that could really go either way.)

OH, but I have to add one cute phrase that WeeC has adopted - easy peasy, lemon squeezie. It is just kind of adorable. Use it instead of "easy as pie" because pie making is actually not that easy while squeezing a lemon is very straightforward!

Coming Home?

WARNING contains: grammar, gross generalizations about whole countries full of people, me, exaggerations, biscuits, and origami.

I recently traveled back to the good ol' US of A for the first time since moving to England. We took the whole family to my birth place, Georgia, and spent time with each of my parents plus other family and even squeezed in a trip back to North Carolina to see friends.

Being home did not feel strange or even hard won, having been away only about nine months. Since I've made my home in North Carolina for several years, visiting my family in Georgia feels normal to me. The temporary nature of the time spent, the focus on being together, the desire for comfort foods, and the even the feeling of sadness when it is finished - are all very familiar to me as someone who has lived away from my childhood home for such a long time.

Visiting North Carolina was a little odd, but only because every interaction over the mere 24 hours I spent there was tinged with a bit of sadness. That feeling of needing to savor and to say important things before it all goes away. It was odd to try to talk about daily life things. I kept wanting to impart something major when all I really needed to do was be present. In the end, I think I did a good job of focusing on the moments spent with friends whom I miss dearly.

Almost everyone asked me variations of the following two questions:
1. What do you miss most about America? (beyond all my friends and family, cos obviously LOTS!)
2. What do you love about where you live now?

So in case I didn't see you or I didn't answer you when you asked or you're just wondering, here are the answers.

I miss biscuits and iced tea (yes, I can make these. Not. The. Same.) I miss ch1ck_fil@ (sorry, don't want brands searchable, you figure it out) because they're so helpful to moms with kids. I miss St@rbuck3 drive-thru. But let me tell you, my ass doesn't! I lost eight pounds during our first two months in the UK and I'm pretty sure I can chalk it up almost completely to to the total lack of drive-thru and fast food where I live now. Seriously y'all, I gained four pounds on our trip, all carbs and tea.

I miss people being nice and saying hello and helping me of their own volition. This is partially a Southern (US) thing versus a southern UK thing. The southern US is known for hospitality, while that's more the case in northern Britain and the south here is known as more urban and cold personality wise; the reverse of the American stereotype. I've largely found this to be true. People just don't go out of their way. Certainly, not everyone in the southern US is falling over themselves to help out strangers, but people hold doors when you have a stroller. They say, "have a nice day," and mean it. They don't mind a little light chit chat. Sometimes, I find the Brits in my area to be quite distant. Though, I have also had success with "killing them with kindness" too and some folks seem quite open to my openness. Just not as much as home. I've found a good local coffee shop where mostly the people are nice and respond well to my outgoing nature. That's a comforting thing to have access to on hard day.

I miss Target; or maybe just everything I need being in one place. I miss knowing about how much good and services should cost or knowing someone who knows. Having recently bought a house in the UK, it is impossible to convey just how frustrating it is not know these things. We bought a natural gas powered tumble dryer as it is far more environmentally friendly but cannot find anyone to install it as a special certification is needed. I got estimates on work we had done to the house, but was mostly at the mercy or tradespeople.

I miss bear hugs from friends and family. Brits don't full body hug.

What was most interesting about the trip though were the things I missed a bit about England. Naturally, I missed being in a house with easy access to all my things and more flexibility with timing for activities as well as time with my husband (he worked in NC half the trip and the rest of the time we were too tired to talk to each other most nights). But I didn't expect to miss anything else.

I missed the fine British art of receipt folding. When you've made a purchase at a shop here, the cashier folds your receipt at least once, sometimes two or three times, before handing it to you. It may be the only time they make eye contact with you, depending on the store, and it is a nice little moment. Americans often lay it down on a table/counter or just shove your receipt at you, sometimes even looking at the next customer while they do it.

I missed easy access to parks/play areas/activities for kids. I will hand it to the fine folks of Surrey County. There's a lot for kids to do and see around here and it's all fairly close by. I'm from near Atlanta, so everything must driven to and it can take 30 minutes or even an hour or more to get to something. You can play on school playgrounds, but only when the school is not in session and other play grounds are around, but not with the frequency you'll find in Surrey. I can walk to a play park in two minutes from where I live now. Where we rented before, there were three play parks, a community pool, and two water areas with ducks within fifteen minutes walk. There are also a number of indoor (for obvious, British Isles reasons) play places and very child friendly museums and historic sites around. Where we lived in North Carolina was quite child friendly and I had plenty to do there with the kids, but there's more variety here and literally some kid friendly thing to do/go/see every single weekend on Saturdays AND Sundays.

I missed better drivers. Sorry you freedom loving, texting and ranting while driving, drinking and eating in your car, DVD watching, sound system cranking, leaning hard American drivers. You suck. You are selfish and dangerous. The Brits respect the passing lane as a place to speed past other cars; not as a place to park yourself with your cruise control set at the speed limit. People rarely talk on their phones and drive let alone text. I do see people using hands-free systems to make calls, but the iprayer position as you hurtle down the freeway at 55 miles an hour (the speed limit is 70 and you're in the passing lane, having slowed down when you picked up to see your latest fantasy football stats) just doesn't happen much. I say this having had someone honk at me this morning as I drove my oldest to school. I wasn't going through the round-about fast enough for them. But it is such a rarity that it occurred to me that I was previously unsure what a car horn sounded like in the UK.

There it is people. My summary judgement of America versus the UK after about ten months of living in England and 11 days back in the US. If I saw you, don't forget to give me a big hug when next we meet. If I didn't see you, I owe you a big huge hug when I finally get my grubby paws on you. I love you America; your biscuits, your tea, your "Hey there!" and the generosity of spirit that your people share with strangers and friends alike. And I miss all your good people.

Viv and Cal

competition entry :O

“Ghosts don’t sing in tune you know,” she said, twirling a length of red hair around her thumb, the tip purpling. “It can drive you crazy.”

I’d met Sarah over a week ago, but I can’t say I knew her better. She offers these declarations, “The vet said my pet frog died of influenza. I think he was murdered.” But never carries on with an explanation or the slightest hint of mirth. I mean, that may be my fault, as despite being thirteen and Scottish, I’m really bad at spotting sarcastic, dry humor; especially here in America. So, as I watched Sarah allow her thumb tip to survive another day, I finally broke.

    “Ok, how do you know ghosts don’t sing in tune? And why would anyone murder a frog? And, well, that’s just the beginning of my questions. Because, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg or just a really dark person or , I dunno, weird.” I wished I hadn’t said weird the moment it pushed its way into the air. I am weird. What’s more, Sarah knows it. I think it may be the only reason she speaks to me. So to imply that perhaps I don’t like weird people is both wrong and dangerous to our new and fragile friendship. “Not that any of that is bad. I’d just like to know because I’m not good at telling when you’re serious.”

    “Is it the accent? Like, you can’t tell by tone? I have a hard time telling if you’re serious sometimes, especially when you talk about Scotland. Like, do people there really eat sheep stomach?” Sarah said the last two words in an approximation of my accent. I tried not to smile.

    “We do. Now, answer my bloody questions woman.” No good. I smiled.

    Sarah took a slow breath. Her pale skin pinked under the splatter of freckles across her cheeks, “I see dead people.”

    “Ok, that was a joke, right?”

    Sarah had been reclined on a large root of the oak tree we lounged under, but she sat forward to look me in the eyes and said, “Yes.” The sideways autumn sunlight made shadow shapes on the ground.

I sensed I was not going to get any answers so I boldly stood up, dusted my trousers and hoisted up my backpack, as though leaving.

    “I think you have a hard time knowing when people are joking because you don’t joke much yourself.” She cocked her head and furrowed orange brows.

    “Perhaps. But that doesn’t answer my questions.” I attempted a sigh.

    Sarah stood as she spoke, not looking at me, “My mother killed herself in our house two years ago. Sometimes...I think I hear her singing. She never could sing worth a damn, so maybe ‘ghosts’ is too much of a generalization.”

    I took her hand to steady her as she wobbled, off kilter on the root. I promised myself not to let go, if she didn’t let go.  She didn’t.

How Scottish...

My writing prompt from weeks ago was to think about the word “ancestors” and what it means/evokes. Honestly, I was too busy to really think on it. But tonight I got the news that a friend, a once close friend, from university has died. The moment I read the news, I had an instant image in my mind of him in a formal kilt, white button down shirt and tie with a glass of whiskey in hand. I think there might have been a sword as well. In fact, I am certain there was a sword. This gentleman was, at least in university, a bit attached to his Scottishness. He had this mild accent that crept into his speech which naturally increased with passion and/or liquor. He knew a lot about his heritage, as many Americans do, but sort of took his knowledge and admiration to a different level. He completely defied that “first generation loses all signs of the motherland” thing.

If you’re a fan of Doctor Who or, most recently, Arrow, then you know who Jack Barrowman is and that his outtakes are hysterical. No, I have not changed the subject. John was born and partly raised a Glaswegian but then moved to Chicago. Both accents come naturally to him and he occasionally forgets which one he should be using. So his outtakes on are often very funny. It wasn’t until I saw these, years after university, that I started to understand why my college friend would come in and out of the accent. And why it wasn’t, probably, an act. In particular, I felt in college that my friend was just being a bit pretentious. Which he was. If you can’t be pretentious at university, especially at the University of Virginia, when the hell can you be? But he was also genuinely forgetful about his not actually being “really” Scottish and what he sounded like to others. That’s how much he wanted to be a true Scot.  

By a similar token, I once thought I was a bit more Irish-American than American-with-a-lot-Irish-heritage. Then I lived in Ireland via study abroad. My third day in Dublin I said to a kind shopkeeper, “Have a nice day.” And she laughed loudly and remarked, “So you Americans do really say that.” I told her we did and that I meant it. I tried to watch an Irish soap opera and found I couldn’t understand half the dialogue. Then, I went to a Irish music jam session and though I desperately wanted to join in, I couldn’t figure out how. My life in Ireland for four months illustrated to me very clearly that I was nothing but a silly American with delusions of celticness.

I think a lot of Americans feel this “tie” to another homeland. We may know our family history back many hundreds of years even. But it does not negate the infusion of purely American culture that we are all boiled in from birth. Now, I can hear you shaking your head that there is no “purely” American culture because we are such a mishmash. Well, I tell you what. You get yourself an ocean away, either one will do, and walk out into any city. Stop the first person you see and say, “Nice to meet you.” You will feel more American, more bare, and more other than you’ve ever experienced (unless you’re a poor minority, sorry, you can get that in any “fine” department store.)

Which brings me directly to ancestors. My friend’s were Scottish and he was so tied to that idea, to an ideal of Scottishness, that it affected his entire being. I certainly hope someone gets a piper in to his funeral. He deserves a piper. A good one. And a tall glass, no ice, of excellent whiskey.

Ten Things to a Character

Ten Things

1. a pocket
2. a locket
3. purple socks
4. muddy boots
5. busted brolly
6. hedgehog
7. grass
8. red bucket
9. mash
10. splash

They belong to Polly. Keeper of the HedgeHog:

I keep the baby hedgehog in a red bucket with a bit of grass and some mashed up clover. Her name is Molly. When it rains I have an only slightly broken brolly that I place over her bucket if I am outside. She likes it when I splash in puddles. I can hear her giggling. If my boots get too muddy, I have to leave the on the bristled rug by the washroom door. But then you get to see my purple socks, and Molly likes those too; even if there’s a tiny hole in the right big toe where I stubbed it on the corner of the kitchen door last week. When Molly is big enough, I’ll carry her in the pocket of my dungarees so she can see a bit of the world and not just the inside of the bucket. Maybe I can get my mum to take a picture of her and add it to my locket. Right now there’s only a paper picture of Peppa Pig in there and I think she could use a bit company.

Something controvertial about Depression

WARNING contains love, anger, sadness, references to suicide, feelings of helplessness, and some criticism of people who hop on and off bandwagons.

I've written this is response to the suicide of Robin Williams. And to the suicide of friends and family of people very close to me who have to relive it a little each time someone famous dies this way. Who have to watch as people who've never given mental health much thought (certainly not the funding for treatment and support) throw back their heads wail "Why!? Why did no one help this person!?". Because that's just self-indulgent bullshit.

I'm going to say something controversial, and some might say wrong or detrimental, about depression. It isn't always about getting help. That's an ego-centered way of looking at a disease, a real honest to goodness illness, that puts the onus on those of us who love the depressed person and also on them, on their failure to get enough help. I'm not saying therapy, anti-depressants, faith/prayer, 12-step programs, support from family/friends, help-lines, etc. are not helpful or necessary because they are in fact essential to survival for people who all mentally ill (and I do not use that term as a criticism, in fact I applaud every person who uses it properly to label themselves and their reality).

What I am saying is that each of us has moments in our lives wherein we fail completely as humans. We fail. We find ourselves doing things, saying things, being in places emotionally that are completely bereft of light. As someone who does not suffer from depression, I survive these moments via the logical knowledge that they are temporary. I believe that the horror will pass and, for me, it does. I know that on the other side of my moments of cheerlessness or wrong doing that I can find solace and recovery and forgiveness. Someone who has the disease of depression cannot. No, they literally can not believe the logic that the awful is only temporary. It is a part of their brain that doesn't work, period. No matter how hard that may be to believe, it does not make on iota less factual. It isn't that they weren't helped enough. It is that in those failing moments it can almost be as if help never happened. Robin Williams is a prime example. He's had help: love, therapy, rehab, programs, success, money, accolades and adoration. But his moment of failure occurred at a time and place where the circumstances led to his death.

I appreciate the posts and tweets on awareness about depression and the message that help is out there. It is vitally important that people know they have options and alternatives to suicide. But sometimes, suicide is the option people choose to resolve a problem to which they cannot find another answer. I don't like it. It makes me so angry that I want to break things and so sad that I want to cry all day. I just don' think it is honest or supportive to those who loved and supported people who've committed suicide to say that with enough help these things wouldn't happen. They would and they will. That's just the ugly awful truth of it. This is a thing that can't ever be totally cured, at least not as long as it continues to be one we don't fully understand emotionally and scientifically. For those left behind, I hope they come to believe that they did all they were capable of doing to help and that the person they loved is no longer in pain. Cold comfort indeed.

The DNA of Running

Writing prompt this week was to respond to this picture.

I can’t run. But that’s no big deal since I can’t walk either. Nor can I sit up totally on my own or wipe my own ass. I’ve never been able to do those things though, so I’m not completely sure I miss them. I mean, wiping your own poo seems like it can have its disadvantages. Of course, lots of people, including my parents, talk to me a lot about privacy and trying to respect mine since I don’t get a lot of alone time, yadda yadda. But as with the toilet routine, I’ve never really had privacy the way they think of it, so I don’t know how to miss it. I feel that way about a lot things that other people think I should be sad about. All the things I can't do. But I don't think about it as much as it seems like everyone else does. Except for running that is. My wheelchair is mechanical and it can get fairly speedy when no one is looking; the wind blows my hair a bit and I feel the tingle of speed and its dangerousness. So I feel like I can say that while I have never run, I miss it. My body misses it.

I dream about running a lot. Well, maybe not as much as I dream about flying, but I think my running dreams are the ones that are simultaneously the best and worst of my dreams. The running dreams feel real. As though somewhere in my DNA is the program code for running and my brain can take it and play it through my mind and across my body so that during the dreams I feel totally whole. I am wind. My muscles and veins have life. And then I wake up. I can never get back to the same feeling if I try to go back to sleep right away. On those nights I don’t usually go back to sleep at all. It is too depressing. So, I read.

If there’s an invention that I think has made life hugely better for disabled people in last hundred years, it’s the ebook. I don’t have to ask anyone to read or try to finagle a heavy book into a spot where I can both see it and turn the pages. Harder than you think when you’re farsighted and can’t lean forward or turn over. If I’m lucky, my older sister will help me to bed and she’ll let me keep my earbuds and ipad close. My parents think it is a distraction from rest. I guess I get to be a normal teen at least in a few ways.

After my running dreams, I like to read either science fiction or westerns. Frankly, I think they are mostly the same. I mean there’s always bad guys and mission to do or a wrong to right and shooting things with either lasers or bullets. My favorite western is this stupid historical one that is kind of a romance novel I think. I found it for free in the stuff posted by authors on the ebook sight. I don’t care so much about the love story and I really don’t care about this chick’s petticoats and their various levels of tightening. But the writer knows how to write about horses so well that I don’t care about the rest. The author, it says it's by Terrance Walter but seriously that is not a name, must be from horse farm or something. He has this amazing scene where horses from the chick’s family farm get loose and end up running through the streets of Chicago, but like western Chicago, so all old timey.

“Each horse in its turn, no more than half a footstep from the next, rumbled and thundered down the clapboard road at a speed that said anyone caught in their path risked the pain of death. Their brown coats heaved and swelled as their breathes reached peak to bring their trampling hooves down upon the earth like rail splitting hammers. Their legs pulsing as their hearts strained to keep the pace of freedom.”

Gets me every time. Reading it is almost like being in the dream. Almost like running. My breaths always get a bit fast and I have to close my eyes to calm down before I set off any alarms on my monitoring machines  in the night. That Terrance, he knows what it is to miss running.

Wonderfully Bonkers British Radio

WARNING contains: me, cheese, Carpenters, translations, generalizations, assumptions, exaggerations and plugs for radio I like. 

A brief bit of background on my music taste- I am not a genre music listener. My collection ranges from D'Angelo to Alison Krauss to Coldplay to Vivaldi to Allman Brothers to Jill Scott to ZZ Top to Dizzy Gillespie and more. Most of what I listen to is, or was, kinda mainstream I realize. I listen to a good deal of obscure Hipster music too but usually not until they've decided they hate it, aka Mumford and Sons. 

In trying to describe British radio stations to American friends I came to this phrase most often "bonkers." But it is wonderfully bonkers. Here is a recent string of tunes as heard on a popular London radio station:

• Coldplay - Fix You
• Barbara Streisand - A Woman in Love
• Peter Gabriel - Salisbury Hill (note this is one of my all time favorite songs)
• Phil Collins - Against All Odds (awesome TAL piece featuring this song FYI)
• The Average White Band - yes, the Average White Band
• T'Pau - China in your Hand (yes, they had more than one song)
• Pharrel - Happy
• Queen - I've Got to Break Free
• Passenger - Let her Go (no, I don't know who they are either)
• and then Arcade Fire, Goo Goo Dolls, Outkast, Bob Marley and Goyte.

After which I just had to pull over and cry with joy at the ridiculousness of that string of madness. I love the lack of genre specific pushiness towards a single musical outlook or demographic group. I love how it often completely lacks what many would think are present day commercially appealing songs. If you want that, you can get it in the UK, don't get me wrong. BBC has more narrowly chosen tunes on various themed channels. There are dance music and more "urban" stations too. But the sort of everyman stations are all like the above. 

Now, there is also a regular overdose of cheese. I mean as far as I can tell the Brits love a cheesy ballad more than the Queen, more than beer, and more than making fun of the Welsh. It seemingly doesn't to matter what the lyrics are per se; it need not be an actual love song. The song just has to have a melodic singer and some seventies like grooviness. By way of example, let me present to you the song Calling Occupant of Interplanetary Craft by the The Carpenters. It sounds like Karen Carpenter is on ludes. Maybe she was I suppose. And the lyrics. Well: 

In your mind you have capacities you know

To telepath messages through the vast unknown

Please close your eyes and concentrate

With every thought you think

Upon the recitation we're about to sing

Calling occupants of interplanetary craft

Calling occupants of interplanetary craft

Calling occupants of interplanetary most extraordinary craft

(if you're struggling for distraction, read the fab wikipedia entry on this crazy tune)

I heard this song twice on the radio. Yesterday. So yeah, let's all groove on some cheese ball tunes into our next cuppa. Often these songs are dedication, which is how I know that it is really the people of England who are seriously devoted to easy listening. 

Another thing I love is that a number of these stations do a "guess the year" session every day. They play five or ten or twenty songs all from one year and people guess. It might be 2000 or 1988 or 1963, doesn't matter. I really enjoy it. 

Now there's room to go into issues of mainstream culture in Britain and talk about radio listenership decline and blah, blah.* But let me enjoy my silly radio pleasures for a little while longer ok, mate? 

I think a lot of radio stations in the US might get more listeners if they were more interested in variety and enjoyment instead of demographics and genre line blurring. (here let me plug Chris Demm's weekly themed rock-ish show on Rock 92.3 out of Greensboro, NC for being cool and good fun**)

*I have further thoughts on the long term success and addiction some Brits have to the radio soap opera called The Archers. You can podcast it in the US I think. And you should. It is easy to find as it is ALWAYS in the top ten podcast downloads on the BBC website. Yes, top ten. Always. 

** I still listen to ROCK 92.3 over the internet while in the UK and I credit Kelly, Demm, and Deirdre with helping me feel less homesick....even with the Bojangles ads. Thank you:)

Failure is an option

Last week's writing prompt:

"I think failure is inevitable and necessary. We should give ourselves permission to fail or we'd never write anything. You have to forgive yourself for failing. In the absolute sense, pretty much every piece of writing fails because theoretically it could always be better." Lionel Shriver

I began thinking about this in terms of times in my life when I have chosen to fail versus times I have failed at something, period. When I was 20 and living in LA, I realized that I did not want to do the things I needed to do, become the person I needed to be, in order to have success in the film industry. I chose to fail and it took a year to realize that choosing to fail and being a failure were not the same thing. 

More recently, I have failed to be fully myself. I've shrunken down and pulled inward so as to be what other's imagine as less offensive. I've also failed to fix the heartaches of people I love. I've failed to sleep enough and therefore failed to be as generous and kind as I strive to be each day. As I've been trying to punch up a chapter of a novel I wrote in order to submit it for a grad school application, I've wondered if that novel is a failure as well. Or is it enough to know I wrote it and that a few people read and it liked it well enough. 

Then I went to hear Neil Gaiman read some of his writing aloud and also perform one story with a quartet and illustrations (really great, btw, if he tours your way, GO!). Introducing one of his short stories, he mentioned that he wrote it for This American Life but they rejected it. And I thought, "What?!" You don't get much more famous as a writer, as literary rock star, than Neil Gaiman and someone said, "Nah, not what we're looking for, thanks." At no point did he say he felt he had failed, despite a commissioned story being rejected. He said he liked the story and then he read it to an audience which seemed to largely like it too. Gaiman said he was putting together a collection of short stories and it was fun to go back and read over, to collect and rediscover stories he'd forgotten about. Not failed things; forgotten, stuff in a notebook, in the back of a desk drawer things.

My lesson learned here is this, and damned if it shouldn't have been blatantly obvious given what's gone on just with this blog over the past month, but writing as a release of creativity from one's mind, when written to sooth the soul, written to express something real or imagined, really ought never have a label of pass or fail attached to it. Do you have a guilty pleasure book? One you love but it is a genre or author or story that you're embarrassed to admit you read and more still that you love it? Odds are high someone, somewhere has deemed that writing a failure. It fails to be smart enough or demure enough or simple enough or genre specific enough. But you love it. And you should. The person who wrote it hopefully loves it to. They birthed it. Writers should write because they have a story tell and they should love their work regardless of other people's judgement. 

Notice I didn't say regardless of critique. I'm not saying all writing is good because someone, somewhere loves it. I'm just saying that there's a range out there and if one writer's odd ball tale makes a few people feel more normal or feel more joy, that's important. A writer's work needs feedback and editing. I just don't think it all needs perfecting. We can't all write like that and there's room for the most beautifully chosen and arranged words along side the simpler writing that may seem base but can still tell a good story. Writing can't fail if it's loved and nurtured. It can't fail if it speaks deeply to even just a handful of people. Failure in writing can only come, I think, in not sharing it.

I am missing you...

WARNING CONTAINS me, love, bad punctuation, truth and lies, and musings.

I am in a little writing writing group and we get prompts, I'm posting my responses here. This week's prompt is "I am missing you." It is stream of consciousness, but also short. If you skip this post, I'll understand as it is probably a little ham handed. It is also strongly influenced by the fact I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower the other day. A lotta friendship/love/healing intensity there. 

I am missing you, that innocent certainty of youth that knew love was enough. Love can be all things, shape all things, bend all things, believe all things. Do. All things.

And then you grow up and you meet obstacles that cannot be moved by your love. Wanting someone who does not want you, despite your love. Being unable to help someone in or through or over something, despite your great love for them. You feel helpless. You feel worthless. Because if you, just you and your love, were great enough, good enough, pure enough, certainly you would be able to do all the things that love is meant to do, to fix, to feel, to fight.

And then you get older still and you see, hopefully you feel, that your love, little and feeble or great and fiery, is not meant to solve the problems of the world. Or mend the hearts of all who know you. Nor dispel the griefs or fears of those whom you love. It is meant to sustain you. Just you. The love inside you is there to fill you and flow through you and fall out of you and surround you. To make you whole. To keep you together. In your fullness, your enough-ness, and only when you've looked inside and seen it can be that magic you thought the thought of love alone could be.

With a full heart. With a complete heart. You can help others be all things. You can help those you love shape and bend and believe all things. Your love plus the love of someone else, or perhaps, even better, lots of someone elses, is awesome in its power.

But it does not mean you will always win. It does not mean that in your fullness you can make others full. You will still suffer grief when you cannot add the love inside you to someone else's love for themselves. Because you can't. Or even if you could, it would mean less inside you, then you're both incomplete and that gets you no where.

It means you can shine. Shine your love at people. Smiles. Hugs. Words of support. Your laughter. Your light in the darkness. A pinprick into a night that can guide and give, warm and wonder. That's your gift as a lover.

Trying to Make Friends in the Land of Nod

As I hope you've garnered from my blog title, I'm American. I like to think I'm not actually that loud, but sometimes I can be and sometimes I think people see me that way regardless of what I might do. We Americans do not have the best reputation abroad. We're not as loud as Aussies, but no one is really. People seem ready to forgive Aussies though, outside of sports fanatics, and less willing to perhaps give Americans room to be ourselves. I'm totally generalizing. Yes, yes I am.

It's funny though, I am often told by Brits that other Brits don't like Americans. Told that I can probably expect to be judged and perhaps treated unfairly at times. Yet, as far as I can tell, this hasn't happened. That may be because I am, as a friend of my husband one said, "Anglo-friendly." I can toss out some slang and I often call things by their proper name like lift, garage, loo, or brolly (spelling? seriously, I have no idea how to spell these words. I wrote "swimming cozy" on twitter and made a lot of people laugh). I think it might also be because it is impossible to tell if I am having a hard time making friends here because it is just hard to do or because I am American. Let's be honest, it's probably both. It's almost always both.

Making friends after college/uni is hard. A statement that many a journalist has made bemoaning the lack of the places and opportunities to make new friends when one is working full time and/or has children. Bollocks to that I say (see, anglo-friendly). And surely you could say that one can make plenty of friends at work and also make friends with other parents, particularly other at-home-moms like myself, when one has kids. While I think a lot of people believe these are separate worlds of friends, I feel that is down to people's choices. Before moving the UK, I had a pretty balanced group of close friends. There were long time friends, workplace acquired friends, friends without kids, friends with kids, and at-home-mom friends. Several of these really good friends I made in my late twenties and early thirties. Take that you nay saying thirty-something journos who say it can't be done!!

And then I moved to the UK and I have two or three friends. Nice friends. But not uber close friends (yet?). I am having a hard time meeting people. I asked my husband before we moved about how long he thought I'd have to chat to someone new before I could ask them for coffee. What's the Brit waiting time to avoid being "pushy"? He said he didn't know. Another friend said that I shouldn't worry because people I would want to be friends with would not be put off by my seeming or actual pushiness. Sigh. British people can be put off by almost anything though. (I am no less anglo-friendly!)

I find myself doing something I've never, ever done be before when living abroad. Something I have in fact done the opposite of when living in other countries. I am looking for other Americans. *hangs head in shame* I mean, I stalked a woman in the grocery store and then into the parking lot and faked a grocery cart steering problem just to talk to her because I thought she sounded American. And she was! And she was nice. Joyously, she offered her number and said we should have coffee within a few minutes of talking. But then she never answered my texts. Ever. Of course, I gave up after two attempts because I can take a hint.* I tried not to feel rejected. I tried not to feel like I was dating again and "like, why hasn't he called!??!?!!?" *wrist to forehead*

All of this leads me to a path that I have traversed before with not so stellar results. Finding other at-home-mom friends. I am not good at this. In fact, I'm worse at this than I was at dating (old friends reading this are questioning how that's possible, but I swear it is true). Because I am not a very good SAHM. I don't like it. There's no revealing in the beauty of infant-hood in my house. I am not crafty. I am not that great at housewifery. My home is livable, it functions and we are all wearing relatively clean clothes; but I'm not good at it the way a lot of SAHM are good at it and love to be that provider. I'm not a great planner, producer, arranger, shopper, bargainer, baker, or candlestick maker. I'm good at watching TV, buying groceries and not using them, impulse purchases of silly t-shirts, losing sunglasses and getting frustrated with my kids.

Why must I go this route? At the moment, it is almost the only path open to me. I am working on fixing that, but it is proving hard to get into a routine while house hunting and trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up, which all fall in between laundry, cooking, cleaning, asset management, and avoiding nuclear destruction. My oldest starts what the British call reception (state sponsored preschool) in September. I have been told, nay promised, that I will meet all these other parents and we will be friends. Damn it, we will! Because our kids will be friends too. Instant friendship, just add school uniform and crushed jammy dodgers.

What scares me is that this "reason" for friendship is exactly why I am supposed to have all these other at-home-mom friends. Which I don't. Now, I do actually like being a parent and I am excited for my kid to go to school (not just to be rid of him, in fact, I'm sure I'll miss him), so perhaps this time, this forced companionship might work. Maaaayyyybbbbee. Fingers crossed.

*I recently looked at my phone's recent calls and it turns out I've been butt dialing this lady a lot lately. I never deleted her contact (until now) and I guess it just happened one day and my butt thought, "Hey, let's just keep calling her since she doesn't like us anyway!" I'm pretty sure she never put my number in her phone. But if she did, I imagine the label has been rewritten to say "that stupid American."

Dear Librarians, don't tell children there's no such thing as monsters.

Dear librarians, I know this isn't most of you. But if you know anyone who works with children that does this, sit them down, give them a cup of tea and a fairy cake and tell them they have to stop right now.

I took my toddler to a library today and found myself listening to a young librarian reading stories to about half dozen children huddle expectantly at her feet. She made several egregious errors in her reading, not the least of which was calling a cheetah a leopard, but one thing she did really made want to give her a good shake about the shoulders.

She said there was no such thing as monsters. She also said you can't reach the stars in the sky. She proclaimed one's inability to be friends with an eagle. In other words, she said don't believe these books I'm reading you; these stories are silly. Don't imagine they might be true. Don't reach your arms up to the sky and hope that something might raise you up into the clouds. Because these, these are just words and pictures without meaning.

How dare you! Don't ever do that again! There are words. Juicy, dreamy, stuff of stars words and they just so happen to be paired with gorgeous, whimsical, absolutely to be believed pictures crafted to feed the knowledge all children are born with - anything I can imagine can be real. I am bear whose best friends are a bird and a frog! I am a bunny building a rocket ship to the stars! I am a panda whose sneezes can blow over whole towns!

I am certain that this woman in no way meant to crush the imaginations of children. What she was doing, mostly, was asking questions to the children with no thought to what they might think the answer could be. She decided the answers to all her questions before she even spoke them aloud. A pouting bird claimed to be collecting stones rather than riding in a boat with his bear friend because he was jealous of his new frog friend. The reader declared, "Is it fun to collect rocks? No, no it isn't. I'd much rather ride in a boat, wouldn't you? Of course you would." Sorry lady, but I'd rather pick up stones any day. Boats are scary. I didn't get to say that and no listening child was able to express otherwise either because she never waited more than a half a second for an answer.

In education, we call this "wait time." It is a pretty valuable tool that you have to learn to use in teaching (it works well in parenting too). It's simple.* You ask a question and you wait. And you wait. And wait. And wait. Until someone offers an answer. Even if it is "wrong", you listen and you respond positively as much as you can. You validate contributions to the conversation. It is actually easier with younger children than anyone else because they almost always have something to say. But you have to listen and think about what you've said, what they've said, and even what's generally going on in the world. What the reader ought to have asked about the story is, "Why is bird collecting rocks?" or "Do you think that is what bird really wants to do?" or "How do you think bird feels?" And then waited for answers. The best reply to very small children is "Let's keep reading and see!" Easy. No need to discuss that they think bird really wants to fly away and eat worms or that bird is quite happy to collect stones or that mommy said that daddy's head is full of rocks. Just listen and let them share that amazing gift of belief in all things that children have in their hearts. When you do, it is always entertaining and sometimes inspirational. What gift did everyone in that room today miss out on because someone wouldn't give them a few breaths to say something?

So, let's review what we've learned friends. Do not crush the imaginations of small children. Do not ask questions you already assume you have the correct answer to (this applies to all of us really, doesn't it?;) Learn to wait for answers and listen to replies. In summary - be nice, wait and listen.

*I know it isn't simple. It is really hard and takes years to develop as a skill in teaching and in being a good listener in general. But let's pretend it is easy and all try to do it, ok?!

How does anyone find a house here? OR Did the English coin the term moron?

I'd like to preface this post by saying I've bought two houses myself, helped several friends buy houses, and I have a couple of American friends who are real estate agents. I have even looked at buying property in other countries; countries where communism is or was the official form of government. They still had better estate agents.

Funnily, my agent friends in the US say that all real estate agents are stupid (their word choice). But I really want them to come and visit here because I think I can say without hesitation that the "estate agents" in the United Kingdom are seemingly the people in the country least motivated to sell a house, help anyone buy a house, or give any fucks about the whole real estate market. The level of service is appalling. Lord help you if you are a British person trying to sell a home because these people are not your friends.

How have I reached this conclusion? Well, here are but a few examples of baffling things.

I have emailed an estate agent after a viewing stating that I was quite interested in the property but had a few questions. The house had been on the market awhile. It is still on the market. And here's why - no one ever wrote me back. No one called me. No one tried to call or email me in any way despite the fact that my husband and I were outspoken in our appreciation of the house. We in fact said, "This is the best place we have seen." No calls. No emails. No sale.

There is an estate agent who I've met twice now who never knows my name, even though he has made the viewings appointments with me, twice. He probably has it written down on a piece of paper in his hand but perhaps he is not motivated enough to read. He also never follows up after a viewing. Never asks during the viewing if I have questions or if I am interested. The most recent house I saw that this agent was meant to be representing had not been well cleaned or even dusted before the viewing. That of course might be down to the property owners but there were literally cobwebs across the top of a door jam, hanging down. Oh and the house was listed for over six hundred thousand pounds. Yeah. Bring your own duster mate.

An agent told me I would not "disregret" making even a quite low offer on a house he was representing. Dis. Regret. DIS. What?!

I have emailed about numerous properties and had no answers or answers that were about other properties or been told a house was sold when it was not. I have seen a sold sign outside of a house I was coming to view and therein told an offer had been accepted three days ago but they were still showing it just in case. Which is probably down to me looking in an area of England that is insanely competitive (see expensive but dirty house above), but still. Three days ago? So, the day I made the appointment to see it.

Every agency I email immediately puts me on a list-serve and starts sending me house listings. That would be ok with me if the listings were related to my search. I think some places do it based on price while other on size of home while still others simply send you things if you appear to be a human who has email. I have received notices about properties in other counties (that's like getting notices about places in another state for my American readers). I have been told about a great, brand new place 45 miles away. Also for two bedroom apartments having expressly said I am looking for three bedrooms houses.

It is comical. But it is also just insane. There are nothing but reports of inflated house prices. Reports on how hard it is to get a mortgage. Reports on housing shortages and government schemes to get people to buy houses. Competition abounds. It is a sellers market except that it is a buyers market because no one can afford these places. It seems there is zero competition here between agencies. There are no buyer's agents as far as I can tell. You're just at the mercy of people who appear to have no clue what running a business means. I suppose houses do just sell themselves to a degree. But good gracious these folks are just clueless.*

I will continue to to search; praying that should I find a house I want, someone might possess the mental facility to sell it to me.

*note this is the clean version of what I think of all of this fucked up, sociopathic cockery.

In defense of Gwyneth Paltrow

Yes, yes, I know. You are likely in one of two camps; either you have no idea what I am talking about OR you think her largely indefensible.

For those with no idea, please read this OpenLetter by a Mackenzie Dawson to Gwyneth Paltrow regarding something foolish she said to E! in an interview.

For those who don't like to read but are somehow struggling through my blog, the basics are as follows. GP said that a working mom probably has it easier than a movie star when it comes to the whole having a job while raising kids thing because you have a routine and you can be home in the morning and at night. She said that when she doesn't show up for a school pick up, “it's like, where were you?” The open letter is a reply that drips sarcasm and implies that if one has lots of money, one can no longer be in any way torn between work life and home life, since money solves all of life's problems and as GP is absolutely loaded, she can't complain about having a hard time with her kids. The author describes her home life a little and emphasizes her hardships. The open letter never once mentions parent-child relationships as an issue, which was, I think, more along the lines of what Gwyneth was talking about.  

Dear Gwyneth and Mackenzie - you are both wrong. And you neither of you understands or is seemingly interested in supporting other mothers. Shame on you. 

Look, I'm no great fan of Ms.Paltrow and don't get me started on GOOP, but what she is saying, having read the original interview, is that as her children have gotten older it has gotten harder to be away from them and acknowledges that she has agency in the situation, "I set it up in a way that makes it difficult." I imagine they question her more when she is way, when she can't answer the phone and when she cannot be at school pick ups. Because at their age (7 and 9), they don't care that their mom is celebrity and that her work brings them a life of comfort. They want mom to be there. And despite what the Kardashians have led the world to believe, being an actual working actress mom, which GP is, does entail long hours, trips away (and not always to LA, to the glories of Wisconsin too), time when one is unable to answer phone calls, etc. She limits her work to once a year and does so to spend more time with her kids, according to her own words, and of course she also does it because she probably likes it and likes having the money that comes with it. That GP doesn't acknowledge her lifestyle is certainly unattractive to those of us without her level of privilege but it may also have been left out. You don't imagine that E! thought posting just that snippet of the interview would go unnoticed? That they had no inkling of the furor that might arise? Then you're more foolish than Ms.Paltrow.

Does she have a choice? Sure she does. We all* have a choice. Reality TV makes working in “the industry” look like sitting around reading magazines and being pampered. I'm sorry to shatter you, but for those trying to achieve “celebrity”, that's not really what it is like. At least not as a working actor, even a celebrity one. The fact that actors are insanely compensated for their work is not their fault (per se) and while enviable it does not mean that they lose the right to struggle with work-life balance or to find parenting a challenge. 

If you love your career and you love your children, you are allowed to have emotional struggles and be challenged by them. What Ms.Dawson fails to see is that GP is a whole person, not just a wad of cash wrapped in too little skin wearing expensive short shorts. What GP really fails to do is “consciously” know that most if not all working mothers have a hard time balancing their career choices and their roles as mothers and that her issues are not unique just because she has a unique job. Time is on none of our sides ladies and you'd both do better to perhaps lend a voice to working mother's rights rather than focus solely on your own situation.

*when I say “all”, I am absolutely am only referring to upper middle class and upper class moms who have chosen not only to have kids but to work as well. I don't know Mackenzie's circumstances, but as her open letter was published rather quickly, I'm guessing she's a journalist or related to the industry in some way and she is not struggling to support a family on 20k a year. When GP made her statement, I don't think she was thinking about middle class and/or poorer women. That's another fault of hers to be sure but not one I am interested in here.  

I know we've been here nearly two months, but I was busy!

NB: This may be my only post about the initial move because, as you may know, this took an age to write and put up. We may just move on from here

Ah, the big moving day. Except that it wasn't. Since our movers had come nearly two weeks before, in my mind the day of  the flight would be a day of packing and chucking (and hopefully some donating). In the days leading up to departure my husband was concerned we weren't doing enough to get ready. He spent large parts of the day sorting, trashing, and making runs to Goodwill. I did some of that too, but I was more focused on seeing and spending time with my closest friends. Turns out the hub was in fact correct. The night before departure, I sent messages to three friends asking for help. Thankfully they not only showed up but went above and beyond because otherwise we would never have gotten out the door.

I know sometimes people make statements like the above for drama or exaggeration sake, but as god is my witness, in all the seriousness available in the known universe, we would never have made our flight without help. On the one hand I'm sorry that I didn't heed my husband's warnings and I cringe when I think of what we left behind. I feel bad for asking good friends to do jobs I should have done, though that IS what friends are for in an emergency. On the other hand, I think I would regret far more several days of arduous cleaning, trashing, clearing, packing/unpacking/repacking and donating, which would have been almost as stressful as the one crazy day, to then depart with more “things” and less hugs.* I did not leave anything behind that I cannot live without. At Christmas, I rushed to meet false deadlines and I have deep regrets about doing so. Obviously, a plane ticket is not a false deadline! But I like to think what I learned at Christmas was that ignoring my instincts is a pathway to poor choices in the care of my soul.

So on the day, insanity. One of my friends came over and literally sorted, boxes, trashed and found things I'd forgotten about for two hours longer than I'd asked her to and never once made me feel about it. Then, in the half hour before we had to leave for the airport we had to pack an extra bag, handily brought by one of the life-saver friends, and just chuck/leave a number of things like shoes, toys and books that were too bulky. A friend came over to help us out the door and he ended up doing far, far more (bless him) by returning to the house and pulling out things he thought we might need. I was also trying to coordinate the move out clean, some handyman jobs, and a carpet cleaner by phone on the way to the airport.

I dropped the kids and JAG off at the airport, where our friend helped them check-in while I returned the rental car. Again, the state of that car. Wow. Sorry rental car company cleaning guys. Hope those shoes I left fit someone you know.

At the terminal I found my husband looking, well, despondent really. We got all checked-in and had to say goodbye to our friend. He snapped a picture of us departing and posted it to fb. People who saw this photo, that's no illusion, JAG was really overwhelmed all of a sudden with the leaving. He and I really do sort of take turns getting overly emotional, which is for the best I think. Lord help us if we ever loose our shit at the same time.

The flight was, well, how do you think? Seven hours in a noisy, stuffy tin can? With two kids you want desperately to sleep? Little man kept insisting on sleeping on JAG, not letting us take turns much. And WeeC just wanted to watch the TV screens. And hear let me thank American Airlines again for using the oldest, crappiest plane on the only nonstop flight to the UK from our local airport. Neither parent slept. Upon landing and taking the very long walk to immigration, we were thankfully greeted with a short line. It was one of the easiest exits we've had. Of course, since our plane was 45 minutes early, that meant my sister-in-law hadn't arrived yet. We killed time by sitting listlessly and trying to keep the children from climbing nearby travelers.

Eventually, with the much needed help of the in-laws, we arrived to our new abode. We had ordered some furniture and my SIL and her husband set it up for us, including our beds. They had done a few things to make it feel homey, which was quite sweet really. They stayed to help us for a little bit and then left so naps might be taken. After the stressful departure from the US it was, as you'd expect, quite anti-climatic.

Then came the knock at the door. I opened it with a face that said, "If you're selling something, I am NOT in the mood." But on our sparkling new doorstep stood two of JAG's best friends and a new friend, baring gifts. I was shocked. JAG was gob smacked. Then we were delighted. It was one of the nicest sites and kindest gifts I've ever received. Friendly faces. Maybe this whole crazy move will be worth it.

*My husband saw friends too and was also at work until two days before our departure; I don't mean to imply he chose jobs over friends, he was just more able to see people in the days before the crunch than I was with two kids at home :)