She who would valiant be

Why is being a parent of a teenager such a tough call these days?

We want the instruction manual. Remember those early days with a baby, when you thought "why doesn't it come with an instruction manual?". It's like that all over again. I don't know if it's our education system, or our nanny state, or just human nature, but it always feels like there's a right way of doing something, and our job is to find it. We know this isn't true, but somehow it feels like it is.

Where to look for the ultimate advice?

• A book - but which one to choose? 
• A bunch of friends - but they all have slightly differing opinions, and there's that dangerous thing of asking a friend, and then deciding to ignore their advice. 
• The science - which can help (folic acid during pregnancy, that was an easy one, once they'd worked out that the advice should be just to take a tablet and not to try to eat a small field of broccoli or spinach every day - which actually was the advice when it first came out and I should know because I was pregnant during that tiny window before the advice changed to a more manageable course of action), but can also be seriously anxiety-inducing (MMR jabs, anyone?), and disempowering (Vitamin K jabs for newborns - have they decided whether that is risk-free yet, or are parents still having to decide between the rare bruising disease and the unproven link with some childhood cancers?)
• Parents - can be complicated.
• Blogs - always good, but they don't know your children. Only you really know your children.
• Intuition - usually good, but I think we're a generation of parents who have totally lost faith in our own intuion. 
• The Waltons. Yes. There's always a good parenting tip or two on The Waltons, and my friend has the complete box set readily available for borrowing. I am well set up.

Seriously, though. It is hard to be a parent of a teenager, and I'll tell you why. Because it plays on our own insecurities and fears. I'm guessing that few of us reached mature adult life (and I'm talking mid-twenties here) without some bumps and scrapes. Even though we may know that those were all part of a process, and though we may know that people get through and emerge ok, we are also hard-wired to protect our off-spring, and somehow we want them to have a smooth ride. Because if we had the instruction manual, and followed the instructions, then they would. Or so says the false voice in our heads.

I have found the whole Duke of Edinburgh thing very hard to navigate through....

At this point, I wrote a couple of paragraphs, explaining the exact circumstances. Then I realised that all I was doing was justifying myself to you. So I went back and deleted them. That's the very point I'm trying to make. I feel so out of my depth when I think about how to go about parenting this son of mine, that I just slip into self-justification mode. Because I don't want to fail. I want that instruction book, I want to follow it, and then no-one will be able to say I haven't done my best. But meanwhile, instead, I have a head full of questions that go round and round, and the gist of them is this: Have I prepared him enough? Have I done too much for him? How have I done, tightrope-walking that line between being over-protective and under-protective? 

It brings back all those feelings that we went through (I say "we" because I don't think it's just me... I've read enough blogs about this...) when we were trying to do well with our babies and toddlers.  That time in the park when your toddler fell over, and you picked him up, and your friend said "he needs to learn to get up on his own... otherwise he'll be too dependent on you". Or the GP who told you you were over-reacting when you thought your child was ill. Or that new mum group where it turned out that everyone else was doing x and you were doing y, and you'd been quite happy doing y until that moment, and then you went home and tried to do x instead, and it didn't work, and you didn't draw the conclusion that y was fine after all, but you felt like somehow you were getting it all wrong, and that it was your fault, and that you were letting your baby down.

16-yo is in London today (and this is one of the complications, that he arrives back at 10.00pm tonight and then goes off on the Duke of Ed trip tomorrow at 8.00am). He's been there for 3 nights, meeting up with a group from his old high school in America, who are on a trip to Europe. Before he went, I was so full of self-congratulation at how hands-off I am as a parent, and how he will find his own way and learn from his mistakes, and just what could go wrong, honestly? While he was away, all that fell by the wayside, and I was checking my phone for texts all the time, cursing the bad reception that meant a call from him dropped just as I answered it, sneakily texting his aunt who met him for lunch, to see how he was doing... I so don't want to be an anxious mother, and I so am.

I think he'll do fine, though. I put him on the train, having bought him a cup of tea and helped him find his carriage and seat. (You forget that a seat reservation isn't an obvious thing, to those who've never encountered one before...). As I walked away down the platform, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. "Mum, you're holding my tickets!" And I was. In under a minute, he'd realised the lack of tickets, tried to phone me, tried to text me, and then decided to run after me. Good call. Top marks for competence. I think he'll do fine. 

And the title? Well, you do have to be valiant, to be a parent of a teenager. 

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He who would valiant be

I still feel I'm new to this "parenting of teenagers" lark, but oldest is 16, so I suppose I have a certain amount of experience. Can I pass on to those of you who may be embarking on the journey one small word of warning?  Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. There is something you need to know about, a beast that rears its ugly  head from time to time during the teenage years. Learn to recognise the monster, and when you see him, turn tail, run, flee, as if your sanity depended on it (it may, in reality, do so). Those who stand and fight are courageous, but usually live to regret it.

The beast seems innocent enough. It starts off as a "letter home". The warning sign is this (take it from a seasoned recipient of the "letter home"): the letter home includes words such as personal development, initiative-taking, leadership-training, challenging, team-building or responsibility. These are the tell-tale indicators of the poison within.

Yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it's the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme Expedition. Enough of a monster in its own right, with its kit list, and its early morning start, and its production of dirty laundry mounds the size of mythical giants. But, worst of all, let it be known among you brave warriors of the teenage parenting cause, this challenge, this adventure, this quest, is not your child's but your own.

Thanks, Prince Phillip. Thanks very much. You thought you were giving young people the chance to flex their muscles, to develop their personalities, to grow in character. But, bless your recuperating cotton socks, you couldn't have foreseen how the way young people are treated would change, and that in fact you were creating a challenge of gargantuan dimensions for parents.

It starts with the letter home, and the request for a cheque. (Do some kids have to earn the money to pay for these trips themselves, or do all we parents just cough up?)

Then there's the kit list. This is the parent's first challenge. How do you get the kit list? Some parents, sneaky devils, ask the school, or download it from the school website, or even look it out from the pile of paper that arrived home at the end of the previous term. But there are noble saints, valiant champions of the cause of "teaching your young person leadership skills", who stand firm, and request the list, repeatedly, from their off-spring. Was it Don Quixote who tilted at windmills? I know how he felt. An honourably-intentioned, but fruitless, activity.

Then the second challenge. Buying the items on the kit list. I'm told there are those who go to shops and do so. Others, we of strong mind and valour, talk to our child of "taking responsibility", and set mind-taxing challenges such as "when can we find a time for you to come shopping with me?" We have close to our heart, the development of our child's problem-solving skills.

These foes must be vanquished, before the young adventurer can move onto the most difficult obstacle he has yet encountered. Packing. You must metaphorically hold his hand, as he advances forth into the bedroom, to extract the rucksack from the deep monster's lair known as "the wardrobe". Then you must stand sentinel, warding off maleficient younger siblings, as the young knight lays his belongings out on the floor, and grapples with the task of fitting them all into the rucksack. He who displays moral stature will succeed. Others will be distracted from the task by their trusty iPods, and expect the packing fairies (who they still believe in) to do the deed for them.

I could go on, but you get my drift. This is the second such trip my son has been on. Apparently they are "designed to give opportunities to develop leadership skills and show responsibility", but it's all a huge myth. The teachers and parents run around getting them ready. They jump into lochs, or go abseiiling, or climb over an obstacle course, but it doesn't teach them anything to do with responsibility. It teaches them abseiling and obstacle courses. Every time I try and inject a bit of "taking responsibility" into it, I just end up with a ridiculous dilemma, such as today's which is "do I let my son go off hiking in the Scottish Highlands without walking boots that fit, and learn through blisters and pain that it might have been better to have made preparations, or do I figure out a way of buying him some boots even though he now doesn't have time to get to a shop, and make it all ok for him on this occasion, thus implying that if you don't make preparations, it doesn't matter because someone will bail you out?" Neither seems a very good option.

I tell you, if I was King for a day, I could design an award scheme which would teach young people plenty of useful skills. It would involve

• several hours of picking up dirty laundry from bedroom floors, followed by several hours of putting clean laundry in drawers
• workshops on how to unload a dishwasher (with those who show exceptional ability given further training in how to unload a dishwasher without even being asked)
• lock-in sessions where they are kept in an enclosed space with younger siblings and not allowed out until they have worked out how to share the space without aggravating those siblings, physically, mentally or emotionally
• trips to the corner shop with a  pound coin to buy a pint of milk, including compulsory use of the pedestrian crossing, and with optional instruction in how to complete the task cheerfully and without implying to others that you are being asked to trek across half the city
• and finally - but mind you, this would only be for the gold award - how to get ready for a school trip without stressing out your mother.

And to any of my offspring who might be reading this at some point in the future, let me just say, wait till you have kids of your own and they start going on these kinds of trips, and you'll see what I mean.

Interesting post about being an expat

Alexia, an expat mum living in London, who blogs at A Mum in London, has collated a number of views of the best and worst about expat life. Definitely worth a visit - and see if you can guess what I said, before you click over.

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House

As you'll know if you read this post, my mother has just moved out of her house, downsizing and moving near to my brother. She and my father moved into that house in 1963, so it has been the family home throughout all my life. It's a characterful old house, a former farmhouse, in a beautiful setting. I was down there for a week over half-term, with Husband and the children, and it was a good week, albeit a heavy one. I wrote some reflections.

Look. There's me. I'm being born. November. Half past six in the evening. I'm being delivered by my grandmother and the community midwife. My parents' bedroom. Two windows, one facing west, one facing south. I wonder what my first sight is, when I open my eyes. The midwife? My grandmother? My mother's smiling face? Or the brown wooden railings of the bedhead? That bedhead is still there. Maybe that bedhead, which now sports a sticky label "Bedroom 1", was the very first thing I ever saw.

Look. There's me. I'm two and a half, and my brother is being born in his turn, in my parents' bedroom. My grandmother is here again, and the community midwife, but they can't both be with my mother. My grandmother has to spend precious moments with me. I know something is going on, and I want to know what. I want to see. I want to go into my mother's room. I won't settle in my own bed. There's my grandmother, singing to me, stroking me, outwardly lulling me gently, but inwardly hard urging me to sleep.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting up in the big Silver Cross pram, opposite my brother. You can take a square section of the floor out, leaving a well for a child to put their feet when they sit upright. My feet are in the square, but so are his, and I'm kicking him. It's fun, but I'm annoyed with him too. My mother is stopping us. "Behave, or we won't go out." This is my earliest memory.

Look. There's me. I'm at school now. I'm in my blue school uniform, and I have a brown satchel, which I like, but not as much as my friend Catherine's one. Mine is a dull brown, but hers is a shiny chestnutty brown. On summer days, we walk home from school through the orchards, kicking the cut grass with our school shoes.

Look. There's me. I'm jumping around on straw bales  in the farm with my brothers, sister and cousins. We know we're not allowed to climb on the machinery, or go into the cow pens. But we're allowed on the straw bales in the barn, and there's a lovely shivery feeling of danger and strangeness in that big barn, which is so empty and echoey and huge, and it always feels as if we're naughty interlopers when any of the farmhands come by. They know us, though, and leave us alone. My mother rings a bell out of the kitchen window when it's time to go home.

Look. There's me. I'm doing my O' levels and I'm sitting at my desk, working. The garden is hot outside, and I can hear the lazy hum of a bumble bee as it drones past the window. I have the Capital Radio Daily Top 10 on the radio, which I let myself listen to every day, before turning the radio off to concentrate more on my books. Just under my window is the porch over the front door, and when I was younger, I used to think it fun to go out of my bedroom window onto the porch, and into the bathroom from there. Of course it wasn't allowed. We did it anyway.

Look. There's me. I've just moved to London, and started work. The city is big and lonely, and I feel I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really understand my job, but I'm meant to be good at it, as a graduate trainee. I come home often for Sunday lunch, and somehow the comfort of it makes Monday morning less intimidating.

Look. There's me. It's the 'do' after my father's funeral, and we're outside in the garden in the sunshine - which is odd, come to think of it, since it's early March. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I have to. Someone asks me whether my mother will stay on in the house. What a strange question to ask someone at a funeral.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting in the garden in the sunshine, more than 41 weeks pregnant with my first child. That last contraction made me shift in my chair. This really is it. My mother has friends round, and I don't want to be dramatic, but my sister-in-law notices and, eyes wide for effect, mouths "GO HOME!" at me.

Look. There's me. We've been back from America for long summer weeks, based at the house, and returning to it from trips elsewhere round the UK. We're all packed up and the taxi to the airport will be here soon, and I'm doing 'the sweep'. I walk through each room, eyes travelling across every flat surface, including the floor, looking for stray items. I think I'm pretty good at the sweep, opening drawers, crouching down to peer under beds, but we always leave a few items: laundry in the airing cupboard, favourite toys under pillows, books under piles of newspapers. My mother holds them as hostage till the next visit. I hate the sweep now. Gone are the days when we're only heading off a few hours away in the car, when the pride of maternal efficiency is the main emotion. Now I can't even meet my mother's eyes as she greets me in the hall with her "Got everything? Well done! You're so organised! " It feels like I'm sweeping away the whole summer, leaving it behind us as we return to our lives in America. Our other lives.

Look. There's me. Back for another summer. Sitting in the garden with Paradise. She's a blogging friend, and I've got to know her so well through emailing, pouring out our expat woes, me from America, she from Albania. Here we are, meeting in the flesh, in real life. We share a long, lazy afternoon, in the sun, our children happily playing together. We'll be heading off in different directions, me to the West, Paradise to the East, but for these few hours, the strings of our lives knot comfortably together, a fixed physical event that tethers the part of my life that is lived in cyberspace.

Look. There's me. I'm sitting on the floor with my mother, sorting a box of old toy cars. I'm taking a few, and we're dividing the rest between two bags, one for the charity shop, the other for the rubbish. I take my favourites, and then the ones I can see my mother is struggling to part with. How do you sift and prioritise memories? These Matchbox cars are the ones that I used to pick for my team, zooming them round the house with my brothers, wearing out the knees of our trousers. I know the feel of them in my hand. I know which doors open, and which wheels are missing. They all had names, but I can't remember those. My children come into the room. "Oh, the cars! Are you giving away these?" The cars are holders of two generations of playtime memories.

Look. There's me. I'm lighting the candles on my son's 16th birthday cake. We're telling him the story of the day he was born, how I sat in the sunshine with my mother and her friends. It feels like a strand of life has joined up into a full circle. I think of two friends who have sons with birthdays on this same date. One is in America whose son is 11, and the other a blogging friend whose son is 2. I reflect how my life has oozed out in various directions, from this place. Sixteen years. And here we are again. Only one more day in this house.

Look. There's me. I'm getting into bed beside Husband. I whisper "This is the last night we'll ever spend in this house", but he's asleep. I bury my face into the back of his warm neck and drape my arm over his body, and I think to myself that I'll never manage to get to sleep. But then it's morning.

Look. There's me. I'm doing the final sweep, and I'm bidding farewell to the house. I go into each room, and say goodbye, out loud. No hostages this time.

Look. There's me. We're in the car, and I'm crying, and I can't stop. I wave out of the window, because that's the ritual. "Do the beep-beeps" says one of the children from the back, and Husband beeps the horn twice. In the wing mirror, I can see my mother waving, and there's something deeply, deeply familiar about that exact way she's standing, the angle of her arm, the movement of it, the position of her head to one side... And the house, standing behind.

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Role model

Thank you, lovely Bloggy Friends, for being with me through my insecurities.

Over the past few months, I've thought it best to keep blogging, because then, at least, I am writing. And that is better than not writing. Then occasionally, just occasionally, I write a post and decide not to publish it, but to keep it for my book. So there are just a very few pages written. A very few. But that seems to be where a lot of bloggers are, if your comments are anything to go by, and it's always good to know you're not alone. Thank you.

9-yo asked me a little while ago, about jobs and being a mum. I don't know what prompted the question. I didn't want to get too heavy about it all - she's only 9 - but I said that it seems that most women have to make choices that men don't have to make in quite the same way. I said that you don't have to have children, but if you do, you either have to look after them, or have someone else do it. I said that it was super-fun and very wonderful to be able to do it yourself, but that did mean you couldn't always be concentrating on other things. I said that anyway, it might all have changed a bit by the time she's grown up, but probably not, and she will have choices to make, but it will be ok. You just do the best you can.

She thought about it for a few seconds, and then replied,

"I think I'll have children, and then I'll chillax and get a dog".

So I'm a role model... of some kind?

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I haven't had a glass of wine and it's not late now

Mornin' all.

Thank you for your comments.

OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.

I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).

Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".

Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.

Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.

Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.

Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.

I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.

I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.

Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.

Yet.

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You really shouldn't blog when you've had a glass of wine and it's late

I've had a glass of wine. It's late.

I've got to wait up because eldest son needs a cricket top tomorrow which was in the laundry basket (actually, it wasn't in the laundry basket, it was draped over the back of the sofa - hadn't even made it to the bedroom floordrobe). So the top is in the washing machine, and I haven't put it on a wash cycle, because even the shortest wash cycle is long. It's on a "rinse only" cycle, with a bit of powder thrown in. Enough to get the garment clean and fresh-smelling, but not too much, because it's not a proper wash cycle, so it won't get rinsed out properly. Do you think that will work? I've never tried it before. I mean, I could have hand-washed the item, which would have taken 5 minutes, but frankly, hand-washing isn't for me any more.

I've really gone off blogging. I've just read the BiB short lists, and I know hardly any of the blogs. It's never been important to me to keep up with the top bloggers for the sake of it, but I spend quite a bit of time moseying around on screen, and it would be nice to recognise a few more names. I mean, who ARE all these zillions of new bloggers? I bet they're really good, but who has time to read them? I'd need a few research assistants if I was to keep up with blogging these days. An intern! That's what I need. A personal blogging intern! You don't have to pay interns, do you? Ideal.

Where do you advertise for a blogging intern?

Blogging, schmogging.

I've written a post about a really important issue. Education. I've got lots to say about it. And I want to say it. But it all came out wrong, and it just sounds like a huge guilt trip about my own children and being a rubbish parent. So what does that mean? That really I feel guilty about being a rubbish parent? Or that I have some things I'd like to say about education that are really sharp and pertinent, and I can insightfully and appositely illustrate them from my own experience. I can't be bothered to think about it.

The best thing about blogging this week was a post called Feckity Arse Biscuits, which - double whammy! - didn't even mention biscuits. Kudos to you, Not from Lapland. I also love the way you've changed from 'Notes from Lapland', to 'Not from Lapland'. Genius. I used to be 'Not wrong, just different'. Maybe I should have changed to 'Not Not wrong, and not very different either'.

I don't like Bloglovin. I don't like the title. Notlovin Bloglovin. I don't like the title, and I don't like the service. Why is Google closing down Google Reader? Not enough earning potential, I expect. Google is trying to take over the world, and no-one has noticed. Stop trying to take over the world, Google. But if you must, at least do the decent thing and pay your taxes in our little corner of it.

I also don't like my Hotpoint washing machine, but I bet Hotpoint pays taxes. I wonder if that cricket top is ready yet. Why did I even wash it? I should just have made him wear it all stinky. He's a teenager. It goes with the territory.

Well, read this post quickly, because I'm probably going to delete it. But comment before you do so, because unless I get at least 6 comments in the next 24 hours, I'm going to give up blogging for ever. Yes, I know that's manipulative, but I don't care.

Did anyone ever discover what IS the point of blogging? It used to feel fun and vaguely worthwhile, in a nebulous sort of a way, and now it just feels... bleurgh. Maybe bleurghing is the new blogging.

You know what they say. Never write and publish a blog post when you've had a glass of wine and it's late. Ha! What about if you're feeling rebellious? What then?

                                                                                                                                   Photo credit: I'm not telling you
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Ch-ch-ch-changes - the expat experience

OK, so everyone who is anyone is writing about what marks you out as an expat.

See here (Moscow)

and here (Chicago)

and here. (York)

I thought I'd better join in.

What do I do now, that I would never have done before my stint abroad?

• I don't mind if food isn't piping hot, and I don't expect plates to be warmed (though I do warm plates myself, if it's just me and Husband eating, without the children, which I guess is a dangerous indication of double standards, but I'm just being honest here).
• I used the adjective "excited" to describe adult emotions or behaviour. That always used to be a word just for children.
• I expect attentive customer service. This is a long, weary road to disappointment. I look back on myself in my pre-US days, and think "Why did I think that being ignored was comfortable and non-intrusive? What was wrong with me? What is wrong with Britain?" The one that really gets me is when someone says "I'll be with you in a minute" and continues writing on a piece of paper behind the till. I feel like saying "That piece of paper isn't going to make a purchase. I might. It is in your interests to serve me first, and attend to the piece of paper's needs later."
• I might mention that I used to see a counsellor. I might even go so far as to use the word therapist. I know. I'm never going to fit back in.
• I can't stop going on about how wonderful the NHS is. My GP politely listens. I haven't yet made an appointment with her just to tell her how wonderful the NHS is, but I can feel it coming. There was a notice up on the waiting room door saying "We arranged an extra clinic to meet demand, and ONE THIRD of patients didn't show up for their appointment. Please let us know if you are unable to attend an appointment." I wanted to go out and buy my GP flowers to make up for it. 
• I would quite like magazines in the waiting room that are dated later than 2011, though. 
• I say "uh-huh" instead of "yes". Which actually is quite Scottish, so that's ok. No-one notices. I sometimes say "absolutely" instead of "yes". I sometimes say "totally" instead of "yes". 
• I use the word "totally" way too much. I say "way too much" way too much.
• I find John Humphrys way too rude, irritating and aggressive. In fact, I don't listen to The Today Programme at all any more, which was one of the things I was looking forward to getting back to. There are only so many times you can shout "let them finish their answer" at the radio before you give up. 
• I would like parking spaces (which I call "parking spots") to reflect more accurately the width of the average 21st century car.

There are a million other things, but the list is long enough.

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It was a moment

I had a moment the other day.

I've stayed on a couple of email lists, and yes, I know, I know, we left America 11 months ago, so it probably is time to drop off them. But they don't generate much traffic, so they don't clog up my inbox, and it's kind of fun to keep an eye on them. One is the book club I belonged to, and I like to see what they are reading. The other is the study group I belonged to at church. Now, that was a special group in my life. You may remember reading about those people in this post.

I had a phone conversation with the friend who convenes that group out of the blue recently. It was fun to catch up - both the big things, and the little stuff. And then, just after, there was another email in my inbox. I hardly read them, these days, but the second paragraph caught my eye. 

"Also, on another note, for those of you who knew Husband and Iota, I got a call from her the other day and they are all doing well in Scotland. Husband likes his new job, the kids are doing well, and their house in America finally sold (Iota says thank you for the prayers and hello to all!)."

"For those of you who knew Husband and Iota..."  That was the moment. What? There are people in that group who don't know me? Seriously? You mean, it's not all just exactly as I left it? How can that be? People definitely aren't allowed to do that. My life there is in a box, and that box is absolutely not permitted to be shaken up.

It was a moment. 

I'm going to remove myself from those email lists. I'm in another church group over here now, and a couple of weeks ago, a friend and I decided to start a book club. We're reading The Great Gatsby... Life moves on.

It was just a moment. Those moments feel rather more like this, though.

Photo credits: IKEA, and Wikipedia

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Camping - the verdict

One of the troubles with blogging is that you sometimes anticipate what you are going to do in real life in terms of how you are going to blog about it. So when we set off for our camping trip, I'd already semi-written in my head two possible posts. One ended: "...and as I lay there, listening to the birds singing and watching the morning light creep up, I felt so relaxed and happy, that I knew camping had found itself a new convert". The other ended: "...and I decided that, much as I like the idea of camping, I'm just too old and comfort-loving to enjoy the reality".

The trouble is, neither applied. I didn't love it. But I didn't hate it. It was... ok.

We arrived at the campsite late on Friday night. There was a fish and chip van on the site, which seemed like a good start to the week-end, so we ate fish and chips in our car. (Too cold to be outside.) Then we started to put up the tent. The instructions start like this:

"Helpful hint: Please practice pitching your tent in good weather before you go away on a holiday or break. This ensures that you are familiar with the tent, with the experience being especially valuable if you later have to pitch in adverse weather conditions."

Eminently sensible. We hadn't done that, though. (And I didn't like the mis-spelling of "practice".) We did ok for a while, and got the hoops into the flysheet. It was windy, and the flysheet kept ballooning up, but morale was high, and it all seemed like fun. Then the instructions started talking about fitting the hoops onto the pins, and we hadn't a clue where or what the pins were. At that point, the nice friendly man from the next door pitch came over, and asked if we needed a hand. We said, yes, we do need a hand. He proceeded to instruct us and help us put up the tent, which was just as well, as the light was fading and so was I. (We did have a Plan B, I hasten to add -we're not THAT gung-ho - but it was nice not to have to fall back on it.) Meanwhile, someone from another tent came over and asked us if we'd like a cup of tea. We said, yes, we would like a cup of tea. She then pressed us to partake of some of the chili which she and her family had had for dinner, (but we'd already had the fish and chips). They are very friendly, those camping folk down in Northumberland.

The first night passed without adventure. On Saturday morning, I was the first up, and I had the kettle whistling on the gas, cups of tea ready for all, and cereal standing by bowls, before you could say "continental breakfast". It was sunny. Camping felt good.

We spent Saturday at Alnwick Castle (thoroughly recommend it, good day out), and then Saturday night in the tent, again without adventure. We packed up the tent on Sunday morning, and then headed back to Alnwick to visit Barter Books. If you like second hand bookshops, this one is a must. It's in the former station, and is wonderfully atmospheric. It's where the original "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster was found, which is framed and displayed over the counter.

But back to Keep Calm and Carry On Camping. What's the verdict?

I can see us having fun, camping as a family. The week-end brought back lots of memories of my own childhood camping experiences, and I'd love my kids to have similar memories of their own. But it's not exactly comfortable, is it? The facilities at the campsite were very good, but it's all very communal, isn't it? I'm not sure my idea of fun is a draughty shower in verucca city, having to hurry because I'm aware of the queue of people outside.

The children rose to the occasion. They said afterwards that they'd enjoyed it and would want to go again. There wasn't much bickering and complaining, though I wouldn't swear it had been exactly a zero on that front. 15-yo deserves a medal, for sleeping in the living bit of the tent (it was a 4-person tent - Husband and I took one sleeping compartment, 12-yo and 9-yo took the other). We hadn't velcroed the groundsheet to the flysheet, and I could feel a howling gale around my be-bedsocked ankles as I prepared for the night. 15-yo had a horrendous cold - the kind of cold that makes your head feel like an exploding tomato. But he laid his poorly head down on a rolled-up fleece (pillows provided only for the over 40s), in the gale, without complaint. His cold was much better in the morning, oddly enough.  Husband also gets a medal, as he'd been out camping in the hills with the school Cadet Corps the night before we camped. That's devotion to duty for you.

So we're going to buy a tent. We concluded that camping would be a fun thing to add to the family repertoire. I envisage us using it for week-ends here and there, and though I wouldn't rule out camping for a week or two as our main summer holiday, I also wouldn't rule out renting a holiday house instead. It struck me that camping isn't the cheap option that it used to be. You're looking at £25 a night, or more, and you can easily get a holiday house for a family the size of ours for 4 times that. Plus you have to buy the tent and kit in the first place. I pointed this out to Husband. He invited me to think of it in this way: you can have 4 weeks' holiday in a tent for the price of every 1 week you can have in a holiday cottage. But hm... I'm not sure I'd come down as equivocally in favour of the 4 weeks under canvas as he would. Short, sharp, sweet, luxurious burst of holiday might win over prolonged discomfort. (And it's not "under canvas" these days, is it? It's "under nylon" which doesn't have the same ring at all.) I've also just been browsing the Eurocamps website and other similar ones, and those fixed tents seem pretty reasonably priced.

The one thing I would have changed about the week-end was the location of our tent. The campsite had caravans round the edge, presumably because they need their electricity hook-ups. We were shown to a pitch in the middle. In the morning, as I stretched and yawned and poked my head out of the tent door, I wasn't greeted by a rural vista of beauty and serenity. We were surrounded, at close quarters, by a ring of caravans, 4 x 4s, and motor-caravans. It wasn't exactly the "back to nature" experience that camping is meant to provide. More like being on a stationary grass version of the M25. Another time, I would choose my own spot, or if that wasn't allowed, request a rather more secluded one.

I think this post has given an unfairly negative impression. I sound very reluctant. But we did have a good time, and we've made the decision to buy a tent. That can't be a bad conclusion, can it?

Anyone selling a tent?

                                                    Alnwick Castle as we saw it, on a sunny day, with a carpet of daffodils. Beautiful.
                                                            Photo credit:  bbc.co.uk

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Angelina

I haven't forgotten I owe you a post on our camping trip, but this morning, I just have to say Good for you, Angelina Jolie. She has had a preventative double mastectomy, because her risks of developing breast and ovarian cancer were assessed as high (87% for breast cancer). It's a brave decision - though I'd want to say that choosing not to have a mastectomy in that situation is also a brave decision. Dealing with risk always requires bravery, if you think about it.

On the radio this morning, I heard an interview with the woman who had Britain's first preventative double mastectomy. She said that she'd had to fight hard for that, and that everyone thought she was mad. She's a brave woman. Trail-blazing requires bravery too.

For Angelina, I think telling the world what she's done is brave. What she said is so careful and thoughtful, that it inspires huge respect in me. She said: "I feel empowered that I made a strong choice that in no way diminishes my femininity".

Good on ya, Angelina. I mean, it's easy for someone like me to say that. Well, not easy, exactly, but... Anyway, back to you, Angelina. Your public image, your career success, your financial worth, your value in the eyes of so many... they all hang on your physical appearance. So to say that your surgery in no way diminishes your femininity is wonderful. I guess you won't feel that all the time, and I'm sure you'll have your ups and downs, but for the moment, I just think you've done a great thing, by talking about your decision in such a way. What a fab person to rally behind! I'm on your team, Angelina! Next time you're over in Europe, pop in and we'll have a cuppa, and share mastectomy stories. You had the "nine weeks of complex surgery required for a double mastectomy", whereas I did all that in half an afternoon! But don't worry - I totally won't be competitive about that.

And you have a small, fictional, ballet-loving mouse sharing your name. That can't be bad.

                                                                                                                                                                  Photo credit: Reuters

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Smoked haddock quiche

I have made a smoked haddock quiche tonight, which looks exactly like the picture in the recipe. That never happens, does it? Never. But it did tonight. I thought it an important fact, worthy of sharing with you. I'm not going to post a picture, because food is very hard to photograph, and it wouldn't look as nice as it looks in reality. Oh, alright then.

Those little flecks are yummy chives.

The quiche is for an indoor picnic we're going to tomorrow evening. We're on a jolly table of excellent bods, and our theme is "The Great Gatsby". Cue flapper dress, headband, feather, and shoes which were half price in Sainsbury's earlier this week and look very 1920s. I love those shoes so much I think I might have to adopt them and make them joint beneficiaries in my will with my existing three children.

Bit of a stressful evening, Bloggy Friends. Our realtor was going to closing (that's the terminology) on our house today at 10.00am Midwest time, ie 4.00pm BST. There were a couple of emails from her. One was asking where the garage openers were (clicker things, a bit like tv remotes, that you open your automatic garage door with - and just why is it, exactly, that Britain hasn't caught on to automatic garage doors? I suppose it's because we use our garages for storage and leave our cars outside them, so we're not opening the doors on a several times daily basis.) Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Two emails from the realtor. Well, I knew where the garage openers were, so that was ok. Phew. In a kitchen drawer. The second email, however, was a little more problematic. And I quote:

"One thing that I just found out about: Last night there was some hail. They are getting a roofer to look at it. I don't believe it was large enough to cause damage but I will let you know. If there is damage we would need to possibly call your insurance. I will let you know."

Well now, if that doesn't warm the heart of anyone on the brink of selling their house, I don't know what does. Actually, I do know what does. It's another email saying that they've had a roofer out, and he has given the roof a clean bill of health. The roof, incidentally, was brand new last June, because there was a hail storm seven weeks before we were leaving the country that caused so much damage that we had to have the house completely re-roofed. No mean feat to get that little baby sorted in seven weeks, I tell you. Especially as we spent the first one or two in denial and didn't even get anyone round to assess the roof damage because we couldn't face having to deal with the consequences. Sometimes I think I should go on "The Apprentice" - piece of cake, what those young bloods have to achieve, compared to moving continents.

So who knows what is happening regarding our house sale, except the money has gone into our bank account, so I guess either (a) all is well and those fabulous buyers have themselves a new house with an undamaged roof on it, or (b) the sale has stalled, but the title company set up the bank transfer in advance of closing, and couldn't stop the money going through. (a) would be best, but I'll take (b), because who the heck needs confirmation of a house sale when they are able to cook a smoked haddock quiche which LOOKS JUST LIKE THE PICTURE IN THE RECIPE?

Amen

PS I haven't forgotten that I need to report back from last week-end's camping trip.

PPS Can you have a PS after an Amen?

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A nation of contrasts

I'm writing this post for the new Where I Live Linky that the lovely Michelle Garrett has started, over at The American Resident. Every week there's a different topic to write about, and post pictures about if that's your thing. This week's topic is Contrasts. Oh, and there are prizes!

The Where I Live Linky has one condition - you have to say something positive about where you live. Now, Michelle. That's a sure-fire sign that you are truly assimilated from the culture of your birthplace (America), to the culture of your adopted country (England). Your upper lip is truly stiff, and you are probably humming "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" to yourself, even as I type.

We Brits are known for Stoicism, being positive in dismal circumstances, relying on our innate Dunkirk spirit. When our backs are against the wall, we look for the silver lining in the clouds above. I have, in my time, sat on a beach in the cold wind and rain, eating sandwiches made of white bread, margarine and spam, and been persuaded that I was having a lovely time. Here's an odd thing, though. We do also like a good moan. We love to complain. We particularly enjoy it when there's no possibility of changing the situation we are miserable about. To be honest, if there is such a possibility, part of the skill of the moan is to refuse to see it. "Oh, well, yes, I suppose so, but..." is a useful way of swerving round any glimmer of a solution to the problem.

The weather is a perfect example. Nice and sunny where you are today? It is here. But... oh, it's clouding over a bit already, and the forecast for tomorrow isn't good. Still, (very useful word which, roughly translated into moan speak, means "I'm getting quickly back to moaning now") mustn't grumble (which means "I am grumbling").

Yes, you see there's quite a vocabulary for the moan. If you ask someone how they are, they might reply "Can't complain" which means "I want to complain and will do so, if you will just give me a tiny conversational opening which will let me get my foot in the door". Or "Not so bad", which frankly is ridiculous. Not so bad as what?  Then there's "I've been worse", or - duh - "I've been better".

We love our glass to be half empty, and we can't be doing with that can-do attitude that made America what it is today.

So, Michelle, that's what it's like Where I Live. I'm among a people of contrasts. Stoic, but complaining. Jolly, but miserable. Optimistic in spirit, but pessimistic in outlook. And as for that positive spin you insist on... Well, I just love us. Who could fail to love a nation as crazy, mixed-up, and quirky as us?

If you want to join in the Where I Live Linky, then head over to The American Resident and jump on board. While you're there, you can read about a disco-dancing plant, and a man with a brick hiding in the bushes.

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For all you spaniel lovers out there

(And I include myself in your number, by the way. I'm in a good phase with Hector - though any tips on how to stop early morning barking would be appreciated.)

This isn't Hector. This is a cocker spaniel who belongs to a friend of mine, living in France. You have to watch to the end (go on, what better things have you got to do for 2 minutes and 25 seconds?) to appreciate fully the dog's artistic sensibility.

Camping

When I was growing up, we used to camp every summer. It was what our family holidays were. I loved it. Then, when I was first married, Husband and I camped for a week-end two or three times, before complications like... babies... came into the equation.

Husband and I have always planned to camp with the kids. Philosophically, we're committed to the idea. It's just that it hasn't happened in practice. But... ta-da... we're going to go next week-end. We're borrowing a tent, and a lot of equipment, and I'm selling the idea to the children that it's a trial camping week-end. If it goes well, we'll buy our own tent and stuff. If it doesn't (ie if they bicker, fight, don't help with chores, irritate their parents), then it'll be their first and last childhood camping experience. So no pressure, then.

I like the idea of camping. I really do. Back to nature, away from the stresses and strains of daily life, no xbox or other modern evils. But then, when I stop to think about it, I can't help wondering whether some modern evils are actually not all that evil. The dishwasher, for example. The central heating. The hot shower in your own bathroom, a few paces away from the bedroom. The shower you can potter over to in your PJs, cup of tea in hand, rather than having to get dressed, trek across a rainy field, fiddle around with an unfamiliar and - one suspects - deliberately complex shower system, in order to stand under a tiny dribble of lukewarm water, while the wind howls around your ankles, and whips your nice dry towel off its inadequate peg into the puddle on the concrete floor, in which floats the detritus of the previous shower-user. D'you see my point?

I lay in bed last night, talking to Husband about our forthcoming adventure. "I'm looking forward to it", I said.  "Time with the children, without the usual distractions. We'll have to take a pack of cards, and some games, and books. We'll have to work out what food to take. They can get involved in the cooking. And the washing-up. Oh, I've just remembered what washing up at a campsite is like. Cold water, so you can't get rid of the grease. And then your hands smell all morning, but you can't be bothered to tramp all the way back to the shower block to wash them. And anyway, there'd probably be a queue at the showers. And they might not have functioning hot water in any case. And I'll be cold at night. I hate being cold at night. My feet will be cold all week-end. We'll all get smelly. I hate that. Sticky armpits all week-end. I need my bed. How will I be comfortable on a mattressy thingy? They're rubbish. I won't sleep. You know how grumpy I am if I haven't slept. The children won't sleep either. We'll all be lying awake at bedtime while they make jokes about farting in their sleeping bags. I'm definitely not cooking anything, either. We'll have dry rolls and water for breakfast and then eat out for lunch and dinner. Ohhhh...Why did I think camping was going to be fun?"

As you can see, there's quite a wide gap between the philosophical commitment, and the not-so-philosophical anticipation of reality. So if any of you seasoned campers out there have any tips, I'll gladly receive them.  The tip I've been offered most frequently so far is "it's lovely when the weather is nice, but don't go camping in the rain". Get real, Peoples. We're going to Northumbria.

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Unsettled

The weather is unsettled. Summer and winter in the same day, several times over. As I write, I look out of the window and it's hailing. Ten minutes ago it was bright sunshine, and the sky was blue.

I am unsettled. Two family funerals in the past two months. Two house sales in the next two months. We close on ours in May, and my mother completes hers in June.

We aren't going to be at our closing in person ("closing" is the term for the meeting, where the seller, the buyer, the two realtors, and the title company, get together, usually at the premises of the title company, to sign off on the deal). We have the necessary documents, which we are going to sign, next week, in the presence of a US notary at the US Consulate General in Edinburgh. I've made the appointment. I found the act of making that appointment disproportionately stressful, necessitating a phone call to the Consulate General and the careful reading of their website. Anyone who has been through the process of getting a US visa will understand why. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that as I dialled the number, my heart started pounding. It was the memory of previous trips to the US Embassy in London, huge stacks of paperwork, photos rejected for random reasons, dealing with lawyer-speak well beyond the understanding of mere mortals like myself, slightly humiliating medicals and endless vaccinations, all at great expense and all with so much at stake.

My mother is leaving the house she and my father moved into, on 1st April, 1963. I was born in her bedroom. We gathered the family over Easter, to celebrate our family having been in the house for exactly 50 years (Easter Monday was 1st April, if you remember), and we had a lovely time: 3 generations, 16 people, 1 dog. But now it really is the final countdown. Contracts are being exchanged today (unless the solicitors come up with still more items to research), and completion is on 7th June. This really is it. Furniture will go to the local auction house. Belongings will be packed into a removal van. Items will disappear into boxes, to emerge in another house, in another town. Furniture, belongings, items, which I've known all my life. My roots are being severed. I don't like it.

It all makes me feel jittery. My hands and feet are permanently cold. I confess to spending more time than usual in a hot bath at the moment.

Where do I belong? I very nearly drove off on the right hand side of the road yesterday. It gave me a jolt. Don't I know which country I'm in by now? I couldn't find the spices in Tesco the other day. I looked up and down the "Homebaking" aisle where I knew they'd be, but I couldn't see them anywhere. I found the herbs, so I knew I was close. Then I saw them, and I realised why it had taken me so long. I had the wrong search criteria in my brain. I hadn't been scanning the shelves for spices in glass jars. I'd been scanning for spices in little red tins. Little red Kroger tins. Do I still think I'm in Dillons, not Tesco?

I suppose I'm like the spring. She has one foot in winter and one foot in summer. I have one foot in the past and one foot in the future. Blue sky and hail. That's me.

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Ah! and Aaaaaah.... (that's a shout of joy, followed by a big sigh of relief)

After the funeral, the nephews and nieces went to my uncle's flat, ostensibly to sort out a few things, but also, I think, because for those of us living at a distance, we knew it would be the last opportunity. We each took a few keepsakes. Working for the British council, he'd lived in Israel, South Africa and Tanganyika (as it was then), and as a child, I'd always been intrigued by some of the items on display in his flat. Bongo drums, African statuettes, beautiful wooden boxes. I am now the proud owner of a couple of small wooden wart-hogs, who have taken up residence on my kitchen windowsill, and a few trinket boxes. And the
P G Wodehouse paperback that my uncle was reading on the morning of the day he died.

It was moving, being in his flat. I came across a board tucked down beside the writing desk, on which was the seating plan for his 90th birthday party. So many memories, and I sensed a strong feeling of him. It was almost as if he was in the next room.

While we were all milling about, I took a phone call from Husband (who hadn't been able to come). We'd been negotiating with a potential buyer for our house in America, and they'd come up with another offer. Husband wanted my go-ahead to settle, and I didn't need long to think about it. It was the very figure we'd pre-decided would be ok. It was a wonderful moment. It's been a long year, with the house on the market, then off the market, then having a lot of cosmetic work done, then on the market again... trying to sell it, trying to let it, trying to sell it again. I ended the phone call, raised my arms in the air, and said "We've sold our house!", and my siblings and cousins rejoiced with me.

Looking round my uncle's flat for the last time, and that being the moment we finally sold our house in America, it felt that my uncle's spirit must have been involved. Had he somehow made it happen for us? Or perhaps he was just able to enjoy the moment with us, from the other side. Synchronicity and coincidence always get me wondering. I don't know how these things work. Who does know?

We've sold our house!

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A remarkable person

I attended a funeral last Wednesday, at 11.00am, in London. No, not THAT one. It was my uncle's.

He died on Good Friday, at the age of 96. He was a lovely man, and was one of those people who took care to live well. He hadn't married or had children, and out-lived his siblings, so his 8 nephews and nieces were his next of kin. But there were, at a guess, 75 people at his funeral service. He was incredibly sociable, and had spent his life making friends, both abroad, when working for the British Council, and then in retirement in London. I don't think I know anyone who made more effort to keep up with friends. He organised his own 90th birthday party, which he held in a marquee in his next door neighbour's garden. From the nursing home where he spent his last couple of years, he would phone people regularly, and insist that they visited.

I spoke at the funeral service, and shared childhood memories of the uncle who was very much a part of our family life. What I said was echoed by others. He was always so interested in people. If he visited you by train, he would arrive with a story about the person he'd sat next to, and sometimes their entire life story. His interest crossed barriers. He was once asked by a teenager (and this is years ago) for a light. He responded by telling the youth that - speaking from personal experience - if he only knew how hard it was to give up smoking once you'd started, he wouldn't be lighting up that cigarette. The youth came back with "I asked for a light, not a lecture". My uncle was tickled pink, and lived off the story for ages. He wasn't offended at all, as many of an older generation would have been. He thought it was hilarious.

It wasn't just people that my uncle was interested in. He had a natural curiosity about anything that came his way. My brother told the story of how he had taken my uncle to Mcdonald's in Paris (there were small children involved). It was my uncle's first visit to a Mcdonald's. He chose the Filet O'Fish. He unwrapped it, opened the bun, peered inside, and returned to the counter, to ask which bit of it was the fish. Not to be rude, or clever; just because he was genuinely interested. It was The Emperor's New Clothes meets 21st century fast food.

Funerals bring out the lesser known, or at least lesser talked about, elements of a person's life. My uncle had served in Burma in 1944 with the Special Operations Executive. I knew very little about that. He had once told my brother, in detail, how to sabotage a steam train! He had also studied History at Oxford, but left without a degree. I think these days he would have been diagnosed as dyslexic. The irony is that these days, so many people leave university with a degree, but having gained relatively little from it. My uncle left with no degree, but with a lifelong interest in History, which he read widely about for the rest of his life. At the time, the family had treated his lack of a degree as a cause of great shame and embarrassment. I hope he knew, at 96, how proud we all are that he was part of our family.

With my uncle's death, Britain loses its longest operating heart pacemaker. He had it fitted in the 1970s, when it was a new and astonishing thing. I remember visiting him in hospital, all wired up, but cheerful and cracking jokes. It has served him well. It has lasted him all these years, with occasional changes of battery, and regular check-ups at which my uncle enjoyed the doctors' and nurses' interest in the oldest pacemaker of them all.

For me, the funeral event was a swirl of emotions. I was so sad, of course, but so very, very glad to be there. It's something that expats deal with so often. Would you fly home for a funeral? A wedding? A christening? To see a new baby? If someone is ill? You can't return for them all, even if money and time are no object - which, of course, they are. How do you decide whether to go or not? It's agonising. We missed so many family parties and gatherings, and each one was a loss. I was so deeply grateful to be at this funeral, (and the funeral of another uncle a month ago). Although a funeral is a sad occasion, it can be a very rich time. This one was particularly so. I loved it. I loved being part of it.

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My Postsecret - Part II

It was the summer of 2007. We'd been in America for a few months, and I was through the honeymoon period and into the classic low dip that typically occurs 6 - 9 months after you move to a new place. But I didn't know about that dip and its timing, so I was just miserable and couldn't see an end to being miserable. The children had started their 12-week summer holiday - and no-one had told me about THAT. I had no idea how to manage TWELVE WEEKS at home with the children. We didn't know many people well enough to invite them over - I'd have thrown myself into playdate exchanges in the early days a bit more if I'd known about the 12-week vacation to come. It was over 90 degrees every day, and I'm never at my best in the heat.  I felt trapped inside the house. I was paranoid about the children getting sunburnt, and there were mosquitoes everywhere. I asked people what they did during the long summer break, but no-one really seemed to have any answer, except "the pool". The children were 10, 6 and 3, and, though I came to love our neighborhood pool in future years, it didn't hit the spot at all for us that year. I had to be with 3-yo in the small pool, and I wasn't confident about the two older ones being on their own in the big pool, so I hovered at the gate between the two, trying to watch all three, feeling hot, worrying about sunburn, and longing for Scotland. And there still remained several hours of the day, long, slow hours, each day, every day, before and after our trip to the pool. Husband was rewriting his PhD into a book, and we'd set aside the summer weeks for him to do that. It was a very lonely time. It was when I started blogging.

We'd already done the museums and other attractions in the city. Several times. In fact, I decided that if anyone said to me "There's a great zoo here. Have you checked out the zoo yet?" I would decapitate them on the spot. Yes, I had taken the children to the zoo already. Full of maternal initiative, me. I'd been more than once, actually. It was hot and dusty and full of sad, enclosed animals. "But thanks for the suggestion", I always managed. 

I decided I needed to get out of the city. A trip or two. That would raise morale. Part of what I had anticipated would be the fun of moving to a new country was the chance to explore. What I hadn't realised, and what I was finding out slowly, was that truly, there wasn't very much to explore where we were. I don't know if I'd envisaged a few little Cotswold villages, with tea shops and play parks, in the middle of the Great Plains, or what, but I'd expected something, anything, to go and do and see. I mean, wherever you are in the world, you can get to know your surroundings. Can't you? Surely? There's always something to go and visit, isn't there? Well, not so much in the middle of the Midwest. And especially if it's very hot, and you have three small children in tow, and you really don't want to make stopping at McDonalds the treat of the day. And you're sad and lonely and low on internal resources.

I had a great aunt, who was a big traveller. She used to say, if you're in a place and don't know what to visit, go and look at local postcard stands. You'll discover what's interesting nearby. Well, there weren't any shops with postcard stands where we were, but I asked in Wal-Mart, and a rather surprised assistant showed me a very small rack. I realise, now I understand the place and the way of life there so much better, that to find a postcard at all in Wal-Mart in that city was rather amazing, but at the time, amazed is exactly what I was not. I nearly cried. The selection couldn't have been more under-whelming. They were mostly jokey ones about cattle, or tornadoes. Great. There were a few pictures of fields of sunflowers, and yes, you could have a nice day out looking at sunflowers if you were in Tuscany and there was going to be a pretty little village snuggling against the hillside where you could order pizza and San Pellegrino and enjoy watching the waiter chat to your bambini, because everyone knows the Italians love children, but trust me, you can't really do the same kind of thing where we were. Unless you want to end up in a McDonalds, and my kids had already had way too many McFlurries that summer. Anyway, I had 12 weeks to fill. A day of sunflower-viewing wasn't going to make much of a dent.

Then I hit rock bottom. There was a postcard of a grain elevator. Do you know what that is? No? This is what they look like.

                                                                                                                      Photo credit: walkersquawker.net

They're big, made of concrete or steel, always white or grey, and not interesting. At all. The caption on the back of the postcard said "sometimes known as 'the Cathedrals of the Plains', these majestic structures can be seen for miles around". That was the final insult. Cathedrals of the Plains. I had swapped King's College Chapel, Westminster Abbey, Salisbury Cathedral, St Paul's, for these brutes? The beauty, history, design, and interest of cathedrals for the modern utilitarian ugliness of grain elevators? How could anyone dare compare them?

I bought the postcard.

I wanted to write "I hate living here" in huge, bold capitals on it, and send it to Postsecret. It felt really good, just to think about doing that. Perhaps I'd make it "I really, really, really, REALLY hate living here". But I didn't write that. First, in that irritating way that life has of laughing at you and debunking your most intense moments, the first couple of biros I tried wouldn't even make a mark on a postcard (and I obviously hadn't discovered Sharpies at that point). More significant than the biro issue though, was my pride. I was committed to making a success of our overseas adventure, and I had decided that the foundation of that commitment was the "Not wrong, just different" approach to life that was the title of my blog at the time. To send an "I hate living here" postcard would be to let myself down, and to let my blog down.

The modified version that I came up with, and I think this will make you laugh because it's so very Iota, was "I can't believe I'm living in a place where they make postcards of grain elevators". But I didn't even send that. I don't really know why. I kept the card, though. It lived in the desk drawer, and I used to take it out and look at it, and think how much I hated where we were, and how homesick I was for the land of my family and friends and cathedrals and tea shops.

Time passed. I grew to love my life. I never loved the place, but I loved my life in it, and we found ways of making it work, even though it wasn't Tuscany or the Cotswolds. A highlight was our annual Thanksgiving trip to Colorado, when we would drive for 12 hours across the Great Plains, in search of mountains. I loved those journeys. We got to know the route, and found places to eat on the way that weren't McDonalds. In one cafe, they even recognised us from one year to the next, and opened up for us once when we arrived a few minutes after closing time. I grew to love the Plains, and to cherish the opportunity that life had given me to experience new things in a new place. It would be stretching it to say that I grew to love the grain elevators, but I made my peace with them. You need landmarks to place your eyes on, as you drive across the flat landscape, and there's something about them that's large, solid, and comforting, like lighthouses. "Majestic structures", I suppose. They survive when nothing else does, when a tornado passes through. And actually, if you look at the photo you'll see two grain elevators, an old and a new. So I suppose there is even a historical interest to be found in grain elevators, if you look out for it. 

When we were moving back to Britain, I got the postcard out. I was going to write on it "I used to hate living here, but now I'm really sad to leave", and send it to Postsecret. I didn't, though. As I said, Postsecret has changed. Brash sex revelations have replaced the weekly feast that I used to enjoy, of the tiny, sometimes whimsical, windows into the lives of strangers. It was no longer the right place for my secret to be aired.

I can't even remember what I did with the card. (That isn't a very good ending to the story, is it? It's the truth, though.) I vaguely remember ripping it in half and putting it in the bin, bidding it farewell and telling it "you've served your purpose; I don't need you any more". But I also vaguely remember tucking it into a pile of papers, thinking it would be fun to see it again. I hope it's the latter memory that's correct, because when that picture postcard surfaces, it will be like greeting an old friend.
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My Postsecret - Part I

Do you follow Postsecret? For those of you who don't know it, it's a website which invites people to send in their secret, anonymously, on a homemade postcard. Every Sunday, a selection are posted, sometimes randomly, sometimes on a theme.

I liked Postsecret better in its early days. Now, it is a phenomenon (isn't that what we call these things?). It's spawned books, and lecture tours, and events at which people occasionally propose to each other - which surely is the definition of being mainstream. It's done a tremendous amount of good. It's become a torch bearer for suicide prevention, raising money and awareness.

I miss its early incarnation, though. When I discovered Postsecret, back in 2007, it mirrored a couple of the elements that I found important in blogging. 

First, the need to share of oneself, and the opportunity to do that anonymously. Postsecret tapped into something that bloggers at that time would recognise: the way the internet can be a place of conspiracy, a place where confessions can be made, a strangely safe place for that. 

Second, the fun, the creativity, that can come with digging up a confession and airing it. Oh yes. The creativity that Postsecret unleashed was striking. The secrets were imaginative - many of them  sad, some thoughtful, some just totally random. I liked the card that read "Why are everyone's secrets on Postsecret so sad? My secret makes me happy!" I love the creativity behind the design of the postcards. Arty, jokey, brash, subtle, rude, startling, beautiful, disturbing... you name it, it's there in a Postsecret postcard. 

I don't like Postsecret in 2013 nearly so much. Now, most of the secrets are about sex. (Why does everything gravitate towards sex, given half a chance?) Many of them are designed to be shocking. Reading the cards used to be like whispering with a friend in the corner of a party, and now it's more like being trapped in a conversation with the party bore. Some of the fun has gone out of it, for me. I still read it, though, for the gems that are still to be found there.

Back in 2007, I made a postcard for Postsecret. I'll tell you about it in my next post. 

PS. Do you prefer this big typeface? Is it easier on the eyes than my previous minuscule one? Is it too big? - and if the answer to that last question is 'yes', then can anyone let me in on the Blogger secret, of how to have a typeface that is between 'normal' and 'large'. It seems like a big jump between the two. 
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Rocket science - sorted

Look at these chocolate banana muffins! All light and fluffy and risen out of their cases. Thank you, Nigella Lawson, rocket scientist par excellence.

A good question

A question from 8-yo yesterday:

"Mummy, is rocket science difficult?"

I just said yes. I said it must be very difficult and complicated to send up a rocket into space. But it's an assumption, isn't it? I could have said "Rocket science? Nah. Any old numpty can work for NASA if they want. Baking muffins that turn out light and fluffy. That's what's really difficult."

Because that is what I find difficult. Nay, impossible.

And remembering that red wine, though delicious, doesn't agree with me. (It's an age thing, I think; this is a new problem.)

And reversing in a straight line (I'm ok manoeuvring, but I find it hard to reverse straight back).

And spelling "manoeuvring", (though I hadn't thought about that one till just then).

What about you? What do you find difficult?

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Enough with the gloom - here's me being positive about motherhood and inventing a new word

The last two posts have been a little gloomy, so I'm changing the mood (though staying on the theme).

This video did the rounds a few years ago, but you might have missed it. I LOVE it. It makes me laugh over and over again - I watch it regularly. But more than that, when I am at a loss for words with my kids, I sing bits of it to them. It's become part of our family language.

I hope you enjoy it.



There's a version on youtube with lyrics, if you found it hard to keep up with her.

I've decided I can't be doing too badly as a mum. I told 15-yo this morning that yesterday, after he'd cleaned up his room, there were 12 pairs of underpants at the top of the laundry basket. I counted them, as I put them in the washing machine (I wouldn't have known he possessed that many).

"That means", I continued, "that before they were in the laundry basket, they were on your bedroom floor. TWELVE pairs of dirty underpants on your bedroom floor."

"No..." he countered, with an endearing grin. "Actually, just eleven. I was wearing one. I put it straight in the laundry basket. Just eleven."

And before I could think of a reposte, he came up with another idea.

"And in fact, I would say it was only eight or nine, because some were on top of others, and not actually touching the floor at all."

This is my point. I might not be very good at training my children to pick up their dirty laundry (can anyone top 12 pairs of underpants?), but I am doing a good job in teaching them that a winsome grin and a clever quick answer will get you out of trouble on many an occasion.

I've just invented a new word. In this house we have floordrobes, and we also have floorndry baskets.
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Why do I feel I do nothing? - A confession

I have a confession to make. 

When I started blogging, I was an SAHM, and at that time, the blogosphere often resounded to the strains of SAHMs justifying themselves, trying not to justify themselves, feeling angry about having to justify themselves... It probably still is, but I'm not reading it so much in my own circles, because it tends to be a preoccupation of mums with younger children than mine. Anyway, as I said in my previous post, I often chipped into the debate, and waved the "SAHM and happy" flag.

Then I got a part-time job. Very part-time - only a few hours a week. Not a very glamorous job. I mean, I wasn't running my own successful business, or heading up a department in a multinational corporation. I was a Sales Assistant in a toy shop, and on the minimum wage (though I did negotiate a 50% pay rise for my second year, which I thought was pretty good going).

The confession is this. When I got the job, I loved being able to say I had one. There was a moment when I was filling in a questionnaire, and in the section headed ‘Occupation’, instead of ticking the box ‘Not in employment’ or ‘Caring for dependents’ or whatever it was labelled, I ticked the box ‘Retail’. I loved that moment.

When people asked me what I did, I no longer had to say "Oh, I'm at home with the kids". I really liked that. Which is dreadful, because I'd so often commented on blogs "Don't say ‘I'm just at home with the kids’ - it's a really important job, the most important job you could be doing, actually. Say it with pride." I don't know if I'd convinced anyone else, but I certainly hadn't convinced myself. I really liked that I'd jumped over to the other side. But I didn't want to feel that it was "the other side". For all the rhetoric about choices, doing what's right for you and your family, etc etc, fundamentally, I think I had been looking down on myself and other SAHMs.

That’s my confession. So now, I feel bad on two counts. First, I am an SAHM and therefore don't do anything (see previous post). And second, I am outed as the kind of horrible woman who looks down on SAHMs, and think they don't do anything.

I am nothing if not honest.

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Why do I feel I do nothing?

Calling all SAHMs out there...

Why do I feel I do nothing?

I know the answer, actually. It's because

• When I had pre-school children, I used to look at mothers of school age children and think "wow, you have so many hours a day to get things done". I assumed that when my children were at school, I would have everything done in a wink, and then have time for new exciting ventures too. Now those days are here, I still don't achieve everything I want to do, and I have no time for any ventures, new, exciting, or otherwise.
• Although I know I hold family life together, and I know that is an important role, it seems like not very much. It's very invisible. It's so invisible that even I don't see it.
• For all the blog posts I've written and commented upon on this issue (and believe me, it's quite a number), and for all the encouragement I've given, and for all the times I've said "it's not a competition", somewhere deep down, I must feel it IS a competition. So although I know that life involves choices, sometimes dictated by circumstances, sometimes not, somehow I feel that being out at work AND having a family proves you are a more competent person than just having a family (just having a family...). I want to be one of those more competent people. There is a corner of me that sniffs a GCSE in "being competent" that I could be working for, or if not a GCSE, at least a gold star. 
• If I enjoy the things I do (eg supermarket shopping -  yes, I do enjoy that), then somehow I can't let myself see them as "work", and if they're not "work", then they're fun/pleasure/leisure/bunking off/slacking and I can't count them. Which is clearly ridiculous, because if I was in a job, and enjoyed elements of that job, I wouldn't feel guilty and as if I was being paid to enjoy myself. I'd just think they were part of the job.
• There is far too much Protestant Work Ethic around. Who needs to work to justify themselves in any case?
• This time a year ago, I had a part-time job and I was studying part-time for an MA. Then we moved back to Britain, and although I am trying to put those things in place again (I've had TWO job interviews in the past fortnight, go Iota!), these things take time. I find it hard to be patient. But I was also slightly relieved not to get the jobs. Even a few hours a week would put a strain on me, and on family life, and after you've moved to a new place, there needs to be a bit of slack around, even if the cost of that slack is that there's often a bit too much of it. My time will come. 

Ooh, that last one sounded a bit spot on, didn't it?

Meanwhile, yes, I suppose if we're calling a spade a spade, it would be good to say out loud that this move has involved sacrifices. They don't come anywhere near outweighing the benefits, and I'm not the only one who has made sacrifices, but it's probably helpful to look at that spade and name it. Though talking of spades just makes me think about how I've done nothing at all in our new garden, and how can that be? because I have so many free hours a day, (though looking at the state of the house you wouldn't think so), and everyone likes to do gardening, right? and with the amount of free time I have, since my children are at school all day, I could be growing our own organic vegetables, so I'll just add that to the list of things I should do but haven't done.

Waah.

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Finding my new normal - Part III

One of the things that you become aware of when you become a parent, is how very much your idea of "normal" stems from your childhood.

We think we're going to fathom out how to be parents on an intellectual plane (plane as in level, not as in aeroplane, though I do quite like the idea of working things out while travelling on an intellectual aeroplane). Then we have a baby, and we are taken by surprise by how very much our gut feelings take over, and how much those gut feelings are the instincts that we inherited from our own mothers, fathers and forebears (no, not four bears, forebears). That phrase you hear yourself shouting after your disobedient toddler... where did that come from? You sounded just like your mum! Your Christmas traditions are, well, just the way Christmas IS. Other families' Christmas traditions are other families' Christmas traditions. They're not proper Christmas, somehow. Your own rules for playing childhood games are THE rules (like if you don't say "thank you" when someone hands you a card in 'Happy Families', you have to give the card back). You might agree to play with other rules, but deep down, you know they're not the real rules. (I know of someone... not a million miles away from here... who turned up at university thinking that the person who was losing at the end of each round of croquet, had an extra go, though she had at least worked out that it wasn't necessarily the youngest who got to choose their colour of ball first.)

My parents both love classical music. When I was a child, I thought that children listened to Radio 1, and adults listened to Radio 3. I thought that was the way the world was. I assumed that as you grew up, you developed a taste for classical music, just as you developed a taste for alcohol and olives, and learned to drive a car. I remember going to a friend's house, and hearing the radio, and it was voices. Not music. Voices! People talking. Imagine that. Very odd. I was puzzled. I asked my friend what her mother was listening to, and she said she didn't really know. I probed. What are the people talking about? She didn't know. I went home perplexed. Didn't all grown-ups listen to classical music on the radio? Why would a bone fide grown up be listening to voices on the radio?

I think that the world has loosened up a little. I don't think this feeling of normalcy will be quite the same phenomenon in our children's lives as it was in ours. There isn't the same sense of there being one proper way of doing things. Homes are much more varied. Children mix much more with children of other ethnicities, religions, backgrounds. But even so. It will still be there.

I want my children to question the way Husband and I do things, the beliefs we hold, the attitudes from which we operate. It's part of maturing, it's inevitable, and it's healthy. But I also know that at the ground level of their psyches, certainly for some while yet, they think that our family is the norm, the way things are, the way things rightly are. It's an awesome responsibility. But as I've decided (see my previous post) that there is no normal, then it's probably all ok.
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