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