Cue The Clash

Dear all, 

The last few months have been a bit tumultuous.  We sold our house in the fall.  Walking out the door for the last time was emotional despite the fact we’ve been away for nearly three years.  Then, two days before Christmas, we closed on a house in Lake Forest, IL.  It is closer to J’s work and is within walking distance to the train, shops and cafes, which was important to us after living in town for this long.  We hope to rent the house until our return.

I love change and so with the purchase of our new home, I was able to throw myself into our move back.  I was googling park district programs for A and collecting the phone numbers of handymen (bad 70’s shelving in the new family room has to go).  I started to think about things I wanted to bring back from England.  I fantasized about A celebrating the 4^th of July and seeing proper, over the top Christmas lights and decorations.  And snow.

Alas, I may have to wait.  J’s boss came to the UK.  He is a lovely man and while we stood together talking, it became obvious (by way of Dave bellowing and choking, ‘Who said you were going home in a year?’) that J is still needed here, which we knew, but chose to ignore.  Yes, we can go home, but will that be the best for J or our family?  We moved here because J was spending too much time away from home, would we want to move home only to have J flying to England for weeks at a time?  (Although maintaining a flat in London certainly sounds appealing…) 

But then there are the children to consider.  R wants the American lifestyle back immediately.  He is desperate to return so he can, by all accounts, loiter outside 7/11’s with his homies, lay in the sunshine and avoid growing up.  S has been seduced by Hollywood and now thinks high school is like High School Musical.  She wants to return so as to experience the American high school ‘dream’. M wants to stay in England and complete senior school here (And who can blame him?  He is doing so well after years of struggling with his learning disabilities). And A says he is happy to move home, but that he will NOT be going to school upon our return (not really worryin’ about HIS hang ups, though). 

And me?  I am happy here, but I do get homesick.  I miss my parents (My dad had major surgery last October.  My, mom, bless her, had to put to sleep our cat they inherited when we left.).  I miss family and my friends.  Some days I just wish I was sitting at my Aunt Marilyn’s kitchen table instead of negotiating sidewalks decorated with delicate starbursts of vomit (I seriously contemplate why Britain’s youth, almost without exception, eat carrots before binge drinking).  And, for all our faults, Americans volunteer and give of ourselves freely.  I miss our openness and lack of reserve and dedication to community.  

And so I say to you, ‘Cue the Clash!’

The Clash’s punk rock song “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” is clanging in my head, although, in this instance, I think a more soulful, slightly mournful remake might prove to be very effective (think Judy Collins’ version of “Both Sides Now”).  In your mind, add some rather self-indulgent shots of me, face heavy in contemplation, wearing a jaunty coat, perky hat and shiny black wellies walking my small British dog in the rain past stunning Regency architecture, answering emails in my very Jane Austen dining room with the sun, pouring through my two hundred year old, nine foot windows or of me dashing out to collect the children from their elitist schools.  Such doleful images.

We will do whatever is best for the family and staying here until 2012 would get M and S through senior school and give R a chance to go to high school back home for two years.  We are choosing between two blessed situations, we know that. 

I do, however, feel for R in particular, who carries all the baggage that middle children often do.  But, in the words of my father, a master of sensitivity, who understands R well (they share a birthday and birth order in families of similar make up:  three boys and one girl), ‘Too, damn bad, he’ll be fine.’ 

I’ll keep you posted.

With love from England,

T-Ann 

Hope Won

Dear all, This was the prayer which was said at the invocation of Bishop Gene Robinson.  It was forwarded to me by our very hip Rev. Kate back home and was said yesterday at the senior school's morning chapel by the rocker Rev. Reynaud (S came home gushing about it).   It is beautiful and and not at all offensive to my Republican friends and family, which I like because I am all about inclusion.  And warm, understanding embraces.   Also, it is worth noting that I cut and pasted this All. By. Myself.  No help from my eye rolling children who repeatedly claim I am not worthy of a sleek laptop.  It is the dawning of a new year...   With love from England,  T-Ann ------------   O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…   Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.   Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.   Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic “answers” we’ve preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.   Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be “fixed” anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.   Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.   Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and  warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.   Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion’s God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.     And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.   Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln’s reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy’s ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King’s dream of a nation for ALL the people.   Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.   Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.   Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.   Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.   Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters’ childhoods.   And please, God, keep him safe.  We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we’re asking FAR too much of this one.  We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe.  Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.   AMEN.

Detox is the New Black

Dear all,

 It is the time of year in England when we all, like lemmings, run to health food stores in order to buy tinctures, drops and supplements all in the hopes of detoxing. 

 This year, in order to rid my body of unwanted toxins, I have given up wheat and dairy (except for butter, obviously).  I will not even have the occasional glass of wine until February.  Unless it seems appropriate. Or it might appear rude if I refuse.

 In return for a little discomfort (i.e.:  not eating sleeves of Hob Nob cookies with my tea everyday), I will have a healthy body that will provide me energy and vitality in the coming year.  I will possess clarity of thought.  I will be more motivated.  I will be thin and muscular.  I will become at least 5’7’’, my graying hair will give way to a cascade of golden curls and wrinkles will fade.  The best part?  J will start to look like Daniel Craig. 

To be fair, I am certain detoxing is useless, but it does seem to help the Brits prepare for Champagne Season, which opens in a few short months, generally around the third week of March.   Detoxing is a step up from self-flagellation and seems to give a bit of purpose to the otherwise dull month of January.

I approached detoxing as I approach everything in life:  I went slinking off to the health food store to ask what was the EASIEST way to get through it.  I was sent away with a milk thistle tincture (which tastes almost as bad as the syrup, lemon juice and chili pepper concoction I drank last detox) and a package of detox patches. 

These patches are like magic, so for sure they are a scam, but I don't care.  At nighttime, you slap a patch on the bottom of each foot and go to bed.  In the morning you peel them off.  How do I describe something so vile?  I know we’ve all dealt with some nasty things over the years, that many of you are parents or medically trained or that when you were younger you poked road kill with sticks, but trust me; you’ve never seen something so awful. 

When you peel off these giant band-aid patches, you are left with a pad full of black tarry toxins that are now, by the grace of God, conveniently located OUTSIDE your body and are safely on their way to a bulging landfill where they clearly belong.  Thankfully, they are no longer INSIDE your body making you short, a bit thick in the middle, tired, cranky and unable to devote quality time to anything but a Mamma Mia DVD. 

Hope your new year is off to a warm and sunny start.  Since that only applies to the three of you who live in Florida, I’ll rephrase.  I hope your new year is one filled with love and peace and the courage to endure the American winter.

With love from England,

T-Ann

In the words of that poet, Neil Diamond, 'Hello Again, Hello'

Dear all,

 I am back from my extended break from writing.

Because I don’t particularly write about anything, I generally do not have a problem generating content for my blog entries. For weeks, however, I was cursed with my own freakish style of writer’s block.  It came in the way of a tune that was stuck in my head.

Just as I was beginning to accept that writing as a profession might require a modicum of self-discipline (let’s face it, not one of my strong suits) the theme song from that 60’s show, Love American Style, got stuck in my head, nearly derailing a career that I have yet to start.   It was paralyzing.  Really. 

Now think back.  Surely, some of you must remember that song?  If not, I urge you to google.  It is seriously catchy. I couldn’t stop singing it, humming it and groovin’ to 60’s inspired dance moves in front of my computer (and down the street, if I’m honest).  There was no way I could write.

Nothing would release me from this Hell.  I even tried singing other theme songs like the one from The Mary Tyler Moore Show or another personal favorite, the theme to One Day At a Time which starred Valerie Bertinelli and Bonnie Franklin and some other girl who ended up ravaged by drugs due to bad genes and the success of this show (hardly worth it), if I remember correctly.

So anyway, our second half of November banged on with the usual turn of events:  M not waking up in good time and not walking the dog, S stressing in a rather irritating, controlled and hormonal sort of way about exams, zits and impending braces, R not taking out the garbage and talking too much in school and A snapping, ‘NO!’ far more than any five year old should. 

So that is our November sorted.

By the time December rolled around, time had healed my Love American Style dilemma, but then R accidentally super glued my laptop shut, which obviously made writing difficult.  It might be best not to go into too much detail about that.

Early in the month, A snapped his collarbone on the playground at school.  The moment I saw the antiquated playgrounds in this country (blacktop is such an effective way to break a fall), I knew there was going to be a broken bone.  A’s accident gave me the push I needed to sit down with the new headmaster and give him an earful.

I felt my background in English and Early Childhood gave me the credibility I needed to bully the new headmaster.  I demanded to know which theory or educational style or even which article in Oprah magazine the school was basing their really not-so-fun early childhood program upon. 

At age five, Aidan is by far the last kid to read in his class.  He goes to school from 8:15 until 3:30 and has spelling (words like chicken, tracksuit, shampoo and pavement) and reading homework each night.  I have resisted homework for three years, but now he is beginning to think there is something wrong with him because he cannot read as well as his peers.

So, with the headmaster stammering, I go in for the kill.  ‘Right,’ I quip.  ‘You have no foundation for this type of education, do you? ‘   He admits that well, no indeed, they teach this way (with no teacher smiling or hugging the kids, no music in the room) because it is simply the way they have always done it. 

We spent a well over an hour discussing the lame playground and the lame British early educational system.  When I felt sufficiently smug, I ended the meeting.

I should know when I get smug, the paybacks are rich:

A went to school the very next day and, with his one working, non-dominant arm, he chopped into his own hair and cut the hair of another boy.  They wanted to look like James Bond.  

As my luck would have it, the mother of the A’s ‘client’ is one of the fussiest in school (she wakes up in the morning and decides if she should drive the Porsche SUV, the Bentley or the Ferrari and wouldn’t DREAM having a hair out of place or of cutting her boy’s golden curls).  

So, this was a little ugly.

And A didn’t look so cute for the family portraits that followed two days later.

With love from England,

T-Ann