If you are from my era, you probably sang this as a child:
Jingle Bells, Batman smells
Robin's flown away
The Batmobile has lost its wheel
And landed in the hay.
Yes? Good. I'd like to know I wasn't the only one. Did you, too, share a frisson of naughty delight when you sang it? Not only were you singing the wrong words, which made it already pretty naughty, but that line "Batman smells" - wasn't that just the rudest thing ever?
Times move on, but it is good to know that childhood pleasures remain if not the same, than at least similar. There are new versions of Jingle Bells being sung around the globe. I thought you'd be interested to hear what eight year olds are singing in this neck of the woods. It goes like this:
Dashing through the snow
In a hybrid SUV
O'er the hills we go
Crashing into trees.
Bells are all destroyed
Making spirits fall,
All my presents have turned into
A flaming fireball.
There aren't any extreme rudenesses like "Batman smells", but even so, there's a healthy level of violence and destruction.
I love that eight year olds are singing about hybrid SUVs. Marvellous.
Postscript:
Oh. I've just spoiled my own post. I ran the lyrics past 8-yo. "Hypered", he said. "Hypered, not hybrid. What's hybrid mean, anyway?".
.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Perspective
It's all a matter of perspective. That's part of the whole "Not wrong, just different" approach to life. We used to think it was a long journey to see family: 4 hours to the nearest. We now think of that as a short hop. Four hours would hardly get us out of our state in most directions.
Living outside your own zone makes you realise how relative many of your absolutes actually are. What seemed like fact, becomes opinion. I overheard this telephone conversation between 11-yo and his grandmother. She had asked what sports he was playing at school at the moment, and it turns out they have been learning baseball (which I thought was a summer sport, and an outdoor one, but there you go). He said
"It's really hard. The bat is round, so the ball flies off in any direction, and they pitch it at you so fast. And the rules are so complicated. I like playing sports which have simple rules. Like cricket."
Yes, I thought that would amuse you. All a matter of perspective, you see.
Living outside your own zone makes you realise how relative many of your absolutes actually are. What seemed like fact, becomes opinion. I overheard this telephone conversation between 11-yo and his grandmother. She had asked what sports he was playing at school at the moment, and it turns out they have been learning baseball (which I thought was a summer sport, and an outdoor one, but there you go). He said
"It's really hard. The bat is round, so the ball flies off in any direction, and they pitch it at you so fast. And the rules are so complicated. I like playing sports which have simple rules. Like cricket."
Yes, I thought that would amuse you. All a matter of perspective, you see.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Christmas party
I was helping at 8-yo’s class Christmas party. My duty was to organize one game. In the car on the way there, 4-yo was asking me all about the event. Who was going to be there? Were other little brothers and sisters invited? Would the brothers and sisters be allowed to join in the game? Would they be allowed to have the snack?
I explained to the best of my knowledge (I wasn’t entirely sure what the party was going to be like myself, beyond my own game). Then she asked “How will the kids know how to play the game?”
“I’ll explain the rules to everyone before we begin”, I replied.
“Will the little kids understand the rules, or will they just watch the big kids and do what they do?” she asked, in such a matter of fact way that my heart melted.
Of course it didn’t need to melt. I know that second, third, and subsequent children “come on” much quicker than first children. Parents are amazed at the way their second children whizz by the milestones, and make sense of life so speedily. Perhaps it’s a little unsettling to think that all that careful parental input lavished on the first child, is less effective than the contribution of the sibling toddler, who does no more than potter on with daily life, oblivious of his or her role as a teaching model to number two.
As it happened, she was the only little sibling there, understood the instructions (it wasn’t a difficult game), was taken under the wing of her brother so that they both dropped out of the game together, had at least as much snack, if not more, than everyone else, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She can't wait to start school. I sometimes wonder if we parents are more in danger of getting in the way of our children’s learning, than of not helping them enough.
I explained to the best of my knowledge (I wasn’t entirely sure what the party was going to be like myself, beyond my own game). Then she asked “How will the kids know how to play the game?”
“I’ll explain the rules to everyone before we begin”, I replied.
“Will the little kids understand the rules, or will they just watch the big kids and do what they do?” she asked, in such a matter of fact way that my heart melted.
Of course it didn’t need to melt. I know that second, third, and subsequent children “come on” much quicker than first children. Parents are amazed at the way their second children whizz by the milestones, and make sense of life so speedily. Perhaps it’s a little unsettling to think that all that careful parental input lavished on the first child, is less effective than the contribution of the sibling toddler, who does no more than potter on with daily life, oblivious of his or her role as a teaching model to number two.
As it happened, she was the only little sibling there, understood the instructions (it wasn’t a difficult game), was taken under the wing of her brother so that they both dropped out of the game together, had at least as much snack, if not more, than everyone else, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She can't wait to start school. I sometimes wonder if we parents are more in danger of getting in the way of our children’s learning, than of not helping them enough.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Christmas carols
My two younger kids are singing in church on Sunday, along with all the rest of their Sunday school. They’re doing Away in a Manger, and Silent Night.
Away in a Manger is to a different tune to the one I know. How can that be? Shurely shome mistake. How can you have Away in a Manger, not to the Away in a Manger tune? Actually, I’m rather glad, since the usual tune makes me cry. You know how it is. You go and see your child in some preschool or school event, and you put a tissue in your pocket but you’re absolutely determined not to use it. You’re doing really well, and it’s almost over, and then - oh they’re so clever these teachers – right at the end, a child steps forward and lisps “Now we’re all going to thing Away in a Manger, the firtht time on our own, and then pleathe join uth when we thing it a thecond time”, and the familiar music starts. You’re sitting there, thinking “This is SUCH a cliché. I’m so NOT going to get emotional just because it’s Away in a Manger, and my little darling is dressed as a shepherd/angel/lamb. It’s just Christmas, for heaven’s sake, and I’m NOT going to succumb to the cheesiest old favourite in the book. Absolutely NOT.” It rather depends how slowly they sing it, and how many verses they have learned, as to whether you can keep these stern thoughts going for long enough, or whether the tissue has to emerge from the pocket.
What is it with Away in a Manger? I’m wondering if mothers put it on quickly when their baby daughters start to cry, so that the association becomes ingrained Pavlov-style at an infant age, and then somehow lies dormant till motherhood. I didn’t know about this, so I didn’t do it for my daughter. She’ll have an easier time at her children’s nativity plays.
Silent Night. That’s a nice one (apart from the rather screechy way you have to slide up the scale on “pee-eeace” in the last line). I was getting 8-yo to sing it to me, to make sure he knew the words, and half way through, he stopped and said “What is an infantso?” You know that bit: Holy infantso, tender and mild. I told him it was a kind of reindeer (I didn’t really).
It reminded me of one of my own childhood Christmas carol puzzles. There was this really confusing bit in “While shepherds watched” which said Thus spake the sheriff, and forthwith appeared a shining throng. I knew it couldn’t be a wild west type of sheriff, in Bethlehem. In any case, men can’t be angels. Girls are angels, as eny ful no. I remember being confused, but I can't remember how I resolved the issue. I probably concluded the sheriff was the angel with the bright golden star.
Ah, innocent times. These days, kids are probably more confused by why forthwith a shining thong would appear.
Do you have any childhood festive misunderstandings you’d like to share?
.
Away in a Manger is to a different tune to the one I know. How can that be? Shurely shome mistake. How can you have Away in a Manger, not to the Away in a Manger tune? Actually, I’m rather glad, since the usual tune makes me cry. You know how it is. You go and see your child in some preschool or school event, and you put a tissue in your pocket but you’re absolutely determined not to use it. You’re doing really well, and it’s almost over, and then - oh they’re so clever these teachers – right at the end, a child steps forward and lisps “Now we’re all going to thing Away in a Manger, the firtht time on our own, and then pleathe join uth when we thing it a thecond time”, and the familiar music starts. You’re sitting there, thinking “This is SUCH a cliché. I’m so NOT going to get emotional just because it’s Away in a Manger, and my little darling is dressed as a shepherd/angel/lamb. It’s just Christmas, for heaven’s sake, and I’m NOT going to succumb to the cheesiest old favourite in the book. Absolutely NOT.” It rather depends how slowly they sing it, and how many verses they have learned, as to whether you can keep these stern thoughts going for long enough, or whether the tissue has to emerge from the pocket.
What is it with Away in a Manger? I’m wondering if mothers put it on quickly when their baby daughters start to cry, so that the association becomes ingrained Pavlov-style at an infant age, and then somehow lies dormant till motherhood. I didn’t know about this, so I didn’t do it for my daughter. She’ll have an easier time at her children’s nativity plays.
Silent Night. That’s a nice one (apart from the rather screechy way you have to slide up the scale on “pee-eeace” in the last line). I was getting 8-yo to sing it to me, to make sure he knew the words, and half way through, he stopped and said “What is an infantso?” You know that bit: Holy infantso, tender and mild. I told him it was a kind of reindeer (I didn’t really).
It reminded me of one of my own childhood Christmas carol puzzles. There was this really confusing bit in “While shepherds watched” which said Thus spake the sheriff, and forthwith appeared a shining throng. I knew it couldn’t be a wild west type of sheriff, in Bethlehem. In any case, men can’t be angels. Girls are angels, as eny ful no. I remember being confused, but I can't remember how I resolved the issue. I probably concluded the sheriff was the angel with the bright golden star.
Ah, innocent times. These days, kids are probably more confused by why forthwith a shining thong would appear.
Do you have any childhood festive misunderstandings you’d like to share?
.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Seasonal offerings (though getting a bit unseasonal)
OK, OK, so it’s getting a bit late now for autumnal posts, especially since it’s minus 13 degrees centigrade today, but we’ll just have a quick look at leaves, and then I’ll get into gear for Christmas. I promise.
Look at this lovely carpet of leaves in my back yard, just over a month ago. (It's worth clicking to enlarge).
You can almost hear them whispering “don’t sweep us up, don’t sweep us up” can’t you?
You will probably remember that what impresses me so much about the trees here is their ability to multi-colour (ooh, a new verb is born). Well, the leaves do it too.
These leaves have decided that those of them on one branch will be yellow, those on another will be green. How do they do that? A fine example of peaceful democracy.
Here, they’re all mixed up together.
I wonder if that creates more friction between them, or if they still happily co-exist, green and yellow, at such close quarters. Does the tree engineer the design and control when each leaf may change from green to yellow, or does each leaf have free will?
Look here, though, how within a single leaf, the multi-colour effect is achieved. These do that clever thing that the trees do, holding on to one colour in the middle while letting a new colour creep in at the edges.
This one is a work of art. Deep red veins traced against that subtle orange background, on an even deeper red stem. Perfect.
A couple of final glorious pictures, just because I can’t resist, and it’s going to be at least 9 months till autumn comes round again.
And don’t you just love this song?
To me, it captures the whole essence of the way our lives are marked by change. The seasons are a part of that. The music somehow manages to be both melancholy and cheery at the same time, which is masterly, for change is, surely, both our enemy and our friend, a stealer and a giver.
Thank you for your indulgence. I know blogging this late about autumn is very bad form. There now, I’m ready for Christmas. I’ll catch up with the rest of you.
Look at this lovely carpet of leaves in my back yard, just over a month ago. (It's worth clicking to enlarge).
You can almost hear them whispering “don’t sweep us up, don’t sweep us up” can’t you?
You will probably remember that what impresses me so much about the trees here is their ability to multi-colour (ooh, a new verb is born). Well, the leaves do it too.
These leaves have decided that those of them on one branch will be yellow, those on another will be green. How do they do that? A fine example of peaceful democracy.
Here, they’re all mixed up together.
I wonder if that creates more friction between them, or if they still happily co-exist, green and yellow, at such close quarters. Does the tree engineer the design and control when each leaf may change from green to yellow, or does each leaf have free will?
Look here, though, how within a single leaf, the multi-colour effect is achieved. These do that clever thing that the trees do, holding on to one colour in the middle while letting a new colour creep in at the edges.
This one is a work of art. Deep red veins traced against that subtle orange background, on an even deeper red stem. Perfect.
A couple of final glorious pictures, just because I can’t resist, and it’s going to be at least 9 months till autumn comes round again.
And don’t you just love this song?
To me, it captures the whole essence of the way our lives are marked by change. The seasons are a part of that. The music somehow manages to be both melancholy and cheery at the same time, which is masterly, for change is, surely, both our enemy and our friend, a stealer and a giver.
Thank you for your indulgence. I know blogging this late about autumn is very bad form. There now, I’m ready for Christmas. I’ll catch up with the rest of you.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Seasonal offerings
I knew you’d all be fed up with the festive season by now, so I thought I’d give you a break from tinsel decorations and snow scenes, and reminisce with you about autumn. What? You think I took photos of autumn leaves a month ago, didn’t get round to writing the blog post, but am still determined to use them? You cynics.
I love autumn. It’s my favourite season, always has been. And I never knew how much I was missing out. The British autumn, I’m sorry to say, is really a bit thin, compared to the richness of the season here. You know how at the beginning of October, you get a few days where it is warm again and the sky is a deep blue, and everyone says how much they are appreciating this Indian summer? Well, this year, we had that kind of weather for about eight weeks, mid September to mid November. No rain, no wind, just day after day of perfect skies and exquisite warmth. The leaves that fell stayed dry, and raking them up was like building piles of cornflakes, rather than that sludgy mess that comes with raking wet British leaves. Altogether a different experience.
Nature seemed to appreciate the perfection of the weather too, and put on some beautiful displays. Trees in Britain have to get their shows done so quickly, and in the damp. A few days, and they need to get from green foliage to bare twigs. They manage a little colour, but have to speed on through to dead brown leaves pretty fast. The trees here have the luxury of week after week of slowly fading temperatures, and still have the energy to choreograph their colour changes with finesse. What impresses me most, is the way one tree can exhibit different colours at the same time. We had two trees in our garden that were, for days on end, red at the top, yellow in the middle, and still green at the bottom. Traffic lights. I couldn’t get far enough away from them to photograph them, more’s the pity, but here are some other examples I found.
Look how this tree shades itself from orange to green, left to right.
This one decided to do it from top to bottom.
These ones do it from the inside out. See how they’re red at the ends of their branches, but still green at the core, as if holding on to summer in their hearts while bravely waving their hands at the oncoming autumn.
Impressed? Just wait till you see this. Group choreography. These five babies have got together for a chorus line performance.
Great show, gals. (That isn't a floating roof, by the way. It's just that someone painted their store the exact same shade of blue as the autumn sky.)
Some trees are just too bursting with their own creativity to bother with that shading effect, and they mix up the colours in a great effusion. This one gives us a beautiful two-tone green and yellow.
I left in that stunning little red bush for you to see. What an effort it made – the least I could do was not to crop it out of the picture.
This one couldn’t wait to decide which colours to go for, so threw them all in together and mingled them up. The photo doesn’t do it justice. Click on it to enlarge it - go on, you know you want to.
I’m glad trees are rooted to one spot. If those British trees came over in the autumn, I’d hate to witness their feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment. It would be like meeting your best friends in Milan or Paris, and walking down the most fashionable shopping streets with them in their old cords and Fair Isle sweaters. We could console the trees with talk of differences in climate, and how they do their best against the odds, but I’m sure their branches would hang low and their leaves would droop. I’d hate to see that. Of course they wouldn’t really need worry, because the trees here, being American, would be supremely impressed by the sheer size of their towering British cousins, and their history. All those years laid down in concentric circles, from the time of their sapling youth when masked highwaymen hid in their shadows, and men in tights hurtled between them in pursuit of wild boar (my historical knowledge is poetic rather than factual...). Trees here are neither large nor old. Too many ferocious winds to which they must bow low, and too many ice storms to contend with, when their branches are broken off by the weight of the days-long accumulated ice.
To finish, here is a glorious display of autumnal splendour.
Look at the rich red, the startling yellow, the mellow ochre, the luscious green. Even that little shrub in the front is shimmering in maroon and silver.
Which one? Well, it's a bit small, I admit. You probably can't appreciate it properly.
I'll enlarge it for you - I'm sure it's well worth a closer look.
Those lovely autumn tones...
Hang on...
It’s a fire hydrant. I’m getting carried away here. But don’t think I’ll be moving on to Santa and polar bears yet. Oh no. This post was trees. The next is going to be leaves. Sorry.
I love autumn. It’s my favourite season, always has been. And I never knew how much I was missing out. The British autumn, I’m sorry to say, is really a bit thin, compared to the richness of the season here. You know how at the beginning of October, you get a few days where it is warm again and the sky is a deep blue, and everyone says how much they are appreciating this Indian summer? Well, this year, we had that kind of weather for about eight weeks, mid September to mid November. No rain, no wind, just day after day of perfect skies and exquisite warmth. The leaves that fell stayed dry, and raking them up was like building piles of cornflakes, rather than that sludgy mess that comes with raking wet British leaves. Altogether a different experience.
Nature seemed to appreciate the perfection of the weather too, and put on some beautiful displays. Trees in Britain have to get their shows done so quickly, and in the damp. A few days, and they need to get from green foliage to bare twigs. They manage a little colour, but have to speed on through to dead brown leaves pretty fast. The trees here have the luxury of week after week of slowly fading temperatures, and still have the energy to choreograph their colour changes with finesse. What impresses me most, is the way one tree can exhibit different colours at the same time. We had two trees in our garden that were, for days on end, red at the top, yellow in the middle, and still green at the bottom. Traffic lights. I couldn’t get far enough away from them to photograph them, more’s the pity, but here are some other examples I found.
Look how this tree shades itself from orange to green, left to right.
This one decided to do it from top to bottom.
These ones do it from the inside out. See how they’re red at the ends of their branches, but still green at the core, as if holding on to summer in their hearts while bravely waving their hands at the oncoming autumn.
Impressed? Just wait till you see this. Group choreography. These five babies have got together for a chorus line performance.
Great show, gals. (That isn't a floating roof, by the way. It's just that someone painted their store the exact same shade of blue as the autumn sky.)
Some trees are just too bursting with their own creativity to bother with that shading effect, and they mix up the colours in a great effusion. This one gives us a beautiful two-tone green and yellow.
I left in that stunning little red bush for you to see. What an effort it made – the least I could do was not to crop it out of the picture.
This one couldn’t wait to decide which colours to go for, so threw them all in together and mingled them up. The photo doesn’t do it justice. Click on it to enlarge it - go on, you know you want to.
I’m glad trees are rooted to one spot. If those British trees came over in the autumn, I’d hate to witness their feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment. It would be like meeting your best friends in Milan or Paris, and walking down the most fashionable shopping streets with them in their old cords and Fair Isle sweaters. We could console the trees with talk of differences in climate, and how they do their best against the odds, but I’m sure their branches would hang low and their leaves would droop. I’d hate to see that. Of course they wouldn’t really need worry, because the trees here, being American, would be supremely impressed by the sheer size of their towering British cousins, and their history. All those years laid down in concentric circles, from the time of their sapling youth when masked highwaymen hid in their shadows, and men in tights hurtled between them in pursuit of wild boar (my historical knowledge is poetic rather than factual...). Trees here are neither large nor old. Too many ferocious winds to which they must bow low, and too many ice storms to contend with, when their branches are broken off by the weight of the days-long accumulated ice.
To finish, here is a glorious display of autumnal splendour.
Look at the rich red, the startling yellow, the mellow ochre, the luscious green. Even that little shrub in the front is shimmering in maroon and silver.
Which one? Well, it's a bit small, I admit. You probably can't appreciate it properly.
I'll enlarge it for you - I'm sure it's well worth a closer look.
Those lovely autumn tones...
Hang on...
It’s a fire hydrant. I’m getting carried away here. But don’t think I’ll be moving on to Santa and polar bears yet. Oh no. This post was trees. The next is going to be leaves. Sorry.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Carnival time again
Potty Mummy is hosting a carnival for British Mummy Bloggers. I am British, and a Mummy, and a Blogger, so they let me in.
If you want to make the acquaintance of lots of fab bloggers, head on over here.
.
If you want to make the acquaintance of lots of fab bloggers, head on over here.
.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Bright ideas, please
Bloggy Friends, I need ideas. I'm writing a piece for a local magazine on entertaining your kids during a power outage (power cut). So if anyone has a bright idea, or a link to a parents' website which covers this, then let me know. Please think a little beyond books, colouring books, pen and paper games, card games and charades - I've got those already.
I have very happy memories of power cuts in the '70s. My memory is a bit hazy, but I seem to recall my mother used to let us sit at the kitchen table and play with the candles - dripping wax onto plates, letting it cool, scraping it off and putting it back on top of the candle. Hours of fun, but I don't think I can responsibly recommend it, given that I have just read that more than 140 people die each year from candle-related home fires, according to the National Fire Protection Agency (they recommend flashlights in preference to candles as an emergency source of light).
Your fun ideas in the comments box, please.
.
I have very happy memories of power cuts in the '70s. My memory is a bit hazy, but I seem to recall my mother used to let us sit at the kitchen table and play with the candles - dripping wax onto plates, letting it cool, scraping it off and putting it back on top of the candle. Hours of fun, but I don't think I can responsibly recommend it, given that I have just read that more than 140 people die each year from candle-related home fires, according to the National Fire Protection Agency (they recommend flashlights in preference to candles as an emergency source of light).
Your fun ideas in the comments box, please.
.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The accent is on
I know I talk about accents a lot, but in my defence, I am frequently required to talk about accents in my real life, so it seems only fair that I should be allowed to in my cyber life too. I'm very used to talking about my own accent. Most people remark on it, if they don't know me. Most of them say they love it. That's an easy conversation to have. "Thank you" I say, "it came for free. I didn't have to study it, or pay for it, or anything." It's a nice conversation (if a little repetitive).
This week I've had two rather different conversations about my accent. The first was in a park. A five year old girl came up and introduced herself to 4-yo and asked her to play. They spent a happy time, while the mother asked me where I was from, how long I've lived here... the usual. Then as 4-yo and I were leaving, the little girl came over, looking rather puzzled and intrigued. She finally came out with "You speak excellent Spanish".
This made me laugh, not only for the way she had misunderstood, but also because it was such a very polite grown-up phrase coming from such a little girl. I explained to her that I wasn't speaking Spanish, otherwise she wouldn't understand what I was saying, that it was English, the same as she spoke, but it just sounded a bit different. Her mother came to my rescue: "like Charlie and Lola - she's from the same place as Charlie and Lola".
I felt the cache I normally enjoy from my accent was a little depleted (if you've never heard Charlie and Lola talk to each other, then find a clip on youtube or listen to a story here, and you'll see why it's not the most flattering of comparisons). Then getting 4-yo's hair cut today at Master Cuts, one of the other clients, a young chap with an adventurous hairstyle, said "I love your accent" (no surprises there). "My room-mate's parents sound a bit like you. They're from England, I think, but I find them really hard to understand if they talk fast". "Whereabouts are they from?" I asked, gearing up for the appropriate variation on the northern/southern/Liverpudlian follow-up conversation. "Um... I think they're from Dubai".
Oh, and speaking of hairdressers, I have another hairdresser-and-accents story. I have had to find myself a new cosmetologist (as you'll remember they are called), as my old one has moved away to Connecticut. Most inconsiderate of her. So off I went to a new one. The usual format: she asked me how I wanted my hair, I chatted away to her about my hair while she was washing it, I then moved back to the vertical chair, and as she started to cut, she looked at me in the mirror and struck up a bit of polite conversation. But her opener was far from predictable: "So have you lived here all your life?" Her face was completely straight, not a hint of irony. I didn't want to embarrass her, so once I'd recovered from the shock, I just replied "No, we've been here a couple of years", and then asked about her. I mean, judging by other people's reactions, I don't pass for a local just yet.
I'd like to think it was a bet, and that as I left the cosmetology salon, the entire staff and remaining clientele erupted in yelping laughter and shouts of "I can't BELIEVE you did that!" But I don't think so. I think she just hadn't noticed my accent. Did a nice job on my hair, though.
This week I've had two rather different conversations about my accent. The first was in a park. A five year old girl came up and introduced herself to 4-yo and asked her to play. They spent a happy time, while the mother asked me where I was from, how long I've lived here... the usual. Then as 4-yo and I were leaving, the little girl came over, looking rather puzzled and intrigued. She finally came out with "You speak excellent Spanish".
This made me laugh, not only for the way she had misunderstood, but also because it was such a very polite grown-up phrase coming from such a little girl. I explained to her that I wasn't speaking Spanish, otherwise she wouldn't understand what I was saying, that it was English, the same as she spoke, but it just sounded a bit different. Her mother came to my rescue: "like Charlie and Lola - she's from the same place as Charlie and Lola".
I felt the cache I normally enjoy from my accent was a little depleted (if you've never heard Charlie and Lola talk to each other, then find a clip on youtube or listen to a story here, and you'll see why it's not the most flattering of comparisons). Then getting 4-yo's hair cut today at Master Cuts, one of the other clients, a young chap with an adventurous hairstyle, said "I love your accent" (no surprises there). "My room-mate's parents sound a bit like you. They're from England, I think, but I find them really hard to understand if they talk fast". "Whereabouts are they from?" I asked, gearing up for the appropriate variation on the northern/southern/Liverpudlian follow-up conversation. "Um... I think they're from Dubai".
Oh, and speaking of hairdressers, I have another hairdresser-and-accents story. I have had to find myself a new cosmetologist (as you'll remember they are called), as my old one has moved away to Connecticut. Most inconsiderate of her. So off I went to a new one. The usual format: she asked me how I wanted my hair, I chatted away to her about my hair while she was washing it, I then moved back to the vertical chair, and as she started to cut, she looked at me in the mirror and struck up a bit of polite conversation. But her opener was far from predictable: "So have you lived here all your life?" Her face was completely straight, not a hint of irony. I didn't want to embarrass her, so once I'd recovered from the shock, I just replied "No, we've been here a couple of years", and then asked about her. I mean, judging by other people's reactions, I don't pass for a local just yet.
I'd like to think it was a bet, and that as I left the cosmetology salon, the entire staff and remaining clientele erupted in yelping laughter and shouts of "I can't BELIEVE you did that!" But I don't think so. I think she just hadn't noticed my accent. Did a nice job on my hair, though.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Carnival time
Just to let you know, there is a blogging carnival going on over at London Mums Blog, which I am taking part in.
I've never joined in a blogging carnival before. It's rather fun.
I've never joined in a blogging carnival before. It's rather fun.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Sweet Land
Whenever I've felt that moving abroad is tough and lonely and all those other self-pitying things that we expat wives notch up on our imaginary totem of hard-done-byness, I've always managed to find some comfort in comparing my lot to those of women in bygone ages. I always hated history at school, and wrote it off as boring and pointless. I now increasingly see the huge value of learning about the past, about past lives. Boy, does it make you thankful to be a 21st century woman.
The pioneers, those women who sat in covered wagons with their children, bumping along day after day after day, full of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, illness. No email, no telephone, no blogging, no antibiotics, no heating, no air conditioning. How pathetic they would think we modern day women are! "I don't understand the school grading system. I can't get decent sausages. The bacon is really fatty. Air travel is so expensive." I hang my head in shame.
Last night, I watched a movie "Sweet Land" - look it up on Netflix. It's set in the 1920s, when Inge arrives in Minnesota to marry a farmer she has never met. Because of her German background, she is unable to get the necessary papers to allow her to immigrate or marry. The local minister preaches against her from the pulpit ("her coffee is too black"), and life is bleak. It is a beautiful movie, which I thoroughly recommend if you're not in a hurry (emotionally, I mean, at 110 minutes the film itself isn't unusually long). Slow-moving (oh how those days must have dragged for her), with lingering shots of the land, the houses, the faces of the characters, it's full of the detail of life at the time, domestic, social and agricultural.
I loved Inge. Beautiful, composed, dignified, standing up for herself as best she can, treasuring her few possessions, a gramophone player and a smart hat. She arrives in a strange and hostile land, speaking only a few words of English, but has been sensible enough to include in her handful of learned phrases "I could eat a horse". That speaks to me of a woman who, facing her life's biggest adventure and biggest hardship, shrewdly and wisely decided where her priorities lay.
The pioneers, those women who sat in covered wagons with their children, bumping along day after day after day, full of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, illness. No email, no telephone, no blogging, no antibiotics, no heating, no air conditioning. How pathetic they would think we modern day women are! "I don't understand the school grading system. I can't get decent sausages. The bacon is really fatty. Air travel is so expensive." I hang my head in shame.
Last night, I watched a movie "Sweet Land" - look it up on Netflix. It's set in the 1920s, when Inge arrives in Minnesota to marry a farmer she has never met. Because of her German background, she is unable to get the necessary papers to allow her to immigrate or marry. The local minister preaches against her from the pulpit ("her coffee is too black"), and life is bleak. It is a beautiful movie, which I thoroughly recommend if you're not in a hurry (emotionally, I mean, at 110 minutes the film itself isn't unusually long). Slow-moving (oh how those days must have dragged for her), with lingering shots of the land, the houses, the faces of the characters, it's full of the detail of life at the time, domestic, social and agricultural.
I loved Inge. Beautiful, composed, dignified, standing up for herself as best she can, treasuring her few possessions, a gramophone player and a smart hat. She arrives in a strange and hostile land, speaking only a few words of English, but has been sensible enough to include in her handful of learned phrases "I could eat a horse". That speaks to me of a woman who, facing her life's biggest adventure and biggest hardship, shrewdly and wisely decided where her priorities lay.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Holding out for a hero
Help. I’m all behind with blogging. I’m needing to do that Hallowe’en post and Hallowe’en is already old news, and I want to show you some more fabulous autumn colors - I’ve been out with my camera – but the weather is turning, and if I don’t hurry up, winter will be upon us and autumn will be yesterday’s story.
Today, though, I definitely need to put those on hold and say something about the election, because this morning, who wants to read about anything else?
If I could have voted, I’d have voted for Obama. And this is why. To quote Spiderman, that most admirable of superheroes, “with great power comes great responsibility”. My vote would have gone to the person who grasps that truth.
Now I’m not naïve enough to think that that is the whole story. You have to be ambitious to get to be a presidential candidate – no-one could get there purely for their commitment to public service. The articles on “why Obama won” that I’ve read this morning all talk about the huge amount of money he raised for his campaign. And then even leaders who start out with the common good at heart may turn out to be corrupted by power. All that aside, though, the man does seem to have that quality known as ‘statesmanship’, an awareness of the awesome (in its proper meaning) magnitude of the job, and a vision of a future he wants to help shape. McCain has an impressive track record of service to his country, but I couldn’t credit anyone who sings “bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran” to the tune of Barbara Ann with a serious awareness of what it means to be a world leader. I hear a sigh of relief round the globe this morning, and I add my own breath to it (but quietly, since I'm in a state McCain won).
Spiderman’s costume is both red and blue, but my guess is that in his spidery heart, he is more democrat than republican. Just a hunch.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
More thought on time
It is amazing that my children have any grasp of time at all. "We're leaving in TWO MINUTES" I say. Then I get chatting to a friend, and ten minutes later I repeat "I said we were leaving in TWO MINUTES. Come on, hurry up, get your stuff. Now. Quick. We're going to be late." Then I remember one more thing I had to tell my friend, and five minutes later I repeat "Now. We're going. Quick. I said TWO MINUTES."
Maybe my mother was the same. Maybe that's why I have a struggle with the whole concept of time. If my children ask me any of those cosmic-related questions like why we have summer and winter, my reply is "that's because the earth spins on its axis, no, hang on, wait a minute, no, it's because the earth goes round the sun, and, um, the sun is hotter on one side than the other, no no, that's not right, um, oh yes, I remember, it's because the earth is tilted and doesn't face true north, so it gets colder when it's round the back of the sun because England and America get tilted away, and yes, that's why the moon is sometimes up in the daytime too because we see it for longer when we're tilted." Poor kids. They don't have a chance.
I know 7-yo ponders these things. He once said to me "It's not fair for kids. When you're a kid, when something is boring, time seems to slow down and it lasts for ages. Then when you're having a good time, like at recess, time seems to speed up and it goes by so fast." I hated to disillusion him, but felt I had to. "You know what? When you're an adult, it's exactly the same thing. You've got more used to it, but it's the same thing." He took the news in his inimitable child stride.
Living in America makes it more complicated for them than it was for me as a child (which was already complicated enough, let me tell you). They know that when we Skype grandparents, it's our morning but their afternoon. How complicated is that? They understand very easily now, but I remember struggling to explain it before we came. Before we flew out, nearly two years ago now, we carefully explained to them that it was going to be a long and exhausting journey. Not only was it a long, long way and we'd have to be in the plane for a long, long time, but also, there was this thing called the time difference. This meant that the day would be an extra long day, because it would be like it had six extra hours in it. We'd arrive in the evening, but it would be for us as if it was the middle of the night. We'd be tired, very tired, was the message I was trying to get across. 7-yo took a different message though. He told a friend of mine "Do you know, in America it's great, because their days are six hours longer than ours."
I repeat, I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Maybe my mother was the same. Maybe that's why I have a struggle with the whole concept of time. If my children ask me any of those cosmic-related questions like why we have summer and winter, my reply is "that's because the earth spins on its axis, no, hang on, wait a minute, no, it's because the earth goes round the sun, and, um, the sun is hotter on one side than the other, no no, that's not right, um, oh yes, I remember, it's because the earth is tilted and doesn't face true north, so it gets colder when it's round the back of the sun because England and America get tilted away, and yes, that's why the moon is sometimes up in the daytime too because we see it for longer when we're tilted." Poor kids. They don't have a chance.
I know 7-yo ponders these things. He once said to me "It's not fair for kids. When you're a kid, when something is boring, time seems to slow down and it lasts for ages. Then when you're having a good time, like at recess, time seems to speed up and it goes by so fast." I hated to disillusion him, but felt I had to. "You know what? When you're an adult, it's exactly the same thing. You've got more used to it, but it's the same thing." He took the news in his inimitable child stride.
Living in America makes it more complicated for them than it was for me as a child (which was already complicated enough, let me tell you). They know that when we Skype grandparents, it's our morning but their afternoon. How complicated is that? They understand very easily now, but I remember struggling to explain it before we came. Before we flew out, nearly two years ago now, we carefully explained to them that it was going to be a long and exhausting journey. Not only was it a long, long way and we'd have to be in the plane for a long, long time, but also, there was this thing called the time difference. This meant that the day would be an extra long day, because it would be like it had six extra hours in it. We'd arrive in the evening, but it would be for us as if it was the middle of the night. We'd be tired, very tired, was the message I was trying to get across. 7-yo took a different message though. He told a friend of mine "Do you know, in America it's great, because their days are six hours longer than ours."
I repeat, I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Time flies
I don't know what they've been teaching 7-yo at school. Actually, I do know. They've been teaching second graders all about spiders and insects. This is why last night at dinner 7-yo shared some of his knowledge with us along these lines:
"Did you know flies see things in slow motion? If you do this..." (waving his arm up and down vigorously) "they see it like this..." (same action, but at 1/16th speed). At this point, Husband and I are looking at each other quizzically. I've never been very good at the whole time/space comprehension thing, and am grappling with the idea that the humble house-fly might be not only more able to understand it than I am, but is even somehow at the level where he is able to control it. Husband, who is a philosophy professor (have I ever told you that?) has a mind that is probably some light years away already on a journey of analysis of 7-yo's statement from historical, ethical and theological perspectives.
7-yo fills the silence with more insights. "They know what is going to happen next. That's what it's like when you see things in slow motion. You can tell what is going to happen next. That's why they're so difficult to swat. They know you're coming." So not only can the house-fly slow down reality, as he buzzes about his daily business, but he can also see the future, (which must be a burden, if it is a future that contains the bashing of himself continuously against the inside of a never-to-be-opened window). Blimey. Evolution got it wrong. They'd be much better at running the world than we are (once they'd got the hang of window catches).
Husband and I agree that this would make a rather good episode of Primeval (which is all the rage with the programme schedulers on BBC America), and the conversation moves on to more pressing matters, such as choice of ice cream flavour for dessert.
I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
"Did you know flies see things in slow motion? If you do this..." (waving his arm up and down vigorously) "they see it like this..." (same action, but at 1/16th speed). At this point, Husband and I are looking at each other quizzically. I've never been very good at the whole time/space comprehension thing, and am grappling with the idea that the humble house-fly might be not only more able to understand it than I am, but is even somehow at the level where he is able to control it. Husband, who is a philosophy professor (have I ever told you that?) has a mind that is probably some light years away already on a journey of analysis of 7-yo's statement from historical, ethical and theological perspectives.
7-yo fills the silence with more insights. "They know what is going to happen next. That's what it's like when you see things in slow motion. You can tell what is going to happen next. That's why they're so difficult to swat. They know you're coming." So not only can the house-fly slow down reality, as he buzzes about his daily business, but he can also see the future, (which must be a burden, if it is a future that contains the bashing of himself continuously against the inside of a never-to-be-opened window). Blimey. Evolution got it wrong. They'd be much better at running the world than we are (once they'd got the hang of window catches).
Husband and I agree that this would make a rather good episode of Primeval (which is all the rage with the programme schedulers on BBC America), and the conversation moves on to more pressing matters, such as choice of ice cream flavour for dessert.
I would love to be inside my child's head for a day.
.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
What's in a name? - Part III
They held a mock election in 11-yo's school (middle school). McCain won by 4 votes. He voted for Obama, in spite of the fact that one of his friends told him that Obama supported terrorists.
7-yo has also been told that Obama supports terrorists, is a terrorist, in fact. They're not holding an election in his school (lower school), which he is sad about. He'd vote for McCain. "Why would you vote for McCain?" I asked. "Because it sounds like candy cane, and I like candy canes", he replied with a grin.
Now there's an angle that I'll bet the Republican PR people haven't thought of using.
7-yo has also been told that Obama supports terrorists, is a terrorist, in fact. They're not holding an election in his school (lower school), which he is sad about. He'd vote for McCain. "Why would you vote for McCain?" I asked. "Because it sounds like candy cane, and I like candy canes", he replied with a grin.
Now there's an angle that I'll bet the Republican PR people haven't thought of using.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Magic Pumpkin
Tomorrow, weather permitting, I am going with 4-yo's preschool to the Pumpkin Patch. We did a similar visit last year. I'm not the rookie this time round, and that's such a good feeling. I know what is going to happen (ooh, tempting Providence there), I know where it is, I know what activities will be on offer, I know what to wear, and I'm not having to ask anyone any idiot questions. In fact, another mom asked ME whether we leave at the usual preschool start time, or whether she needs to be there early. I replied from my superior knowledge, and then had to re-read the newsletter to make sure I hadn't led her astray. You get my drift, though. It is very nice not to be the first-timer.
It was this time last year that I lamented that there was no mythical story or character relating to the Pumpkin Patch (and was duly corrected in the comments). Maybe 7-yo's Second Grade teacher feels the same way, however, because tonight, his homework was to write a story entitled The Magic Pumpkin. She had said that it had to be at least 5 sentences long, which, as any self-respecting Second Grader knows, means 5 sentences long. The exercise reminded me of those memes that go round, where you have to say what you did today in seven words, and that kind of thing. I'm glad that Second Grade is carefully equipping my son with the skills he'll need to be a future blogger. Anyway, this is the story he wrote:
The Magic Pumpkin
Once there was a
magic pumpkin.
It was small.
It got bigger and
bigger and bigger and
then it gave me
a brand new T.V!
And it did my
homework for me!!!
The pernickety among you will be saying to yourselves "that's only 4 sentences", and I can't deny that is technically true. But if I could scan the original manuscript in here, you would see that the layout - which I've tried to replicate above - clearly indicates the intention of 5. Invention first, grammar and spelling later - I think that's the way forward with creative writing.
Speaking of which, this is my 100th post, by the way.
It was this time last year that I lamented that there was no mythical story or character relating to the Pumpkin Patch (and was duly corrected in the comments). Maybe 7-yo's Second Grade teacher feels the same way, however, because tonight, his homework was to write a story entitled The Magic Pumpkin. She had said that it had to be at least 5 sentences long, which, as any self-respecting Second Grader knows, means 5 sentences long. The exercise reminded me of those memes that go round, where you have to say what you did today in seven words, and that kind of thing. I'm glad that Second Grade is carefully equipping my son with the skills he'll need to be a future blogger. Anyway, this is the story he wrote:
The Magic Pumpkin
Once there was a
magic pumpkin.
It was small.
It got bigger and
bigger and bigger and
then it gave me
a brand new T.V!
And it did my
homework for me!!!
The pernickety among you will be saying to yourselves "that's only 4 sentences", and I can't deny that is technically true. But if I could scan the original manuscript in here, you would see that the layout - which I've tried to replicate above - clearly indicates the intention of 5. Invention first, grammar and spelling later - I think that's the way forward with creative writing.
Speaking of which, this is my 100th post, by the way.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Nature calls
One of the things I miss most about life in Britain is the countryside, or not even the countryside, just the freedom to potter about in the outdoors. Here, the land outside the city is agricultural and inaccessible to walkers (no paths, barbed wire fences on a huge scale), and let’s face it, very flat and featureless. There are parks in the city, but they’re very small, and what you might call functional rather than beautiful.
We find we pay increasingly frequent week-end visits to the Nature Park. It’s small (a rectangle exactly a mile by half a mile), and surrounded by dual carriageways, so the chirping of the crickets has to compete with the noise of the traffic, and in winter when there aren’t leaves on the trees, you can see the large concrete building and big square orange logo of Home Depot from pretty much wherever you are in the Park. Nonetheless, green space is green space, and I am grateful for it.
The children share our excitement. When Husband and I suggest an afternoon walk in the Nature Park, they’re like little crickets themselves, jumping up and down and chorusing merrily “oh no, not AGAIN, boooring, do we have to? can I get some extra playstation time if I come?” Their enthusiasm is infectious, and we head off, beckoned by the call of the wild.
It was a really beautiful afternoon there today. Warm sun, strong breeze, clouds wandering across a blue sky, autumn colours at their finest. Autumn has always been my favourite season, but I realise now my previous experience of it has been somewhat impoverished. The trees and shrubs here put on a much better show – deep reds, earthy maroons, bright oranges, startling yellows. I don’t say this lightly. I grew up in the Chilterns, so I thought I knew a thing or two about autumn beauty. The beech woods can be stunning, majestic, exhilarating. But here, the season lasts so much longer, the variety is greater, the display more dramatic, and the weather still summery enough to allow full enjoyment of it.
This afternoon, for example, the Nature Park looked like this (you'll have to click to enlarge to do the colours justice):
There are always turtles to be seen, paddling along lugubriously or sunning themselves on logs, and a few weeks ago I spotted a muskrat in the water. There are elegant herons, and rather overfed ducks, who swim past hunks of bread floating in the water without even a second glance (this is a Nature Park on the edge of a big city, after all, not the wilderness). Dragonflies and damselflies dart in front of us. Crickets sun themselves on the paths, so old and slow this late in the season that we have to be careful not to tread on them before they leap away. Imagine being able to get close enough to take a photo like this (um... you'll definitely need to click to enlarge that one!).
Large spiders sit in the middle of their enormous webs, and 7-yo, who has been learning about them in science, tells us about their habits, and identifies the different kinds of web.
These are hedge apples, which are such a luminous, almost neon, green that we first told the kids that they were alien brains, fallen out of the sky, (but don’t worry, we only kept that story going for a few minutes – we didn’t want nightmares disturbing their and our sleep). They are solid and large (to give you the scale, this one is pictured in four year old hands), and they make a satisfying splash when lobbed into the creek.
I love this place. For me, it offers the perfect blend of familiarity and novelty. I know my way round the color-coded trails, enough at least to navigate back to the car park by the shortest route if legs are tired, or to promise that we’ll be crossing another creek if hedge apples are being collected. The wildlife and flora still seem exotic to me, though. “Get me” I think to myself, “watching snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”, and I tuck the thought away so that in years to come I can say “In America, we used to watch snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”. Even the complaining which precedes the trip has developed a comforting feeling of family ritual about it (they complain, but we know from experience that they'll have a good time). It was thus when we lived in Scotland (“why do we ALWAYS have to go to the beach or Tentsmiur?”) and I remember it from the week-ends of my own childhood too. But I couldn’t identify a zipper spider (also known as a writing spider) in those days.
I am very cautious about posting photos on the web, and I guard my family’s anonymity carefully, but I thought this one of our shadows on the water was safe enough.
And, getting brave now, I didn’t think back views could hurt. Here are 7-yo, 11-yo and Husband.
And here is 4-yo.
We find we pay increasingly frequent week-end visits to the Nature Park. It’s small (a rectangle exactly a mile by half a mile), and surrounded by dual carriageways, so the chirping of the crickets has to compete with the noise of the traffic, and in winter when there aren’t leaves on the trees, you can see the large concrete building and big square orange logo of Home Depot from pretty much wherever you are in the Park. Nonetheless, green space is green space, and I am grateful for it.
The children share our excitement. When Husband and I suggest an afternoon walk in the Nature Park, they’re like little crickets themselves, jumping up and down and chorusing merrily “oh no, not AGAIN, boooring, do we have to? can I get some extra playstation time if I come?” Their enthusiasm is infectious, and we head off, beckoned by the call of the wild.
It was a really beautiful afternoon there today. Warm sun, strong breeze, clouds wandering across a blue sky, autumn colours at their finest. Autumn has always been my favourite season, but I realise now my previous experience of it has been somewhat impoverished. The trees and shrubs here put on a much better show – deep reds, earthy maroons, bright oranges, startling yellows. I don’t say this lightly. I grew up in the Chilterns, so I thought I knew a thing or two about autumn beauty. The beech woods can be stunning, majestic, exhilarating. But here, the season lasts so much longer, the variety is greater, the display more dramatic, and the weather still summery enough to allow full enjoyment of it.
This afternoon, for example, the Nature Park looked like this (you'll have to click to enlarge to do the colours justice):
There are always turtles to be seen, paddling along lugubriously or sunning themselves on logs, and a few weeks ago I spotted a muskrat in the water. There are elegant herons, and rather overfed ducks, who swim past hunks of bread floating in the water without even a second glance (this is a Nature Park on the edge of a big city, after all, not the wilderness). Dragonflies and damselflies dart in front of us. Crickets sun themselves on the paths, so old and slow this late in the season that we have to be careful not to tread on them before they leap away. Imagine being able to get close enough to take a photo like this (um... you'll definitely need to click to enlarge that one!).
Large spiders sit in the middle of their enormous webs, and 7-yo, who has been learning about them in science, tells us about their habits, and identifies the different kinds of web.
These are hedge apples, which are such a luminous, almost neon, green that we first told the kids that they were alien brains, fallen out of the sky, (but don’t worry, we only kept that story going for a few minutes – we didn’t want nightmares disturbing their and our sleep). They are solid and large (to give you the scale, this one is pictured in four year old hands), and they make a satisfying splash when lobbed into the creek. I love this place. For me, it offers the perfect blend of familiarity and novelty. I know my way round the color-coded trails, enough at least to navigate back to the car park by the shortest route if legs are tired, or to promise that we’ll be crossing another creek if hedge apples are being collected. The wildlife and flora still seem exotic to me, though. “Get me” I think to myself, “watching snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”, and I tuck the thought away so that in years to come I can say “In America, we used to watch snapping turtles on a Sunday afternoon”. Even the complaining which precedes the trip has developed a comforting feeling of family ritual about it (they complain, but we know from experience that they'll have a good time). It was thus when we lived in Scotland (“why do we ALWAYS have to go to the beach or Tentsmiur?”) and I remember it from the week-ends of my own childhood too. But I couldn’t identify a zipper spider (also known as a writing spider) in those days.
I am very cautious about posting photos on the web, and I guard my family’s anonymity carefully, but I thought this one of our shadows on the water was safe enough.
And, getting brave now, I didn’t think back views could hurt. Here are 7-yo, 11-yo and Husband.
And here is 4-yo.
Friday, October 10, 2008
What's in a name? - Part II
Is anyone else amused by the fact that, with all this talk about the old enmity between Britain and Iceland during the cod wars, our current Ambassador to Iceland is called Ian Whiting? (He spells it Whitting, but he can’t fool us.) I think he needs to update the Embassy web page. His welcome statement reads
"I am delighted and privileged to serve as British Ambassador in Reykjavik.
The UK and Iceland enjoy excellent relations, with extensive links in every field of activity. I am looking forward to developing this partnership still further as we encounter the challenges and opportunities of an increasingly globalised world."
Let's hope he still feels delighted and privileged to be encountering those "challenges and opportunities" in what he so correctly identified when he wrote that statement as our "increasingly globalised world".
Another name that amuses me is Nastia Liukin’s. I mean, why didn't her parents stick with Anastasia, instead of shortening it to Nastia? Is she the middle child of a trio, Nasti, Nastia and Nastiest? Or is her older sister a famous beauty queen, and they chose Nastia so they could say “Our second daughter is Nastia Liukin, but liuks aren't everythin”. Or is Nastia a clever word play on GymNastia? So many questions.
My third name observation comes from seeing signs stuck in people’s front lawns with the names “Obama - Biden” on them. They look like this:
and yes, you do see quite a lot of them even here in red states heartland.
Does anyone else misread this as Osama Bin Laden, or is that just me? I mean, Obama is pretty darn close to Osama. Biden is three letters short of Bin Laden. If you take Bin Laden and remove those three letter from the middle, then as the French say, oop-la, or in this case n-la, you get Biden.
But then McCain is clearly all about pizza and oven chips, and Palin is too close to Pain for comfort, so there isn't a clear winner on the name ticket.
"I am delighted and privileged to serve as British Ambassador in Reykjavik.
The UK and Iceland enjoy excellent relations, with extensive links in every field of activity. I am looking forward to developing this partnership still further as we encounter the challenges and opportunities of an increasingly globalised world."
Let's hope he still feels delighted and privileged to be encountering those "challenges and opportunities" in what he so correctly identified when he wrote that statement as our "increasingly globalised world".
Another name that amuses me is Nastia Liukin’s. I mean, why didn't her parents stick with Anastasia, instead of shortening it to Nastia? Is she the middle child of a trio, Nasti, Nastia and Nastiest? Or is her older sister a famous beauty queen, and they chose Nastia so they could say “Our second daughter is Nastia Liukin, but liuks aren't everythin”. Or is Nastia a clever word play on GymNastia? So many questions.
My third name observation comes from seeing signs stuck in people’s front lawns with the names “Obama - Biden” on them. They look like this:
and yes, you do see quite a lot of them even here in red states heartland.
Does anyone else misread this as Osama Bin Laden, or is that just me? I mean, Obama is pretty darn close to Osama. Biden is three letters short of Bin Laden. If you take Bin Laden and remove those three letter from the middle, then as the French say, oop-la, or in this case n-la, you get Biden.
But then McCain is clearly all about pizza and oven chips, and Palin is too close to Pain for comfort, so there isn't a clear winner on the name ticket.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
What's in a name?
I really hesitated to write this post. The choice of names for children is such a sensitive subject among parents. But then when I thought of how much my English readers would enjoy it, I couldn't resist.
I met a mom with a small son whom she introduced as Camp. Short for Campbell, she explained. Ooooh noooo....
I met a mom with a small son whom she introduced as Camp. Short for Campbell, she explained. Ooooh noooo....
Friday, October 3, 2008
Falling tones
I've just seen an advertisement in Starbucks for their signature hot chocolates, and the caption reads
"Make fall seem a little more like autumn".
(I might not have got the wording exactly right, but near enough.)
Help me, o American readers, understand this. Does the word autumn have connotations for you that fall doesn't? Does autumn conjure up pictures of toasty fireplaces and cosy sofas, crumpets and melted butter, golden sunshine through orange leaves, ripe berries and dark chestnuts, frosty mornings dissolving into mellow afternoons (how am I doing here?) that fall doesn't?
Or do you think the British are a nation who sit around drinking luxury chocolate beverages all day long?
"Make fall seem a little more like autumn".
(I might not have got the wording exactly right, but near enough.)
Help me, o American readers, understand this. Does the word autumn have connotations for you that fall doesn't? Does autumn conjure up pictures of toasty fireplaces and cosy sofas, crumpets and melted butter, golden sunshine through orange leaves, ripe berries and dark chestnuts, frosty mornings dissolving into mellow afternoons (how am I doing here?) that fall doesn't?
Or do you think the British are a nation who sit around drinking luxury chocolate beverages all day long?
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Gone all political
Thus far I've avoided getting political on this blog, but this amused me. And before you start getting all upset in the comments box, yes, I know it's more complicated than that, and that we need to restore confidence, and that it's not all the bankers' fault. It just amused me, is all.
Click to enlarge, and feel free to copy.
Click to enlarge, and feel free to copy.
Words
Sorry, I’m going to write about accents again. You’ll think I’m obsessed.
We moved from the south of England to Scotland when our eldest was 3 years old. He retained his English accent, although it did soften round the edges. I remember the time he came home from school, aged 5, and said they’d been learning about volkeenaws. It took a minute for the penny to drop, and then I realized that he was talking about vol-cay-noes. Never having heard the word in an English accent, he didn’t know to anglicize his Scottish teacher’s pronounciation of it for my benefit. They were just volkeenaws.
The same thing happened here in the US last year around St Patrick’s Day. My second came home from Kindergarten with a picture of a man in a funny hat, and told me it was a leprechaahn. When I said “oh, a leprechaun, how lovely!”, he retorted “it’s not lepre-coooorn, Mum, it’s lepre-caaaahn.”
Now it’s happened again with my third. She has a dvd which she borrowed from a friend, and which she calls “The Princess and the Paahprrr”. She first heard and used the word at the friend’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to adjust her pronounciation, so in order to avoid confusion, I now just find myself talking about the princess and the paaahprrr too. It’s bad enough trying to explain what a paaahprrr is to a 4 year old, without having to remember how to pronounce it each time.
Today when she put the dvd on, we got off to a very complicated conversation when she asked me what a paaahprrr was (again…), and because I hadn’t seen what dvd she’d chosen and lacked the context, I started explaining how some kids call their parents Mommy and Daddy, but some kids call their parents Mama and Papa. She looked at me very blankly, and I eventually realized the confusion. It was quite a long conversational journey back from that to Barbie twirling round in her (suspiciously rather attractive and not at all ragged) pauper’s dress.
You will be able to tell from this story how very impoverished the conversation round the dinner table in our house is. Husband and I evidently never discussed volcanoes, leprechauns or paupers at all in front of our children in their crucial early formative years.
We moved from the south of England to Scotland when our eldest was 3 years old. He retained his English accent, although it did soften round the edges. I remember the time he came home from school, aged 5, and said they’d been learning about volkeenaws. It took a minute for the penny to drop, and then I realized that he was talking about vol-cay-noes. Never having heard the word in an English accent, he didn’t know to anglicize his Scottish teacher’s pronounciation of it for my benefit. They were just volkeenaws.
The same thing happened here in the US last year around St Patrick’s Day. My second came home from Kindergarten with a picture of a man in a funny hat, and told me it was a leprechaahn. When I said “oh, a leprechaun, how lovely!”, he retorted “it’s not lepre-coooorn, Mum, it’s lepre-caaaahn.”
Now it’s happened again with my third. She has a dvd which she borrowed from a friend, and which she calls “The Princess and the Paahprrr”. She first heard and used the word at the friend’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to adjust her pronounciation, so in order to avoid confusion, I now just find myself talking about the princess and the paaahprrr too. It’s bad enough trying to explain what a paaahprrr is to a 4 year old, without having to remember how to pronounce it each time.
Today when she put the dvd on, we got off to a very complicated conversation when she asked me what a paaahprrr was (again…), and because I hadn’t seen what dvd she’d chosen and lacked the context, I started explaining how some kids call their parents Mommy and Daddy, but some kids call their parents Mama and Papa. She looked at me very blankly, and I eventually realized the confusion. It was quite a long conversational journey back from that to Barbie twirling round in her (suspiciously rather attractive and not at all ragged) pauper’s dress.
You will be able to tell from this story how very impoverished the conversation round the dinner table in our house is. Husband and I evidently never discussed volcanoes, leprechauns or paupers at all in front of our children in their crucial early formative years.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Recycling: Part II
When you move abroad, you find out new things about yourself. Lots of it is good, to do with the way you rose to the challenge, aspects that you enjoyed more than you anticipated, inner strengths you didn’t know you had. Feel good in retrospect stuff. But you also find out things about yourself that aren’t so nice. These are the dirty little secrets that don’t make it onto the expat websites. For example, you may be rather relieved if you’re honest, to find out from other people’s experience that your kids will lose their American accents when you return home, in spite of your assertion that preferring one accent over another is a form of racism. Or how about the fact that you never thought of yourself as materialistic, but it’s pretty nice, when it comes down to it, to live in a house double the size of the one you left in Britain.
Here is another one. I am not as green as I’d like to think I am. In Britain, I recycled carefully, I didn’t waste things, especially food, we used buses, only owned one car, a diesel, I minded about the future of the planet. Or so I thought. Here, we have two cars (which in our defence, is a necessity, given the almost non-existent bus service). I can salve my conscience by looking at the guzzling SUVs, and think “well, at least my minivan does around 20 to the gallon to your 15”. I try not to waste things, but it is harder, and I do less well. I do recycle, but it took us a while to get round to it, and I’m more lax about it. I have genuine questions as to the value of recycling – in a country where space is so vast, I do wonder if landfill is not a bad option, set against the energy required to recycle (and the comments on my previous post have done nothing to reassure me). It’s not these questions that make me lax though. It’s the conscience-salving that says I might not be doing it perfectly, but at least I’m doing it more than most people.
I can make all kinds of excuses, and have all kinds of logical reservations, but at the bottom level I know this to be true: I cared more for the environment when I loved it more. I know we’re talking global warming and consequences that will affect us all, worldwide. I know that being green is about safeguarding the planet and not about pretty green English lanes and how early in the year daffodils flower these days, and what is causing the decline in the number of sparrows, but there we are, I’m just airing my dirty washing in public and being honest. I may be a citizen of the world, but I am hugely influenced by my local situation.
There’s another element, of course. It’s not all to do with the English countryside. I tried to be green in the UK because everyone else is trying to be green. Sometimes it’s by reason of moral choice and sometimes it’s with financial or other incentive, but it is fairly unavoidable. Being a good citizen is increasingly bound up with being a green citizen.
I don’t share Margaret Thatcher’s view that there’s no such thing as society. There clearly is. We are hugely influenced by those among whom we live. This can be for evil – history shows that the majority of us can turn into the people who spy on our neighbors and colleagues, report them to authorities, turn on them, or turn a blind eye. I think it is often ignored, though, that society is a force for good too. We are all better people for rubbing along beside others who, in all kinds of ways, bring out the best in us. It is easier to behave well if the prevailing wind is carrying you along.
Here is another one. I am not as green as I’d like to think I am. In Britain, I recycled carefully, I didn’t waste things, especially food, we used buses, only owned one car, a diesel, I minded about the future of the planet. Or so I thought. Here, we have two cars (which in our defence, is a necessity, given the almost non-existent bus service). I can salve my conscience by looking at the guzzling SUVs, and think “well, at least my minivan does around 20 to the gallon to your 15”. I try not to waste things, but it is harder, and I do less well. I do recycle, but it took us a while to get round to it, and I’m more lax about it. I have genuine questions as to the value of recycling – in a country where space is so vast, I do wonder if landfill is not a bad option, set against the energy required to recycle (and the comments on my previous post have done nothing to reassure me). It’s not these questions that make me lax though. It’s the conscience-salving that says I might not be doing it perfectly, but at least I’m doing it more than most people.
I can make all kinds of excuses, and have all kinds of logical reservations, but at the bottom level I know this to be true: I cared more for the environment when I loved it more. I know we’re talking global warming and consequences that will affect us all, worldwide. I know that being green is about safeguarding the planet and not about pretty green English lanes and how early in the year daffodils flower these days, and what is causing the decline in the number of sparrows, but there we are, I’m just airing my dirty washing in public and being honest. I may be a citizen of the world, but I am hugely influenced by my local situation.
There’s another element, of course. It’s not all to do with the English countryside. I tried to be green in the UK because everyone else is trying to be green. Sometimes it’s by reason of moral choice and sometimes it’s with financial or other incentive, but it is fairly unavoidable. Being a good citizen is increasingly bound up with being a green citizen.
I don’t share Margaret Thatcher’s view that there’s no such thing as society. There clearly is. We are hugely influenced by those among whom we live. This can be for evil – history shows that the majority of us can turn into the people who spy on our neighbors and colleagues, report them to authorities, turn on them, or turn a blind eye. I think it is often ignored, though, that society is a force for good too. We are all better people for rubbing along beside others who, in all kinds of ways, bring out the best in us. It is easier to behave well if the prevailing wind is carrying you along.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Recycling
Pig in the Kitchen has burst my baggie bubble, by asking if I feel guilty about where these little plastic darlings end up, in all their non-biodegradability shame. She has a point. I have been meaning to write about recycling for ages, so I thought this would be a good moment.
When we first moved here, I was rather horrified at the lack of environmental concern. It has become such a way of life in Britain. Here, recycling is a minority interest. If pressed, most people would agree that it is a Good Thing (difficult to argue the opposite), but few people actually do anything about it. It’s not that easy to do anything about it. You would have to look very hard to find a recycling bin in a car park; in fact, I’m not sure I can think of any at all. At first we paid a supplement to our trash collection service, and once a fortnight they would collect our recycling. We gave that up for three reasons. First, I don’t like paying for recycling if I don’t have to. Second, we had to put it out sorted into four supermarket carrier bags (newspapers, glossy magazines, cans, glass) in an open box, and on more than one occasion I found the wind had taken the lightweight plastic box halfway down the street. I imagined the newspapers and magazines had gone the same way. It’s very windy round here, and open trash boxes are not the way forward. Third, having witnessed the collection of the sorted items, dumped together into the back of a lorry inside their plastic bags, I did doubt that it ended up anywhere other than a landfill site. Maybe I just saw them on a bad day, but I didn’t feel I wanted to continue paying for the service.
We now collect all our recycling in our garage, and once every now and again, load it into the minivan and take it to a recycling center. It’s an intriguing experience. The place is staffed by volunteers, whose average age must be in the 70s. How shaming that the lead is being taken by the older generation who have little personal stake in all this. One old lady sorts and assists, going from bin to bin slowly and painfully with her zimmer frame. You have to dump your recycling items into the appropriate bin, so it is quite a task, sorting out the different plastics and papers. They recycle everything in great detail – even the lids of milk containers. There is often a line of cars if you go on a Saturday, so a round trip can easily take an hour. Our kids quite enjoy sorting and dumping, so we sell it to them as a fun trip, but I suppose you have to be fairly committed to recycling to be bothered.
On the depressing side, this recycling center, though very admirable, is small. There is space for no more than a dozen cars to park and unload at one time. The bins are not much larger than the kind of bin you see in every supermarket car park in the UK. It serves a city of over 300,000. Does that tell you how much recycling activity there is here? On the optimistic side, I do believe that there is more awareness and activity now than when we arrived, less than 2 years ago. The school has set up a working group, the preschool collects plastic bags to recycle, Dillons has a bin at the entrance for Dillons bags. It’s not high on most people’s agenda, but the beginnings are there.
So Pig, to answer your question. No, I didn’t feel guilty about baggies, but I do (a bit) now. In my defence, I don’t use THAT many (how much Playmobil do you think I have?), and in the kitchen, is it any better to use cling film? You have made me stop and think, though, you and the commenters who wash and reuse their baggies. I have never been a washer and reuser of baggies, but henceforth I undertake to be so. There you are, lovely Bloggy Friends. You are slowly changing the world through your blogging. As for you, Pig, don’t tell me you weren’t very grateful for plastic bags on this occasion (make sure you read the 'Addendum'). And none of us would blame you at all for not recycling those ones...
.
When we first moved here, I was rather horrified at the lack of environmental concern. It has become such a way of life in Britain. Here, recycling is a minority interest. If pressed, most people would agree that it is a Good Thing (difficult to argue the opposite), but few people actually do anything about it. It’s not that easy to do anything about it. You would have to look very hard to find a recycling bin in a car park; in fact, I’m not sure I can think of any at all. At first we paid a supplement to our trash collection service, and once a fortnight they would collect our recycling. We gave that up for three reasons. First, I don’t like paying for recycling if I don’t have to. Second, we had to put it out sorted into four supermarket carrier bags (newspapers, glossy magazines, cans, glass) in an open box, and on more than one occasion I found the wind had taken the lightweight plastic box halfway down the street. I imagined the newspapers and magazines had gone the same way. It’s very windy round here, and open trash boxes are not the way forward. Third, having witnessed the collection of the sorted items, dumped together into the back of a lorry inside their plastic bags, I did doubt that it ended up anywhere other than a landfill site. Maybe I just saw them on a bad day, but I didn’t feel I wanted to continue paying for the service.
We now collect all our recycling in our garage, and once every now and again, load it into the minivan and take it to a recycling center. It’s an intriguing experience. The place is staffed by volunteers, whose average age must be in the 70s. How shaming that the lead is being taken by the older generation who have little personal stake in all this. One old lady sorts and assists, going from bin to bin slowly and painfully with her zimmer frame. You have to dump your recycling items into the appropriate bin, so it is quite a task, sorting out the different plastics and papers. They recycle everything in great detail – even the lids of milk containers. There is often a line of cars if you go on a Saturday, so a round trip can easily take an hour. Our kids quite enjoy sorting and dumping, so we sell it to them as a fun trip, but I suppose you have to be fairly committed to recycling to be bothered.
On the depressing side, this recycling center, though very admirable, is small. There is space for no more than a dozen cars to park and unload at one time. The bins are not much larger than the kind of bin you see in every supermarket car park in the UK. It serves a city of over 300,000. Does that tell you how much recycling activity there is here? On the optimistic side, I do believe that there is more awareness and activity now than when we arrived, less than 2 years ago. The school has set up a working group, the preschool collects plastic bags to recycle, Dillons has a bin at the entrance for Dillons bags. It’s not high on most people’s agenda, but the beginnings are there.
So Pig, to answer your question. No, I didn’t feel guilty about baggies, but I do (a bit) now. In my defence, I don’t use THAT many (how much Playmobil do you think I have?), and in the kitchen, is it any better to use cling film? You have made me stop and think, though, you and the commenters who wash and reuse their baggies. I have never been a washer and reuser of baggies, but henceforth I undertake to be so. There you are, lovely Bloggy Friends. You are slowly changing the world through your blogging. As for you, Pig, don’t tell me you weren’t very grateful for plastic bags on this occasion (make sure you read the 'Addendum'). And none of us would blame you at all for not recycling those ones...
.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Bags
Bags. Seems an obvious one to follow ‘Tea’. But here I’m talking about Ziploc bags. One of the three defining features of American domestic life: motherhood, apple pie and Ziploc bags.
When we lived in Scotland, I had been intrigued by the frequency with which Ziploc bags came into play when in the company of the American women I knew. I suppose, looking back, it was because when I saw them, it was often at group social gatherings which involved food. And where there is food, there must be Ziploc bags.
If you have them on your shopping list, you must add a good few minutes to your anticipated shopping time. The choice is bewildering. There is the basic kind, with the strip at the top that you pinch closed. Then there is the advanced kind, with a slider that you whizz across. If you want to go really up-market, you can get ones with a double strip, ones that are super-thick, ones that have a white space on them to write on, ones that are specially designed for the freezer, ones that do your ironing and read your children stories. Each type comes in a range of sizes (would you have a clue how big a bag holds a gallon? or a quart? I didn’t), and then each type and size comes in a choice of brands: Ziploc, Glad and the supermarket own brand. I like the idea of buying Glad bags. I could put my glad rags in my Glad bags. So what with choice of type, choice of size and choice of brand, I’m just grateful I learned how to do Venn diagrams at school, otherwise I wouldn’t have any chance of making a decision.
The other thing I’ve learned about Ziploc bags is that they are invaluable for things way beyond the realm of food. Playmobil bits (aaargh!), Barbie’s endless little plastic accessories and the minute scraps of material that she calls fashion-wear, half-used wax crayons that have lost their box, small pieces of games where the manufacturer didn't bother to think about how you would keep the darn thing together once you'd taken off the shrink-wrap (I offer you the monkeys in Monkey Business, or the balls in Hungry Hippos as examples), a pine cone collection, a special stones collection, 5 toothbrushes on an aeroplane, foreign coins, glow-in-the-dark stars that don't stick well on the wall but can't possibly be thrown away, errant playdough… what did I used to do with these things?
I was standing in a friend’s kitchen in England over the summer, and as she got out the cling film, I started talking to her about my conversion to Ziploc bags and how I now use them for everything. “Well,” she said, “I’m pleased to hear about it. It would be a shame if you invested years of your life settling in a foreign country, and found there was no cultural interchange at all.” Ah, those widened horizons.
Oh, and they call them ‘baggies’. I love that.
.
When we lived in Scotland, I had been intrigued by the frequency with which Ziploc bags came into play when in the company of the American women I knew. I suppose, looking back, it was because when I saw them, it was often at group social gatherings which involved food. And where there is food, there must be Ziploc bags.
If you have them on your shopping list, you must add a good few minutes to your anticipated shopping time. The choice is bewildering. There is the basic kind, with the strip at the top that you pinch closed. Then there is the advanced kind, with a slider that you whizz across. If you want to go really up-market, you can get ones with a double strip, ones that are super-thick, ones that have a white space on them to write on, ones that are specially designed for the freezer, ones that do your ironing and read your children stories. Each type comes in a range of sizes (would you have a clue how big a bag holds a gallon? or a quart? I didn’t), and then each type and size comes in a choice of brands: Ziploc, Glad and the supermarket own brand. I like the idea of buying Glad bags. I could put my glad rags in my Glad bags. So what with choice of type, choice of size and choice of brand, I’m just grateful I learned how to do Venn diagrams at school, otherwise I wouldn’t have any chance of making a decision.
The other thing I’ve learned about Ziploc bags is that they are invaluable for things way beyond the realm of food. Playmobil bits (aaargh!), Barbie’s endless little plastic accessories and the minute scraps of material that she calls fashion-wear, half-used wax crayons that have lost their box, small pieces of games where the manufacturer didn't bother to think about how you would keep the darn thing together once you'd taken off the shrink-wrap (I offer you the monkeys in Monkey Business, or the balls in Hungry Hippos as examples), a pine cone collection, a special stones collection, 5 toothbrushes on an aeroplane, foreign coins, glow-in-the-dark stars that don't stick well on the wall but can't possibly be thrown away, errant playdough… what did I used to do with these things?
I was standing in a friend’s kitchen in England over the summer, and as she got out the cling film, I started talking to her about my conversion to Ziploc bags and how I now use them for everything. “Well,” she said, “I’m pleased to hear about it. It would be a shame if you invested years of your life settling in a foreign country, and found there was no cultural interchange at all.” Ah, those widened horizons.
Oh, and they call them ‘baggies’. I love that.
.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Tea
Good news, People!
Wal-Mart sells PG tips. Not cheap, I grant you: $6.77 for 80, but a significant step in the progress of the teaification of the area.
When we first came here, you could get PG tips and other brands of tea at a marvellous store called World Market, but I never saw them anywhere else. Then, our local Dillons created a small section of foods from overseas countries, and the British aisle contains PG tips, Tetleys, and a choice of ordinary or decaf. (There are probably people here who assume I'm talking about Dillons when I talk about the British Aisles. They should know better, though. There's only one aisle, and I would never wantonly misuse a plural like that.) And now Wal-Mart has PG Tips in the regular, everyday, common or garden tea and coffee section. They'll be delivering them with the mail next.
I wonder if I could plot a map, something like those moving radar maps they have on the weather forecast. We would probably still be in an area of light brown low density tea availability, but the dark brown area of high tea availability could be shown moving slowly in from the east. I could explain that this followed the high pressure consumer interest which has been mounting slowly. I would put symbols on the map to clarify: little cups on saucers, with drips falling into them - a bit like inverted clouds.
In this election season, I like to see the teaification of the area as a sign of hope for America.
Wal-Mart sells PG tips. Not cheap, I grant you: $6.77 for 80, but a significant step in the progress of the teaification of the area.
When we first came here, you could get PG tips and other brands of tea at a marvellous store called World Market, but I never saw them anywhere else. Then, our local Dillons created a small section of foods from overseas countries, and the British aisle contains PG tips, Tetleys, and a choice of ordinary or decaf. (There are probably people here who assume I'm talking about Dillons when I talk about the British Aisles. They should know better, though. There's only one aisle, and I would never wantonly misuse a plural like that.) And now Wal-Mart has PG Tips in the regular, everyday, common or garden tea and coffee section. They'll be delivering them with the mail next.
I wonder if I could plot a map, something like those moving radar maps they have on the weather forecast. We would probably still be in an area of light brown low density tea availability, but the dark brown area of high tea availability could be shown moving slowly in from the east. I could explain that this followed the high pressure consumer interest which has been mounting slowly. I would put symbols on the map to clarify: little cups on saucers, with drips falling into them - a bit like inverted clouds.
In this election season, I like to see the teaification of the area as a sign of hope for America.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
What to Say, What Not to Say
People often say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. I have a question you might be able to help me with.” Actually they don’t. No-one has ever said that to me. Ever. I wish they would. It would add some kind of meaning and value to the experience, and make me feel affirmed and reconstructed. What they do say is “I love your accent”. That doesn’t add meaning and make me feel reconstructed. It makes me feel like I’ve got an English accent.
Let me start again. I wish people would say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. A friend of mine tells me her husband has just got a job in some far-flung place in America which no-one has ever heard of, and they’re leaving in a few months time. What should I say to her?” I would reply “I’m glad you asked me that. Yes, you’re right. I do indeed know a thing or two about what someone in that situation would like to hear. In fact, right here I have a copy of a list I prepared on just this very topic, since people are always asking me this type of question.” I would click my fingers, and my assistant would bring it through from the outer office. Either that, or I’d fidget about on my computer, puzzle over why the darn thing wasn’t working, remember to turn the printer on, sweep aside the Barbie colouring pictures that I’d printed out earlier that morning from the internet, and print it out myself, since actually I was lying about the assistant and the outer office.
Things Not to Say
• Don’t immediately say “how long are you going for?” If you want to know, slip that one in further along in the conversation. Just don’t make it your first question. Doesn’t focus on the positives enough.
• Don’t sing. If she’s going to Oklahoma, don’t burst into song about the wind coming sweepin’ down the plain. If she’s going to Texas, don’t start up about the way to Amarillo. If she’s going to San Francisco, don’t warble about flowers in her hair. You will not be the first. I guarantee you will not be the first. She will not find it funny (though may be polite enough to smile instead of decking you).
• Don’t express an opinion about the children’s education. In particular, don’t help her to calculate how many years it is before she needs to be back for the start of GCSE curricula. She will already have done this. She does not need your help. Don’t ask “what are the schools like?”. America is a big place. She will be hoping there might be one or two good schools out there.
• Don’t talk about the children’s accents. Not unless you want to damn yourself as unoriginal in the extreme.
• Don’t use the words ‘cope’ and ‘children’ in the same sentence. Team up the word ‘children’ with words such as ‘flourish’, ‘enrich’ and ‘widen horizons’.
• Don’t point out she’ll be Mom instead of Mum. It’s a conversation stopper.
• Don’t ask about hurricanes, tornadoes or other natural disasters. Best not.
Things to Say
• Wow, that’s exciting. What an opportunity!
• Good for you. Is there anything I can do to help?
• You probably won’t ever want to come back (and try not to look as if you both know this is a fib - it’s a useful one at this point in the proceedings).
• Americans are very friendly and welcoming.
• They’ll love you over there. They love the English. (If you really really have to talk about accents, you can do it at this point.)
• I’ve noticed, when you read the little biographical notes in book jackets about people who have had really interesting lives and done really interesting things, it often says that they grew up in more than one place. I’ve noticed that loads of times. It must add something to a childhood.
I was lying about the assistant and the outer office, but believe me when I tell you this last one is worth tucking into your memory for future use. I think it is the best thing that anyone said to me about our move. You’ll have to remember it, though, because I won’t necessarily be around when you want to ask me. Even if I am, you’ll have to get past the assistant, and she’ll just tell you to join the end of the long line snaking its way out of the outer office and down the corridor.
Let me start again. I wish people would say to me “Iota, you know a thing or two about moving abroad. A friend of mine tells me her husband has just got a job in some far-flung place in America which no-one has ever heard of, and they’re leaving in a few months time. What should I say to her?” I would reply “I’m glad you asked me that. Yes, you’re right. I do indeed know a thing or two about what someone in that situation would like to hear. In fact, right here I have a copy of a list I prepared on just this very topic, since people are always asking me this type of question.” I would click my fingers, and my assistant would bring it through from the outer office. Either that, or I’d fidget about on my computer, puzzle over why the darn thing wasn’t working, remember to turn the printer on, sweep aside the Barbie colouring pictures that I’d printed out earlier that morning from the internet, and print it out myself, since actually I was lying about the assistant and the outer office.
Things Not to Say
• Don’t immediately say “how long are you going for?” If you want to know, slip that one in further along in the conversation. Just don’t make it your first question. Doesn’t focus on the positives enough.
• Don’t sing. If she’s going to Oklahoma, don’t burst into song about the wind coming sweepin’ down the plain. If she’s going to Texas, don’t start up about the way to Amarillo. If she’s going to San Francisco, don’t warble about flowers in her hair. You will not be the first. I guarantee you will not be the first. She will not find it funny (though may be polite enough to smile instead of decking you).
• Don’t express an opinion about the children’s education. In particular, don’t help her to calculate how many years it is before she needs to be back for the start of GCSE curricula. She will already have done this. She does not need your help. Don’t ask “what are the schools like?”. America is a big place. She will be hoping there might be one or two good schools out there.
• Don’t talk about the children’s accents. Not unless you want to damn yourself as unoriginal in the extreme.
• Don’t use the words ‘cope’ and ‘children’ in the same sentence. Team up the word ‘children’ with words such as ‘flourish’, ‘enrich’ and ‘widen horizons’.
• Don’t point out she’ll be Mom instead of Mum. It’s a conversation stopper.
• Don’t ask about hurricanes, tornadoes or other natural disasters. Best not.
Things to Say
• Wow, that’s exciting. What an opportunity!
• Good for you. Is there anything I can do to help?
• You probably won’t ever want to come back (and try not to look as if you both know this is a fib - it’s a useful one at this point in the proceedings).
• Americans are very friendly and welcoming.
• They’ll love you over there. They love the English. (If you really really have to talk about accents, you can do it at this point.)
• I’ve noticed, when you read the little biographical notes in book jackets about people who have had really interesting lives and done really interesting things, it often says that they grew up in more than one place. I’ve noticed that loads of times. It must add something to a childhood.
I was lying about the assistant and the outer office, but believe me when I tell you this last one is worth tucking into your memory for future use. I think it is the best thing that anyone said to me about our move. You’ll have to remember it, though, because I won’t necessarily be around when you want to ask me. Even if I am, you’ll have to get past the assistant, and she’ll just tell you to join the end of the long line snaking its way out of the outer office and down the corridor.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sidewalk chalks
Sidewahk chahks. One of the staples of American childhood, and I don’t think we have them at all in Britain. Perhaps we do, and I just never came across them. I wish I had done – they’re a very useful arrow in the mother’s quiver of outdoor toys for small children. Happy hours are spent doodling on the steps, the path or the patio, and then when the rain comes, it’s all washed clean and you can start all over again.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Making the grade
Back to school again. All well in general. We now have a preschooler, an elementary schooler and a middle schooler. Middle school is a bit of a step up: classes in different rooms with different teachers, changing for PE, having a locker, and no recess. 11-yo is horrified by the thought of having no time off during the day, and only half an hour for lunch, and I have to say, I do rather agree with him. How can you expect kids to function well from 8.00am to 3.00pm with only half an hour off? They do have PE, and “electives” which are less academic and more fun (though not the ping-pong that I’d been told would be on offer, and which I’d held out as a recess-alternative bone to 11-yo all through the summer). Useful training, I suppose, should any of them end up perchance living in a society where a long-hours work culture prevails.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A shot in the dark
Bloggy Friends, you’ve always helped me out (except for Victoria Beckham’s phone number, but that was a tough one, I grant you), so can I ask you to come to my aid again? Two things.
First, I want to set up that clever system whereby whenever one of you writes one of your fabulously witty and interesting posts, I am notified. I think there are various sites on which I can do this, so just tell me the best one (for ‘best’, read ‘simplest’).
Second, and this is a bit more of a challenge, help me out with cross-Atlantic immunization issues (and I’m not just talking about the spelling). The story so far: 4-yo had all her infant jabs. She is due her pre-school boosters. Immunization schedules are different in the US and UK. The whole DTP bundle is given five times in the US to a child by the time it reaches school age, to the UK’s four. Is this cost-cutting by the NHS, or cynical cashing in by US drug companies? Or neither? I have no way of knowing. Are they different products or different doses, and will it matter? Trawling the internet hasn’t yielded an answer.
Immunizations are compulsory here, so in order to attend preschool, 4-yo had to have a letter from her doctor saying that there were medical reasons for her not to be immunized. (Odd, isn’t it, that in a nation that holds so dear the principle of personal freedom, people are quite happy to be compelled to have their children immunized – can you imagine the outcry there would be in Britain?) I told 4-yo’s doctor that she could have her pre-school booster when we were on holiday in Scotland, sticking to the UK schedule. Keep things simple. I have now had to tell him that the GP in Scotland said it was too complicated to give her the shot because she was no longer registered with him, he didn’t have her records, and it meant he would have to register her as a temporary resident, which took two weeks. At this point, I warmed greatly to my doctor here, when he said “but that’s the kind of thing we say in this country”. I love it when I come across an American who can laugh at America. Anyway, he now wants a bit more information on what exactly 4-yo was injected with, as an infant, and so I am charged with phoning my very nice and long-suffering health visitor and getting the information from her (without either of us saying “wouldn’t it just have been easier if Dr X had agreed to do the job when you were over?”).
Option A: postpone the whole issue, assume 4-yo isn’t going to be exposed to polio, diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus (especially given that every other child has been immunized), get my nice doctor here to write the medical exemption note for preschool, and have another try at sorting it all out when we are next in Britain.
Option B: get her to have the American booster, and trust to luck that it won’t do her any harm, but actually after the conversation with the doctor, I’m already committed to
Option C: get information from the health visitor in Scotland (which may well not help anyway).
Option D: an immunologist, who enjoys blogging in his/her spare time, happens to read this post, and is able to tell me authoritatively what to do. That would be nice. De-lurk, kind passing immunologist.
They’re shots in America, jabs in England, jags in Scotland. Shots, jabs, jags, whatever. They’re a pain in the behind.
First, I want to set up that clever system whereby whenever one of you writes one of your fabulously witty and interesting posts, I am notified. I think there are various sites on which I can do this, so just tell me the best one (for ‘best’, read ‘simplest’).
Second, and this is a bit more of a challenge, help me out with cross-Atlantic immunization issues (and I’m not just talking about the spelling). The story so far: 4-yo had all her infant jabs. She is due her pre-school boosters. Immunization schedules are different in the US and UK. The whole DTP bundle is given five times in the US to a child by the time it reaches school age, to the UK’s four. Is this cost-cutting by the NHS, or cynical cashing in by US drug companies? Or neither? I have no way of knowing. Are they different products or different doses, and will it matter? Trawling the internet hasn’t yielded an answer.
Immunizations are compulsory here, so in order to attend preschool, 4-yo had to have a letter from her doctor saying that there were medical reasons for her not to be immunized. (Odd, isn’t it, that in a nation that holds so dear the principle of personal freedom, people are quite happy to be compelled to have their children immunized – can you imagine the outcry there would be in Britain?) I told 4-yo’s doctor that she could have her pre-school booster when we were on holiday in Scotland, sticking to the UK schedule. Keep things simple. I have now had to tell him that the GP in Scotland said it was too complicated to give her the shot because she was no longer registered with him, he didn’t have her records, and it meant he would have to register her as a temporary resident, which took two weeks. At this point, I warmed greatly to my doctor here, when he said “but that’s the kind of thing we say in this country”. I love it when I come across an American who can laugh at America. Anyway, he now wants a bit more information on what exactly 4-yo was injected with, as an infant, and so I am charged with phoning my very nice and long-suffering health visitor and getting the information from her (without either of us saying “wouldn’t it just have been easier if Dr X had agreed to do the job when you were over?”).
Option A: postpone the whole issue, assume 4-yo isn’t going to be exposed to polio, diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus (especially given that every other child has been immunized), get my nice doctor here to write the medical exemption note for preschool, and have another try at sorting it all out when we are next in Britain.
Option B: get her to have the American booster, and trust to luck that it won’t do her any harm, but actually after the conversation with the doctor, I’m already committed to
Option C: get information from the health visitor in Scotland (which may well not help anyway).
Option D: an immunologist, who enjoys blogging in his/her spare time, happens to read this post, and is able to tell me authoritatively what to do. That would be nice. De-lurk, kind passing immunologist.
They’re shots in America, jabs in England, jags in Scotland. Shots, jabs, jags, whatever. They’re a pain in the behind.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Home again, home again, jiggety jig
We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Different things
Over the past few days, I have been collecting a list of things that will be different about life when we’re in Britain. They are pretty random, so I will just spew them out, although I have made at least a little attempt at organizing them. They are in three categories. Three categories – come on, that’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not the kind of intelligent analysis that would get me to be where someone like Matt Frei is, but three categories is three categories. Don’t knock it.
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Blog anniversary
Most bloggers do some kind of special post on their blogiversary. Mine will be 21st May, but sadly I won’t be able to post, since I’ll be in England and internet accessless (unless I am hunched over the computer in the local public library, which I guess is not beyond the bounds of possibility). It won’t be a tidy 100 posts (that would be clever), but I’m getting on that way – this is my 83rd.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
Friday, May 9, 2008
An accent post
Now, here’s a “Not wrong, just different” classic. I think you may have to dig deep on this one. We all like to think we’re liberal-minded, open to cultural variation, happy to embrace difference. Have you ever thought about accents, though?
When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.
I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.
Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).
I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.
When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.
I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.
Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).
I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Foolish words
A couple of weeks ago (a fortnight, one might even say), I had to take 7-yo to the doctor for something fairly routine. In the bit of small talk that one has time for during a doctor's appointment here (shock, horror), I mentioned to the doctor that we'd had a really healthy winter season. The kids had been well, Husband and I had been well, not much in the way of bugs, coughs and colds. Oooooh noooo, I hear you wail. Yes, indeed it was foolish talk.
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
A week later, I have three sick kids, and a head cold. I am debating with myself why I am posting this, and I think it is for some e-sympathy. I have a superstitious sense, too, that if I repent of my foolhardy words in a public forum, perhaps Providence will relent, and everyone will be well again in 9 days time, so that we don't have to ferry poorly children across the Atlantic. Not fun.
There's something that is complicated about going to the doctor here, as well as understanding the insurance system (which I don't think anyone does, actually). It's the vocabulary. A surgery is something you have, not something you visit. Sick means ill, vomiting means sick. Fever means high temperature. I don't think they use the word poorly at all. Not even poorly. And it seems that 7-yo has walking pneumonia, which I just wish could be called a chest infection. I assume that is what it is, but doesn't "walking pneumonia" sound much worse? What they used to call the old man's friend, on legs. If we had to have walking pneumonia around the place, I would rather it was something in the back yard, alongside the creeping jenny and the climbing wisteria. But at least if it's walking pneumonia, it will respond to the antibiotics and not be mono (which was mentioned), which is glandular fever, and not nice in either language.
Today's turn at the doctor's office is 4-yo's, who I suspect has an ear infection. Usual symptoms, plus half a dozen large red circular marks on her arms and abdomen, including one perfectly centred over her tummy button. These may confuse the doctor, although if he looks carefully, he will see Barbie's face, and conclude, rightly, that a Barbie stamper with rather permanent ink has been in use. At least I hope he doesn't want to investigate further, as I'm sure the ailment isn't covered by insurance and it could be hugely expensive. Either that, or she will be hailed as some kind of miracle child in the religion that Barbie has become, and we'll have to set up a pink shrine on our front porch to accommodate worshippers, once word is out.
I've come a long way though. The first time I went to the doctor, early on in our time here, the receptionist told me brightly "there's a $20 co-pay today", and not having a clue what that was but assuming from her tone of voice that it was some kind of jolly little extra I could opt for, I replied equally brightly "oh, um, no thanks".
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