More than just a Mother has invited us all to share our mothering humiliations. Funny thing, blogging. Imagine wanting to hang out with people who give out those kind of invitations, instead of the “drinks and nibbles” variety.
I loved her own story so much, that I feel inspired to join her in the ranks of the humiliated. (Her story tells how her pants were displayed to pewloads of church-goers, when each arm was occupied with a small twin, leaving no way of re-hoisting her trousers, except by using her teeth in some challenging yoga pose, or by asking the person in the pew behind – she doesn’t tell how the story ended, so I’ve just had to use my imagination. Perhaps, since it was in church, a miracle occurred, and the trousers hoisted themselves.)
I am cheating a little, however. This story isn’t proper humiliation, not abject squirming humiliation, because it takes place in the seclusion of my own home and with no audience. You definitely have to have an audience for proper humiliation. The trouble is, as I searched my memory for humiliation stories, of which I know there have been many over the past 12 years, I realized that Mother Nature not only plays a sneaky trick whereby you forget the realities of childbirth, but She also extends it to the realities of embarrassing moments. I suppose it’s rather merciful. So I offer you not cringing, muscle-clenching, eye-closing humiliation, but it wasn't exactly my proudest hour either.
The scene is set in our bathroom, and I’m emerging from the shower. My son, aged about 4 or 5, says
“Mummy, you know boobies?”
“Yes, I know boobies,” I reply.
“Are they meant to stick out” he asks, gesturing with small hands in front of his chest, “or sort of… sort of… hang down?” he finishes, searching for the right words, and gesturing towards my chest this time.
If any of you are ever asked this question, since I’ve had time to reflect on a good answer, here is my suggestion.
“They’re meant to hang down, but it takes some years before they reach perfection. Unfortunately, when you’re a young woman, you have to live with your sticky-outy boobies, and there’s really nothing you can do. Pert boobies are the scourge of young womanhood. You just have to resign yourself to being patient until enough years have passed for them to droop properly. It’s such a relief when they do. The lower the better.”
At the time, instead I talked about people coming in all shapes and sizes, and knew that the beautiful innocence that allowed the question to be asked, only exists in people of a very small shape and size.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Identity crisis
I’m typing this with 4-yo sitting on my lap. She has just stapled round the perimeter of a piece of paper, very prettily, and is now copying out words that I am writing for her. She turns 5 tomorrow, and we’ve just had a conversation about the fact that this is her fifth birthday. It needed clarifying, because we’d had a conversation earlier about how she is kind of having 2 birthdays, what with taking cookies into preschool on the ACTUAL day, but having her party on the NEXT day, because it’s a Saturday, and I could see that her mind was heading down a path that involved having 5 birthdays all in a row, so that her fifth birthday would be next Tuesday, with continuous celebration till then.
So why am I telling you this? I’ll confess. I’m feeling the need to reassert my mummy blogger credentials. For those of you outside the Members’ Enclosure that is the mummy blogging world, let me tell you that there’s a quiet but busy revolution going on among British mummy bloggers. Look at the pretty new button on my sidebar (or, until I've managed to upload it, click here). There have been mummies blogging in Britain for ages, of course, but the creative Modern Mother has set up a ning (which is a new one on me, and may be what the Monty Python Knights who say 'ni' were trying to say), which has got everyone more organised. It's a happening kind of a place. I say “Members’ Enclosure”, but that’s not a fair comparison, because the British Mummy Bloggers isn’t an exclusive site. Anyone can join. Even Dads. Ah. Dads. I wish I hadn’t started on that “Members’ Enclosure” analogy.
What about me, though? Am I a mummy blogger? The original purpose and identity of this blog was to write about my experiences of adjusting to life in America, so no. I’m an expat blogger. But inevitably much, most, of my experience has been related to being a mum. So with that, I’m a mummy blogger. I love reading other mummy blogs. I love hearing about the antics of your kids, sharing your joys and woes, puzzling over your requests for advice, laughing at your humiliations, saying a big “Ay-men” to your insights. If you all lived in my town, I tell you, we’d have a ball.
But there’s this. I am very soon going to be a mummy blogger without a preschooler. Of course that doesn’t make me any less of a mummy. Of course not. But it’s a fact that the great mass of mummy blogging is to do with that intense phase of life, when we try to make sense of the awesome responsibility of bringing this small person into the world, a phase full of highlights, struggles, and unbelievable amounts of wee, poo and vomit.
What am I trying to say? Being the perceptive bloggers you are, you’ve probably worked out that this isn’t really about my identity as a mummy blogger. It’s about my identity as a mummy. It’s about having made the transition from mummy to mum (and long ago). It’s about not being in touch enough to have an opinion on the best stroller to buy. It’s about not remembering what routines my babies were in at what ages (or not, as the case may have been). It’s about smiling at a woman with a baby in the checkout queue, and saying “what a gorgeous baby”, and realizing, when she politely responds “how old is your little girl?”, that we don’t have an immediate conversational common ground. She knows that (what a mysterious and closed world is the world of a 4 year old, when you have just embarked on a small baby!), but I’ve properly realized it only recently. I’ve noticed in passing plenty of times along the way, of course I have. Part of the mother’s job description is to be painfully aware of time whizzing by faster than you can say “bugaboo” (and incidentally, they weren’t around when I bought my pram, and yes, it was a pram in those days, which converted into a pushchair, a pram/pushchair, not a buggy, stroller, or complete travel system). I tell you, though, it feels very different when you’re staring into the jaws of the school application form of your youngest child.
At this point my expat blogger side wants to butt in. “I’ve got something to say here. My turn. You should tell them how different that is, over here. In Britain, they’ve had their kids in preschool funded by the government since their third birthdays, and the kids start school at 4 or 5. Here, lots of kids don’t go to preschool at all, and school starts at 5 or 6. The whole 0 – 6 realm has a different feel to it. Starting school is a bigger deal, a bigger milestone for the mothers. You can explain how you don’t have a green card, so can’t go out to work. You can justify yourself here, Mummy-side, if you let me get a word in edgeways.”
Actually, Expat-side is feeling quite aggrieved. You see, this whole post started off as hers. It was going to be a short little piece, about the fact that 4-yo had asked me to write out ‘Mom’ for her to copy, and how I’d had to decide whether to write ‘Mom’ or ‘Mum’ (I wrote ‘Mom’). Then Mummy-side completely took over. She started out by establishing her multi-tasking credentials (look at that very first sentence) – an old mummy blogger favourite. Then she followed up with a cute story about her child (that first paragraph) – another mummy blogger staple. Then she was away, as if to say “Identity crisis? What identity crisis? She may be 5 tomorrow, but I’m not finished. Oh no. I’m not leaving the Enclosure yet.”
So why am I telling you this? I’ll confess. I’m feeling the need to reassert my mummy blogger credentials. For those of you outside the Members’ Enclosure that is the mummy blogging world, let me tell you that there’s a quiet but busy revolution going on among British mummy bloggers. Look at the pretty new button on my sidebar (or, until I've managed to upload it, click here). There have been mummies blogging in Britain for ages, of course, but the creative Modern Mother has set up a ning (which is a new one on me, and may be what the Monty Python Knights who say 'ni' were trying to say), which has got everyone more organised. It's a happening kind of a place. I say “Members’ Enclosure”, but that’s not a fair comparison, because the British Mummy Bloggers isn’t an exclusive site. Anyone can join. Even Dads. Ah. Dads. I wish I hadn’t started on that “Members’ Enclosure” analogy.
What about me, though? Am I a mummy blogger? The original purpose and identity of this blog was to write about my experiences of adjusting to life in America, so no. I’m an expat blogger. But inevitably much, most, of my experience has been related to being a mum. So with that, I’m a mummy blogger. I love reading other mummy blogs. I love hearing about the antics of your kids, sharing your joys and woes, puzzling over your requests for advice, laughing at your humiliations, saying a big “Ay-men” to your insights. If you all lived in my town, I tell you, we’d have a ball.
But there’s this. I am very soon going to be a mummy blogger without a preschooler. Of course that doesn’t make me any less of a mummy. Of course not. But it’s a fact that the great mass of mummy blogging is to do with that intense phase of life, when we try to make sense of the awesome responsibility of bringing this small person into the world, a phase full of highlights, struggles, and unbelievable amounts of wee, poo and vomit.
What am I trying to say? Being the perceptive bloggers you are, you’ve probably worked out that this isn’t really about my identity as a mummy blogger. It’s about my identity as a mummy. It’s about having made the transition from mummy to mum (and long ago). It’s about not being in touch enough to have an opinion on the best stroller to buy. It’s about not remembering what routines my babies were in at what ages (or not, as the case may have been). It’s about smiling at a woman with a baby in the checkout queue, and saying “what a gorgeous baby”, and realizing, when she politely responds “how old is your little girl?”, that we don’t have an immediate conversational common ground. She knows that (what a mysterious and closed world is the world of a 4 year old, when you have just embarked on a small baby!), but I’ve properly realized it only recently. I’ve noticed in passing plenty of times along the way, of course I have. Part of the mother’s job description is to be painfully aware of time whizzing by faster than you can say “bugaboo” (and incidentally, they weren’t around when I bought my pram, and yes, it was a pram in those days, which converted into a pushchair, a pram/pushchair, not a buggy, stroller, or complete travel system). I tell you, though, it feels very different when you’re staring into the jaws of the school application form of your youngest child.
At this point my expat blogger side wants to butt in. “I’ve got something to say here. My turn. You should tell them how different that is, over here. In Britain, they’ve had their kids in preschool funded by the government since their third birthdays, and the kids start school at 4 or 5. Here, lots of kids don’t go to preschool at all, and school starts at 5 or 6. The whole 0 – 6 realm has a different feel to it. Starting school is a bigger deal, a bigger milestone for the mothers. You can explain how you don’t have a green card, so can’t go out to work. You can justify yourself here, Mummy-side, if you let me get a word in edgeways.”
Actually, Expat-side is feeling quite aggrieved. You see, this whole post started off as hers. It was going to be a short little piece, about the fact that 4-yo had asked me to write out ‘Mom’ for her to copy, and how I’d had to decide whether to write ‘Mom’ or ‘Mum’ (I wrote ‘Mom’). Then Mummy-side completely took over. She started out by establishing her multi-tasking credentials (look at that very first sentence) – an old mummy blogger favourite. Then she followed up with a cute story about her child (that first paragraph) – another mummy blogger staple. Then she was away, as if to say “Identity crisis? What identity crisis? She may be 5 tomorrow, but I’m not finished. Oh no. I’m not leaving the Enclosure yet.”
Sunday, March 15, 2009
It's a sign
Inspired by Long Aye-lander in Glasgow who is always posting photos of interesting signs and graffiti, I photographed an example from our neighborhood that I thought you’d enjoy. Here’s a picture which shows you the location (you can see I took it a while ago, when it was snowy).
It’s a set of four posts with reflective diamonds on top, to warn drivers that they’re approaching this T-junction, and that if they don’t stop, not only do they risk hitting cars on the road in front, but they will also end up in that ditch. (I so wanted to say ‘creek’ because that’s all American and Tom Sawyer-ish, and I just like the sound of the word, but truth and honesty compelled me to use the word ‘ditch’. Much less romantic, but we’re talking real life here.)
Then you need the close-up, to see what those letters spell out.
And there you have it. One of those moments in my life when I think “yes, there truly is a God”. You see, I’d had a particularly grotty morning that day. One of those mornings when you don’t even have an excuse for being moody and horrible. Just a grotty miserable morning. The sight of that graffiti made me laugh out loud, in the comfortable privacy of my minivan. It honestly did.
I like to think it must sometimes be fun to be God. Not much of the time, what with all the sadness and suffering and anguish in the world. But sometimes. I like to think of Her looking down, and thinking “Iota. She’s having a bad morning. Ooh, that’s a tough one. She’s not going to be impressed by those Bible verse bumper stickers that I get the local Christians to put on their cars. Oh no. Those just irritate her. What is it with her, anyway? Those bumper stickers cheer a lot of folk up, even if she thinks they’re annoying. I should know. I’m all-seeing and all-knowing. But not Iota, and ooh my goodness, certainly not Iota on a morning like this. Ah, I’ve got a good idea (though I say it myself). I’ll get her to drive down Hampson Street, and that fart graffiti will maybe give her laugh. Lighten the atmosphere a little. I knew it would come in useful when I got those kids to head out with their spray cans the other day. Yes. The fart graffiti. I’ll try that. Left indicator. Left indicator. Left, left, left. Turn here. Yup, there she is, on her way. Better get back to World Peace again – rather a trickier nut to crack that one.”
You can see I’ve just finished reading The Shack. You mean you haven’t yet? I thought I was pretty much the only one left when I did.
It’s a set of four posts with reflective diamonds on top, to warn drivers that they’re approaching this T-junction, and that if they don’t stop, not only do they risk hitting cars on the road in front, but they will also end up in that ditch. (I so wanted to say ‘creek’ because that’s all American and Tom Sawyer-ish, and I just like the sound of the word, but truth and honesty compelled me to use the word ‘ditch’. Much less romantic, but we’re talking real life here.)
Then you need the close-up, to see what those letters spell out.
And there you have it. One of those moments in my life when I think “yes, there truly is a God”. You see, I’d had a particularly grotty morning that day. One of those mornings when you don’t even have an excuse for being moody and horrible. Just a grotty miserable morning. The sight of that graffiti made me laugh out loud, in the comfortable privacy of my minivan. It honestly did.
I like to think it must sometimes be fun to be God. Not much of the time, what with all the sadness and suffering and anguish in the world. But sometimes. I like to think of Her looking down, and thinking “Iota. She’s having a bad morning. Ooh, that’s a tough one. She’s not going to be impressed by those Bible verse bumper stickers that I get the local Christians to put on their cars. Oh no. Those just irritate her. What is it with her, anyway? Those bumper stickers cheer a lot of folk up, even if she thinks they’re annoying. I should know. I’m all-seeing and all-knowing. But not Iota, and ooh my goodness, certainly not Iota on a morning like this. Ah, I’ve got a good idea (though I say it myself). I’ll get her to drive down Hampson Street, and that fart graffiti will maybe give her laugh. Lighten the atmosphere a little. I knew it would come in useful when I got those kids to head out with their spray cans the other day. Yes. The fart graffiti. I’ll try that. Left indicator. Left indicator. Left, left, left. Turn here. Yup, there she is, on her way. Better get back to World Peace again – rather a trickier nut to crack that one.”
You can see I’ve just finished reading The Shack. You mean you haven’t yet? I thought I was pretty much the only one left when I did.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Terms of endearment
What do you call small children, if you don’t know their names? Or just as a term of endearment.
When we lived in the south of England, it was Darling, Sweetheart, or Lovey.
Then in Scotland, it could be any of those, or sometimes Toots (which I loved). To a boy, it might be Big Man (funny, that). My son had a teacher in Primary 1 who called each child Lovely, and she had them eating out of her hand, so there must be something in that.
I know in the North East it is often Pet (which my mother still calls me, although she isn’t from the North East).
Here in the Midwest it’s Pumpkin, Sweet Pea, Honey (which becomes Hon, or Honeybun), Sweetie, and Darling (which I love, because of the way they say it: Darrlin’). I think I’ve heard Peanut once or twice. I do call my friends' kids Honey, and that feels ok, but I think I'll have to be here a few more years before it comes naturally to me to call a child Pumpkin.
What fond term do adults use to address small children round your way?
When we lived in the south of England, it was Darling, Sweetheart, or Lovey.
Then in Scotland, it could be any of those, or sometimes Toots (which I loved). To a boy, it might be Big Man (funny, that). My son had a teacher in Primary 1 who called each child Lovely, and she had them eating out of her hand, so there must be something in that.
I know in the North East it is often Pet (which my mother still calls me, although she isn’t from the North East).
Here in the Midwest it’s Pumpkin, Sweet Pea, Honey (which becomes Hon, or Honeybun), Sweetie, and Darling (which I love, because of the way they say it: Darrlin’). I think I’ve heard Peanut once or twice. I do call my friends' kids Honey, and that feels ok, but I think I'll have to be here a few more years before it comes naturally to me to call a child Pumpkin.
What fond term do adults use to address small children round your way?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Accents
"Not AGAIN", you're sighing. Yes, another post about accents. I'll be brief.
I was stunned the other day when we were talking about accents, and 4-yo asked me "what is an accent?" I got her to repeat the question, and then I explained how people say the same words differently. She was still a bit mystified, so I gave some examples.
"You know how Daddy or I say 'good job, well dun', but your preschool teacher would say 'good jaahb, well duuhn'..."
After I'd given two or three examples, with exaggerated clipped regal-sounding English and my best Midwest drawl (which isn't very good, actually), she nodded. She'd got it.
"Have you never noticed before that Daddy and I speak a bit differently to everyone else round here?" I asked.
She hadn't.
I find this completely intriguing. I can see how she might not have formulated into a conscious thought, the fact that her parents speak differently to other people. It's just that I would LOVE to know what she thinks all those conversations have been about, those many many conversations that I have had over the past 2 years, with friends and with complete strangers, with her, my small blond shadow, at my side. She must have heard me have an accent conversation at the checkout at least once a week (and that's a conservative estimate). She has occasionally been involved as an exhibit in conversations with friends (although I've avoided that as far as possible - I don't like the performing animal effect).
What does she think we've been discussing? Or has she just flicked the off switch that children use when adult talk gets boring? I would love to know.
I was stunned the other day when we were talking about accents, and 4-yo asked me "what is an accent?" I got her to repeat the question, and then I explained how people say the same words differently. She was still a bit mystified, so I gave some examples.
"You know how Daddy or I say 'good job, well dun', but your preschool teacher would say 'good jaahb, well duuhn'..."
After I'd given two or three examples, with exaggerated clipped regal-sounding English and my best Midwest drawl (which isn't very good, actually), she nodded. She'd got it.
"Have you never noticed before that Daddy and I speak a bit differently to everyone else round here?" I asked.
She hadn't.
I find this completely intriguing. I can see how she might not have formulated into a conscious thought, the fact that her parents speak differently to other people. It's just that I would LOVE to know what she thinks all those conversations have been about, those many many conversations that I have had over the past 2 years, with friends and with complete strangers, with her, my small blond shadow, at my side. She must have heard me have an accent conversation at the checkout at least once a week (and that's a conservative estimate). She has occasionally been involved as an exhibit in conversations with friends (although I've avoided that as far as possible - I don't like the performing animal effect).
What does she think we've been discussing? Or has she just flicked the off switch that children use when adult talk gets boring? I would love to know.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Ladies in Lavender
I make a point of not having any commercial affiliations on my blog. It's a policy. A policy is a useful thing (I should know, I used to be in the Civil Service). It's useful, because when I get an email from someone asking if I'd like to promote their organisation or their product, I say "I have a policy not to". I think that sounds polite, and it means I don't feel obliged to explain any further.
I am making an exception. I am mentioning a product. That's because I'm entering a competition. I don't need to win. I just need to be one of the first 20 to enter. If I do so, those lovely people at MamaBabyBliss will send me a bottle of Oooh... lavender bath soak. Except they won't send it to me, because I'll give them my mother's address. Lavender is not only terribly difficult to spell, but also her favourite. She deserves it. Imagine living over 3,000 miles away from your youngest three grandchildren.
To enter the competition, I have to write a blog post about "me time". I'm going to enter the post I wrote a year ago, almost to the day. As "me time" goes, I dare anyone to better a week-end in New York without the children, and with some of the best company western civilisation can offer (my brother, his wife and family).
Here is that post.
New York, New York
Do you want to know how much can be fitted into the hours between 12.30pm on Friday and 9.30pm on Monday? Let me tell you:
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
I am making an exception. I am mentioning a product. That's because I'm entering a competition. I don't need to win. I just need to be one of the first 20 to enter. If I do so, those lovely people at MamaBabyBliss will send me a bottle of Oooh... lavender bath soak. Except they won't send it to me, because I'll give them my mother's address. Lavender is not only terribly difficult to spell, but also her favourite. She deserves it. Imagine living over 3,000 miles away from your youngest three grandchildren.
To enter the competition, I have to write a blog post about "me time". I'm going to enter the post I wrote a year ago, almost to the day. As "me time" goes, I dare anyone to better a week-end in New York without the children, and with some of the best company western civilisation can offer (my brother, his wife and family).
Here is that post.
New York, New York
Do you want to know how much can be fitted into the hours between 12.30pm on Friday and 9.30pm on Monday? Let me tell you:
two 6 hour journeys (4 flights), dinner with my old friend and her new husband, visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Museum of Modern Art, purchase of nice stripey top in the Museum of Modern Art Design Store, trip through security measures to visit Statue of Liberty (this deserves separate entry), matinee kids’ ballet by the Paul Taylor Ballet Company, lunches and dinners in fabulous eateries, wander around Soho, walk round Central Park, glass of wine in the revolving bar at the top of the Marriott Hotel, walk along the Connecticut shore watching sea birds pick up shells, rise 10 feet in the air and drop them to crack them open (packaging these days can be such a challenge), watching the departure of my sister-in-law on the back of a Harley Davidson with a complete stranger, reading 212 pages of a 273-page book (which I then left in the seat pocket of the aeroplane - grrr), writing a post-card to the friend I visited New York with 14 years ago, and a lie-in.
This leads me strongly to suspect that when you change your watch from Central time to Eastern time, you’re not just moving into a new time zone, but into a whole new time reality. The hours must, somehow, be longer, or fatter, or more flexible. I’m sure I couldn’t fit that much into a week-end here in the Central time zone. Even just having breakfast and getting ready to go out takes half a morning. I feel I must be on the brink of some very clever discovery to do with space, time and astrophysics. Or maybe it’s just that I usually have three kids in tow and a heap of things to do less interesting than exploring NewYork City. Hm. No, I think I’ll stick with the astrophysics discovery. It could be big. Actually, we in the Central time zone had a chance to try it out a few days ago, when we put our clocks forward, but you know what? Those smug East coasters are so sneaky, they put their clocks forward at exactly the same moment. We’ll never find out their secret.
Anyway, back to New York. It was all fabulous, totally totally fabulous. Apart from the obvious things that were wonderful (family, old friends, the buzz of a big city, the inherent interest of the places visited, the freedom of it all), the biggest treat was having someone else organize me. It’s very relaxing not to have to be in charge, for a change. Someone else found places to eat, someone else read the map, someone else made decisions about what to do and when, someone else calculated how long to allow to get to the airport. I begin to see the attraction of those big organized holidays with a tour guide. And no wiping. I didn’t wipe a nose, a bottom or a kitchen counter for four days. I did swipe my credit card a few times though, which is altogether a more satisfying feeling. Swiping not wiping – that was my big city experience.
I just have to tell you about the man I sat next to on one flight. He was in his 80s, and he and his wife were travelling from Florida to Connecticut for the surprise 90th birthday party of his sister-in-law (I just hoped it wasn’t too much of a surprise for her). “Don’t like the French, but I like the English” he said, puzzled by my account of my English brother who would choose to live in Paris. And then he told me why he liked the English. He was serving as a gunner in WWII, and was shot down behind enemy lines in Burma. After he and the two other airmen who survived had been trying to find their way back for a few days, a local man found them, and hid them upstairs in a building, indicating that they were to stay put. They had no idea whether he had gone to fetch the Japanese or the Americans. The next day, they heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. They were at the ready, guns trained on the trap door in the floor. When it opened, there were a couple of British soldiers, who greeted them with “Bloody Yanks. Can’t be trusted to do anything without us, can you?”
So that was New York. Did I mention that it was fabulous? I’m thinking about my next week-end away already… Oh, and that bit about my sister-in-law leaving on the back of a Harley Davidson? It was quite true, by the way. You’ll have to wait till next time for the story, though.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
It all comes out in the wash
As you know, I’ve been thinking recently about feminism, and whether it’s aliver and weller in Britain or America. Of course trying to answer that question is rather a hopeless cause. How could I possibly assess what life is like for 300 million people this side of the Pond, or for 60 million the other? This is something you get used to, as an expat. People ask you questions beginning “Do Americans…?” or “Do the English…?” and you find yourself trying to make an assessment of an entire culture, its history, philosophy and traditions, from your own very small amount of personal experience and knowledge.
I read blogs written by Brits in America, and by Americans in Britain. One thing I love is that whatever opinion you read in one, you will find it contradicted in the other. I know that whenever I write a reflection on life in America, someone in Britain will read it and think “No, no, no! That’s exactly what it’s like HERE.” It’s all part of the fun.
Take a big issue like feminism. There are American bloggers who feel strongly that Britain is so backward. There are British bloggers who think that America is way behind.
What about social habits? I read recently that British people don’t wash their hands after using the loo/restroom. Which is odd, because I have never ever once in 40 years in Britain seen anyone leave a public convenience without washing their hands, but in the 2 years I’ve been here, I’ve seen it 3 times (including one of my own friends). I have been congratulated by a stranger in a restroom for teaching my daughter to wash her hands. Yikes. I’d assumed every mom did.
Right down in the smallest detail of life, I’ve found exactly opposite opinions. An American friend was telling me the other day how her daughter’s name had an R added on by locals when they lived in Scotland. Gemma became Gemmrr. Funny that, because I’d already noticed that my daughter’s name, which also ends in an A, underwent the same process when we came here.
Then there is the great washing machine debate. Goodness me. I tell you, if the “special relationship” between our two nations, that special relationship which Gordon Brown yesterday described as "unbreakable", if it depended on blogging expat women’s opinions on the subject of washing machines, it would have no chance at all. "Special" would not be the word.
Who knew there was so much to love or hate about a washing machine? You can love or hate its size, how many programmes it has, the length of the programmes, whether you can open the lid once the machine has started in order to throw in a stray sock, whether you have to bend down to load it up, the method of putting the detergent in. This will be familiar territory to many of you. If you want my personal take on it, I will go all not wrong, just different on you, and say that I do have a preference, but that it’s just a personal inclination. It's based on a slight divergence between how the two types of machine operate, but really, it's a minor difference. British front-loaders get laundry clean; American top-loaders don’t. See? Minor stuff, as I said. Nothing to get too excited about. I just have to confess that I find it useful when a washing machine removes dirt and stains from the clothes you put in there, and keeps white things white.
Here we are, come full circle, right back where we started. Feminism. Surely feminism is nothing if not the right to define your individuality and womanhood by your preference in washing machines. It’s true that front-loading machines have recently come onto the market over here, but they’re fearsomely expensive, beyond the reach of your average oppressed housewife. Yes, it’s all about choice, but until that choice is available to all women, feminism remains a word, a theory. Sisters, our work is not done.
Women of Britain, rejoice in your washing machines! Join hands in a line of solidarity, a washing line of solidarity, and do not cease to fight for the day when all women, no matter their race, religion, age or nationality, have access to a decent front-loading washing machine. And until that day, don’t burn your bras. Just keep them nice and white, even on a delicate cycle.
I read blogs written by Brits in America, and by Americans in Britain. One thing I love is that whatever opinion you read in one, you will find it contradicted in the other. I know that whenever I write a reflection on life in America, someone in Britain will read it and think “No, no, no! That’s exactly what it’s like HERE.” It’s all part of the fun.
Take a big issue like feminism. There are American bloggers who feel strongly that Britain is so backward. There are British bloggers who think that America is way behind.
What about social habits? I read recently that British people don’t wash their hands after using the loo/restroom. Which is odd, because I have never ever once in 40 years in Britain seen anyone leave a public convenience without washing their hands, but in the 2 years I’ve been here, I’ve seen it 3 times (including one of my own friends). I have been congratulated by a stranger in a restroom for teaching my daughter to wash her hands. Yikes. I’d assumed every mom did.
Right down in the smallest detail of life, I’ve found exactly opposite opinions. An American friend was telling me the other day how her daughter’s name had an R added on by locals when they lived in Scotland. Gemma became Gemmrr. Funny that, because I’d already noticed that my daughter’s name, which also ends in an A, underwent the same process when we came here.
Then there is the great washing machine debate. Goodness me. I tell you, if the “special relationship” between our two nations, that special relationship which Gordon Brown yesterday described as "unbreakable", if it depended on blogging expat women’s opinions on the subject of washing machines, it would have no chance at all. "Special" would not be the word.
Who knew there was so much to love or hate about a washing machine? You can love or hate its size, how many programmes it has, the length of the programmes, whether you can open the lid once the machine has started in order to throw in a stray sock, whether you have to bend down to load it up, the method of putting the detergent in. This will be familiar territory to many of you. If you want my personal take on it, I will go all not wrong, just different on you, and say that I do have a preference, but that it’s just a personal inclination. It's based on a slight divergence between how the two types of machine operate, but really, it's a minor difference. British front-loaders get laundry clean; American top-loaders don’t. See? Minor stuff, as I said. Nothing to get too excited about. I just have to confess that I find it useful when a washing machine removes dirt and stains from the clothes you put in there, and keeps white things white.
Here we are, come full circle, right back where we started. Feminism. Surely feminism is nothing if not the right to define your individuality and womanhood by your preference in washing machines. It’s true that front-loading machines have recently come onto the market over here, but they’re fearsomely expensive, beyond the reach of your average oppressed housewife. Yes, it’s all about choice, but until that choice is available to all women, feminism remains a word, a theory. Sisters, our work is not done.
Women of Britain, rejoice in your washing machines! Join hands in a line of solidarity, a washing line of solidarity, and do not cease to fight for the day when all women, no matter their race, religion, age or nationality, have access to a decent front-loading washing machine. And until that day, don’t burn your bras. Just keep them nice and white, even on a delicate cycle.
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